Kelong Kings: Confessions of the world's most prolific match-fixer Read online

  "Criminal force?" I said. "It's a fucking parking ticket".

  I didn't have a driving license but had been nevertheless driving in Singapore for 25 years without ever being pulled over for a single traffic violation. Getting a driving license in Singapore is like scratching your nose around your head so I never bothered to get one. The officer informed me that the CISCO security guard had been treated for a mild tenderness on his right shoulder and a contusion on his right knee. He added that I had hit him twice with my car. No statement was recorded on my part. I was arrested, transferred to the Bedok police station where a 20 thousand Singapore dollars bail was set. In Singapore, you cannot bail yourself out, you need somebody else to do it for you, so I called Mega and told him where he could pick up the money for me. Mega came to the police station with the cash and bailed me out. On the following morning I was charged in court and once again had to go through court bail; same amount, 20 thousand dollars.

  Meanwhile, my relationship with Ah Kang had become more tense. He had become very fussy, like a woman. When we did business together, at the slightest dip in the market, he would immediately blame Bee Hoon and I.

  "You fuckers sold the information to somebody", he pointed his accusing finger at us. "Look, the market is dipping".

  One time I got so annoyed with Ah Kang's diffidence that I told Bee Hoon: "Let's switch from Over to Under and prove to this fucker that we did not leak any information".

  We proceeded to change our regular three-goal plan to zero goals during a Syrian league game involving Al-Nawair. Samir, my local agent, was in total panic.

  "Wilson", he warned, "this is very crazy and dangerous".

  "Just relay the instructions to the defenders and to the keeper", I insisted. "No goals, lock all the doors".

  The match ended 0-0.

  Undeterred by my attempts to prove our loyalty, Ah Kang was quickly turning into a very paranoid, hysterical mother-fucker. In late June 2009, he and I organized an Under-17 Four Nation Invitational tournament in Bahrain. Among other teams, I had invited the Kenyan Under-17 national team to participate. An African connection of mine had introduced me to a high ranking official from the Kenya FA. I had spoken with him and had bought tickets to Bahrain for the entire Kenyan delegation. Ah Kang and I had shared the initial expense, 400 thousand dollars, and were supposed to divide the profits in half. Ah Kang was not present at the tournament, which was played and eventually won by Kenya. Unfortunately, there was no betting on any of the matches and our 400 thousand dollars went up in smoke. It was then that Ah Kang received a call from Dan.

  "That fucker Wilson took your money", Dan suggested. "He never organized any tournament. He fucked you up behind your back".

  For no apparent reason, Dan had begun treating me like an enemy.

  "He's cheating you", Dan insisted.

  The tournament had been organized; I had newspaper cuttings and all, but the odds hadn't popped up on the websites. I reasoned that Ah Kang was buying everyone's stories too easily and wasn't intelligent enough to make his own decisions. Since Ah Kang had become unreliable and the Gold Cup in the United States was coming up, I decided to drop him and fix it on my own. In late June, the Haitian national team was in Montreal to play a friendly match against Syria. In order to further consolidate my relationship with the Haitian players before the Gold Cup, I sent Alassane, Sivarajan and Bee Hoon to Canada with 50 thousand US dollars for them.

  "Spend this money lavishly", I told the three. "Bring the boys out to a strip club, buy them sports goods and just have a good time together with them".

  Unfortunately, my three guys enacted such an unrefined approach that they set off alarm bells all over the place. The president of the Haitian FA noticed that his players were being way too friendly with Alassane, Sivarajan and Bee Hoon and decided to brief them on the perils of match-fixing. Our jig was up, so I simply told my boys to keep on friendly terms with the players and to back off for the time being.

  A week or so later, the CONCACAF Gold Cup finally kicked off and I traveled to the United States with Alassane. He was working for me full-time at that stage, or so I thought. The first team I approached while in the US was Grenada but my contact with their delegation advised me to be patient. He suggested that I let the boys play the first two matches freely and then decide what they should do on their third match.

  "When we are out of contention", he said, "then we will play the third game as you please".

  Grenada lost it's first two matches and were standing last on the table. They were set to play against Honduras near Boston when I chose to make my move. Since my falling out with Ah Kang, I was quickly running out of money, so I decided to call Dan and Admir to obtain their financial support.

  "Dan", I said, "I'm in the US. I have a business proposal for you. I've got a hold of Grenada. Would you like to do something together?"

  "Let me talk to my partners and then I'll get back to you", was Dan's reply.

  A few moments went by then Admir picked up the receiver.

  "Hi Admir, how are things?" I asked. "I was telling Dan about a Gold Cup business proposal for you guys. Would you all be interested?"

  "You fucker", hissed Admir. "You treat us like enemies, you don't call us for any of your games, and now you show up asking for money? Let me discuss it with my partners then I will call you back".

  Admir hung up the telephone, then, about half an hour later, he called me back.

  "OK, we're coming over", Admir said. "What team did you say you had?"

  "I have Grenada", I explained. "They're willing to rig their last group stage match in Boston. You guys should hurry and come over".

  "See you in Boston then".

  I hung up the phone then immediately realized that I had forgotten to ask Admir something; my credit had run out so I turned to Alassane.

  "Alassane", I asked, "I have no credit. Pass me your telephone".

  The fucker began pulling his phone away from me.

  "Alassane", I insisted, "give me the fucking mobile, I just need to make one quick call".

  He passed the phone over reluctantly. As I was about to dial Admir's number, my eyes landed on Alassane's call log. There was a Slovenian number among his last outgoing calls, I could tell from the country code: +386.

  "Fuck", I thought, "a Slovenian number. Did I accidentally call this number right now?"

  I was confused. I picked up my phone and checked against the number on Alassane's mobile. It wasn't the same number.

  "I didn't call this number", I thought.

  Then it struck me.

  "Mother-fucking snitch".

  I gazed bitterly at Alassane.

  "What the fuck are you calling Admir for?" I roared at him.

  "No", he was cornered, "Admir called me when I touched down in the States. And I just happened to return his call now".

  "You mother-fucker", I shouted. "Do I look like a child to you? Don't you fucking undermine my intelligence. I've known Admir for almost six months. This mother-fucker never calls me and now you're saying that he calls you? Why the fuck would he want to call you?"

  It was all clear, Alassane had betrayed me. He was two-timing me; he pretended like he was working for me but was actually reporting my every move to Dan and the others.

  "Let me tell you something", I said to him. "This is the last time you're working with me".

  I didn't want to confront Alassane any further but he was definitely off my list from that moment onward. I dialed Admir's number.

  "I just wanted to double check that everything is OK", I said.

  "Yes, it is", replied Admir. "Confirmed".

  Admir and Dan landed in Boston for the Honduras vs Grenada match on July 11th, 2009. I gathered the Grenadian players before me in a hotel. The boys were more than ready to do business.

  "Where the fuck were you guys for the past two matches?" they asked.

  "Your guy said not to trouble you during the first two games", I argued.

 
"Fuck him", they replied. "We're not going anywhere. We're never going to win the Gold Cup; it is either the US or Mexico. It's always the same story and we have no intention to rewrite history, we just want to take some money home".

  And so they did. Honduras vs Grenada, 4-0. The boys conceded two goals in the first half and two in the second half as instructed. They were a fully committed team and made for one of the easiest wins we ever accomplished. Dan and his partners must have made around two million dollars on that match alone. The volumes were high enough to allow me to place 600 thousand dollars behind their backs and walk away with close to one million dollars in my pocket.

  That evening I paid the Grenadians and left Boston for Glendale, Arizona, to speak to the Nicaraguan players. Nicaragua had lost to both Mexico and Guadalupe in their preceding fixtures, were also out of contention and were set to play their final group stage match against Panama on the following day. I summoned a friend from Argentina named José who could provide me with a real-time translation to and from Spanish and invited the Nicaraguan players out to a strip club.

  "Sit down, let's have a drink".

  I wanted to show them that we were willing to spend money on them.

  Among the Nicaraguans, the only one that could speak decent English was a young defender called Armando. I forget why, but Armando was born in El Salvador but played for Nicaragua. Having found someone who could understand me, I began to articulate my proposal without José's help.

  "You lost two matches and have nothing left to play for", I told them. "Now there is one last mountain to climb with nothing at stake if you reach its summit. I can give you 80 thousand dollars, about 15 thousand to each of you, if you lose this match. Why not take this money that's here waiting for you? You must be some dumb fuckers if you let this opportunity slip away".

  At the end of the evening, the players were yelling on the dance floor.

  "Wilson! Wilson!"

  The Nicaraguans and I stayed in the same hotel. I saw them before the match against Panama and paid them 40 thousand dollars in advance. I had the entire sum with me in cash so I just handed it over to them. Then I called Dan and Admir to tip them off on the result; it was just a good-will gesture on my part. I was fixing the Nicaragua game on my own; the volume for the game was real big and I had my pockets loaded so I didn't need Dan or a betting house to place my bets. I invested my one million dollars on the match and the Nicaraguan players delivered perfectly. The final score was Panama 4, Nicaragua 0. I was the boss and was now fixing on my own once again. After the game, my one million dollars had doubled to two million.

  I had not done my homework on Nicaragua and hadn't realized how so-fucking-broke they were; theirs was among the poorest countries in the world. The following morning, word had spread among their delegation that there was a guy distributing money like he were Santa Claus and a long procession formed in front of my hotel room. Young reserve players knocked at my door with a sad face.

  "Hey boss", they asked, "give us some money, boss".

  "OK, here are one hundred dollars for you, two hundred for you".

  Even some senior officials made it to my doorstep.

  "Do you have something for me?"

  "Here, take five hundred dollars and go quickly".

  I didn't have the heart to turn them away. I gave them whatever I had, from players to officials, and left the hotel with only 100 dollars in my pocket.

  On the same day of the Panama vs Nicaragua game, while I was still in the US, Zimbabwe's adult national team was supposed to land in Malaysia for two friendlies against the host team that I had arranged. I must admit that, over the years, the Football Association of Malaysia never asked me any uncomfortable questions. I just needed to call them.

  "Would you be available for this match?"

  I never paid the Malaysia FA any corruption money or fee; with the exception made for the sponsorship deal to bring Lesotho and Zimbabwe to the Merdeka Cup in 2007, there was never any money changing hands. They needed sparring partners for their international friendlies and, so long as the opposing team flew all the way to Malaysia with no additional cost for the FA, they were saving money. All they needed to do was send the invitation out to the other FA and wait for a reply.

  "Would you like to come and play?"

  The other FA would reciprocate.

  "Yes", they would say, "we're coming over on this day, so long as you provide us with local hospitality".

  When the paperwork was completed, the guest team would fly over and play.

  Once again, Jumbojumbo had prevented the national team from leaving Zimbabwe for Malaysia but, this time around, Rosemary decided to react. She chose a local club, Monomotapa United, to pose as the Zimbabwean national team and provided them with the national team's jerseys. I was never personally involved in picking the players for a national team so I was not informed - until it was later exposed - that the team representing Zimbabwe was actually a local club. I wasn't there when they played the two matches against Malaysia, I was still in the US. I had instructed Thana, who was on the ground for me, on my modus operandi.

  "My method doesn't contemplate intimidating people", I had briefed him. "I don't think that the fear-factor will produce the result that we need. I prefer speaking to the players nicely. Then I bring them into my friendship circle and treat them like buddies. Finally, I just make them understand: 'This is your own match. It's your money. But for fuck's sake, don't fuck it up'".

  A good profit is usually enough to convince a player to fix; I don't need to intimidate anyone. I have never owned a gun or hinted that I carried one; a five-star treatment is always the better option.

  When the Zimbabweans touched down in Malaysia, Thana was waiting for them. He took over and ran the errands, taking care of the team's welfare. 'Welfare' meant luxury hotels, being chauffeur-driven and perhaps spending a night with some acquiescent girls. The fake Zimbabwe team lost it's first match against Malaysia 4-0. They were supposed to fight their second game and keep it 0-0, instead, they lost again by one-nil.

  In the meantime, Alassane had brought the Haitian team to Dan and had gone from being my runner to becoming Dan's trusted associate. I don't know if Dan and Alassane fixed the Mexico vs Haiti Gold Cup quarter-final that ended 4-0 or other matches with the Haitians; all I knew was that Alassane had betrayed me and was off my list for good. Despite having done business together with Grenada and my free tip on the Nicaragua match, Dan continued to treat me like an enemy. He wanted to prove that he could snatch my teams from me and run them under my nose. He had already done so with Lebanon and with Haiti; then came Zimbabwe's turn. For some reason, Dan enjoyed attempting to crush my ego. By then I knew that he could be a real asshole and that there was really no honor among thieves in his book. During Zimbabwe's trip to Bahrain in March of that year, Alassane had met a Zimbabwean FIFA match agent called Shaka. Dan used Shaka to bring the Zimbabwe Under-21 national team to Bulgaria for a friendly match in July 2009. It was very rare for an Under-21 African team such as Zimbabwe to travel to Bulgaria for a friendly game; I can safely assume that any African nation going to play in Bulgaria at that time was brought there by Dan. Zimbabwe lost the game by 5-0, all five goals being netted in the second half.

  In mid-July I was working on a five-nation Under-20 invitational tournament in Egypt that I had organized to prepare for the Under-20 FIFA World Cup. I had sent a letter to the Egypt FA offering the services of my bogus company World Wide Events and Sports International; they had reciprocated and I had called them up to arrange a meeting. I had then dispatched my friend Anthony to Cairo where he had convinced the Egypt FA General Secretary to endorse a proposal for a youth tournament and to put his signature on our contract. Anthony was about ten years younger than me and I had known the bastard since we were snot-nosed kids. He and I had played in the same seven-aside and eleven-aside social football team; we had a good relationship so I thought it wise to bring him into the picture to help me in my business. I arr
anged for Kenya, Nigeria, Ghana and Guatemala to participate in the tournament; Anthony was in Egypt to oversee the job. The Kenyan team was the weakest side on the field and lost by some ridiculous scorelines: 7-1 against Egypt; 11-0 against Nigeria and so on. We hadn't asked them to get thrashed by such extravagant margins; they were simply not good enough. We fixers don't want our teams to be embarrassed but, truth be told, once you are down by seven goals, you might as well concede two or three more and make for a huge profit. The tournament was up for betting, we made money and Egypt walked away with the cup.

  A month later, in mid-August 2009, I convinced the Malaysian FA to invite Kenya for an international friendly match and flew the Kenyan national team to Shah Alam, Malaysia, with my own money. I had no intention of fixing the match; I just wanted to continue being in the Kenya FA's good books in order to do business with them at a later time; I also seized the opportunity to get close to a few of the Kenyan national team players. I placed roughly 50 thousand dollars on Kenya to win but they couldn't. The players began to gel after a good 30 minutes, then the coach replaced three of them and took the steam out of the game. Dumb fucker.

  While in Malaysia, Thana and I were sharing a room at the Grand Bluewave Shah Alam hotel. It was nearly noon on the day after Kenya's match and we didn't really have a plan. We were sitting in our room debating whether to stay one more day or check out of the hotel in the evening when, point blank, someone used the room's key to open the door from the outside. The door swung open and four Indian guys stepped in aggressively. I immediately recognized Pal among them. The old boss. I had not seen him for almost a decade and there he was before me, surrounded by his bouncers. Thana was speechless; he sat paralyzed in his chair.

  "Fuck. OK", I said.

  I was not the young boy that Pal had met in Sembawang in 1993. Back then, he used to be the big guy and I the nobody; just a tiny guppy in the sea. I had never really liked him; he was too arrogant and there was never any chemistry between us.

  Pal just stood there looking down at me so I decided to make the first move.