The Big Fix (22 page)

 

CHAPTER 40

MANCHESTER, ENGLAND, NOVEMBER 2013

T
he chase would continue. In November, a thirty-­two-­year-­old Singaporean man named Chann Sankaran walked into a pub in Manchester, England. It was his third trip to the United Kingdom at the invitation of an Englishman who called himself Joe MacArthur.

MacArthur claimed that he represented an Indonesian mining magnate who was interested in match-­fixing. He wanted to fund a fixing operation on English soil. MacArthur had contacted Sankaran over Facebook, and here they were now in England, working out the details. Sankaran told MacArthur that he could fix matches involving three clubs. He claimed that he could arrange for scores of 2–0 or 1–1 in the first half, with an ultimate outcome of either 3–2 or 4–0, depending on how they would structure their betting. He would facilitate wagers on the illegal Asian market. It would also be easy, Sankaran said, to pay a player £5,000 to take a red card at a certain point in the match, in a typical spot fix.

Several elements of the plan didn't hold up under scrutiny. MacArthur said that his backer was prepared to provide €60,000, but this was not enough to fix a match in England. One would need €100,000 minimum to accomplish the task. And although Sankaran was an associate of the Singapore fixing syndicate, he was a fringe player. He had limited experience with fixes. One more detail wasn't right. Joe MacArthur was an alias, the cover for one of Chris Eaton's former FIFA investigators, who was now operating as an independent contractor.

“MacArthur” had sold his ser­vices to the
Telegraph,
and video recordings of his meetings with Sankaran subsequently appeared on the British newspaper's website. Britain's National Crime Agency opened a criminal case, arresting six men, including Sankaran. Also arrested was a man named Delroy Facey, a player agent who had played striker for fourteen different English clubs in his professional career, making it as high as Bolton Wanderers, then in the Premier League. This marked the first case of match-­fixing in England in decades. The fixing epidemic had finally reached the home of the sport.

A related revelation may not have been so shocking. During one meeting in Manchester, Sankaran suggested that “MacArthur” perform a search on Yahoo. “You search Wilson Raj Perumal,” he said. “
Kelong
king . . . He's the king. . . . He's my boss. Everybody in the world know him, man.”

 

CHAPTER 41

BUDAPEST, DECEMBER 2013

I
t is quiet in the Muvész café, on Budapest's Andrássy Street, save for clattering plates and the frothing of the cappuccino machine. These noises don't unsettle Wilson Perumal. It appears as though nothing does. The Australians have identified him as the mastermind of the Southern Stars ring. British authorities have compiled evidence that appears to link him to Sankaran's activities in the United Kingdom. But Perumal is as relaxed and as talkative as ever.

“This guy Chann,” he says. “This guy, I know him from prison time.” Perumal explains that he met Sankaran while he was serving time for credit card fraud. Perumal taught him the rudiments of both fixing matches and defrauding banks. They kept in touch over the years since each gained his release. Perumal claims that Sankaran had begun to dabble in fixing, though unsuccessfully. In April of last year, Sankaran was stranded in Cyprus, out of luck after several matches went against him, living proof that fixing's no cinch. “Then he called me. He said, ‘Wilson, I am broke. I only have about fifteen euros in my pocket. Can I come and see you?' ” The two enjoyed the nightlife in Budapest. Perumal posted several photos to his Facebook page, he and Sankaran pictured in dance clubs.

A waiter in wire-­rimmed glasses appears at the table, and Perumal orders a cappuccino. Then he continues explaining.

In the fall, Perumal says, Sankaran contacted him again, following the approach from MacArthur. Sankaran explained that MacArthur had flown him from Singapore to Manchester, covering his expenses. MacArthur made his pitch, and Sankaran was calling for advice. The numbers didn't add up for Perumal. Just €60,000 for a fix?

“I say, ‘Chann, are you fucking this guy?' ” Perumal says. “ ‘Because I don't believe he's serious about match-­fixing.' ” MacArthur invited Sankaran for a second trip, and this time demanded to meet the players personally before handing over the money. Sankaran again phoned Perumal. “I said, ‘Chann, you're wasting my time. This motherfucker is not going to give you one penny if he don't see the players.' ” This necessitated a third trip, and Sankaran phoned Perumal from England in a panic. He couldn't find any real players to present to MacArthur.

Perumal suggested that Sankaran contact an old associate: Delroy Facey. Facey's mother was Grenadian, and he represented the national team in the 2011 Gold Cup. Fixers compromised this tournament, as they did most Gold Cups, and investigators surmise that the syndicate made Facey's acquaintance at that time. Perumal knows him, but he claims that he inspires little confidence. “I don't trust Delroy Facey,” he says. “One moment, he will say he can do this, the next moment he will say he can do that. He was never good to his word. So I've given up on him.” But Perumal thought Facey might be useful for something still. “I said if you want fake players who look like real players, you get Delroy Facey. He can help you. So Chann linked with Delroy.”

Sankaran phoned Perumal following the final meeting with MacArthur. When Sankaran said that MacArthur had handed over the €60,000, Perumal was surprised. “Chann started to brag with me, that he's a match-­fixer. ‘I'm doing this game. I have this team. I have three teams.' I said, ‘Chann, you fucker, you went there for three days and you have three teams?' It's not possible.” In gratitude for his guidance, Perumal says, Sankaran wired £2,000 to him in Budapest through Western Union.

The night of the first fixed match, Perumal says that Sankaran called him, excited about the bets he had placed on the outcome. In the end, the match didn't turn out the way that Sankaran had planned. There were no more phone calls. The next day, Perumal learned of Sankaran's arrest from an associate in Singapore. “I said, ‘Fuck, this is a setup.' ”

Perumal tells a convincing story, of a sort that he has told before. He supplies just enough detail to explain his presence in the event—­as a disinterested friend—­though not enough to pin a charge on him. “Wilson's version is the version of a man treading water and scared for his life,” says an investigator with operational knowledge of the Sankaran case. “Every conversation he made to Chann is recorded. He was talking to Chann. He was talking to him in partnership. He's now trying to be smart after the fact. At the time, he was in it. There's no way he steps out of this. They will come and get him.”

Perumal says that he has relocated to Debrecen, Hungary's second-­largest city, 150 miles due east of Budapest. All the same, where he lives and where he goes, these are not closely guarded secrets. Two men enter the café. They sit several tables away, and they don't say much to one another. They just stick around and pretend not to watch.

Perumal says that he has come to Budapest to meet with his attorney. But he claims that recent events do not unsettle him. “Because they cannot trace down to Wilson Raj,” he says. “They can't pin it on Wilson Raj. My attorney is not bothered. I am not bothered. If it doesn't trace back to your name, it's a question mark. If Chann says ‘yes, he is my boss,' it's hearsay. It's not enough. It's a very complex thing.”

Australia appears to present a simplified picture. By now, Perumal has accepted the fact that Victoria Police investigators possess recordings of phone conversations between himself and those involved in the Southern Stars conspiracy. Confronted with this fact, Perumal again is ready to give a little.

“All right, these guys asked me how the predictions can go, how a match can be done,” he says. “My opinion. I've given my opinion. ­People ask me for ideas. I say, ‘Throw some good players in an amateur league. It's not necessary that you have to lose the ball game.' Because ­people know. How many football games can you lose in a season? If I put five good players on Southern Stars—­that's what I told these guys. The idea was perfect. But these were not good players. The person who was there running the show felt that these boys had to lose these games. So at some point in time, they were on their own. I said give me a percentage, and I give you my advice.” Perumal pauses. He sips his cappuccino. “When the game is going on, this guy might have called me. ‘What do you think? What should we do?' I gave my advice.”

Just as Perumal appears to admit to his involvement in the Southern Stars scheme, he pulls back. “But I don't know any of those players,” he says. “I've never seen their face. They've never seen mine. This guy, Gerry, I never seen him in my entire life.” Perumal claims that a Malaysian syndicate arranged the Southern Stars fix, handling the funding and management of the project. Although he may be dissembling, Perumal understands what all of this must look like to the outsider.

“A lot of ­people are thinking, ‘Fuck, Wilson Raj is dead this time. The motherfucker is dumb.' I'm sitting here having a cappuccino with you, and I say I don't give a fuck, because I'm not involved. Ten ­people can go and say, ‘Wilson Raj is my boss.' But can you substantiate how is Wilson Raj your boss? If somebody caught a conversation in Australia, what number? Is it tracing to who? For the Australian police to approach, they must have some form of evidence. Not a tape recorded, ‘I'm listening to this voice, and it sounds like Wilson Raj.' I know they don't have anything. Otherwise, they would have been at the doorstep by now. Whatever happened in England, England can try to extradite me. Even Australia, I'm not worried about Australia. I did not send any money to anybody. It's difficult to implicate me. ­People can say Wilson Raj is involved, but where's the link? Maybe to a certain percentage, I may have been involved. But whether they can extradite me, I don't know.”

There may be more yet to hang on Perumal. Just a week after the Sankaran affair came to light, another incident rocked English soccer. Sam Sodje, an ex-­Portsmouth player, told a reporter for the
Sun
that he could organize a ring of players to instigate the handing out of yellow and red cards during a match. The price: £50,000. Implicated in the eventual National Crime Agency roundup was D. J. Campbell, a former Premier League forward with Birmingham City and Blackpool, who was on the roster of Blackburn Rovers of the Football League Championship. The last name Sodje appeared among the Facebook contacts of Odira Ezeh, a Nigerian, whom investigators have tied to the Singapore syndicate and who once worked with Perumal.

A lot has changed for Perumal since last summer, when he was unpopular. Once again, he is a favorite of investigators and prosecutors in Europe and Asia. All he claims to think about is minding his business locally. His girlfriend is pregnant. She is expecting twins, due in the spring. “I'm already a daddy in March,” he says. “I am comfortable here. I don't have to move. I don't want to go anywhere. But I don't think they will give me citizenship. With a reputation like mine, I don't think they want a citizen.” Where will he end up?

P
erumal steps onto the street. The door to the Muvész café closes behind him. He doesn't know it, but great movements are happening behind the scenes. Three detectives from Victoria Police are due in Lyon in a ­couple days. At Interpol headquarters, they will brief counterparts from Colombia, Finland, Germany, Singapore, and the United Kingdom. Australian investigators are pressing for Perumal's extradition on match-­fixing charges. (Even Patrick Jay, from the Hong Kong Jockey Club, visited Lyon, in December, where he lectured Interpol cops about the Asian betting industry. Match-­fixing is only growing in importance for policing agencies worldwide.) The key to their efforts is whether or not they can positively identify Perumal's voice on the phone conversations that they recorded as part of their case. Finnish authorities have agreed to share audio files of the interviews that they recorded with Perumal while he was in their custody in Rovaniemi.

The maximum penalty for match-­fixing in the Australian state of Victoria is ten years in prison. A sentence of five years awaits Perumal in Singapore. And now British authorities have their own motivations for laying their hands on the
kelong
king. Colluding against Perumal, the police agencies meeting in Lyon are blocking his escape routes. It's not hard to imagine Interpol, Europol, and a quorum of European and Asian governments levying such political persuasion on the Hungarian government that Perumal loses the protection he now enjoys. After time spent in English and Australian prisons, he may end up back home in Singapore, ultimately spending the rest of his life in custody. All for fixing a few games.

But could there be an alternate ending for Wilson Perumal? Australian investigators believe that the Southern Stars operation generated more than $2 million in betting profits. Where the money sits, they don't know, for the betting world remains dim to them. Such a sum could facilitate an exit from Budapest, especially for someone so familiar with crossing borders. As national governments and police forces have regularly demonstrated, once a match-­fixer absconds from their jurisdiction, he may as well have disappeared.

The days are short now, in the Hungarian winter. A chill has set in. The sun has gone down early, leaving the street in its lonely darkness. On the sidewalks, ­people hustle to their destinations, wrapped in winter layers. The traffic light at the intersection turns red, and cars collect in a long line. Perumal zips up his coat, and then he extends his hand. “Okay, goodbye,” he says. We shake hands, and I hold tight to his. “Wilson,” I say, “someone is waiting across town.”

“Who is that?”

“Eaton.”

Perumal's face goes blank. “Eaton?” he asks, surprised.

“You want to go see him?”

“Chris Eaton.” He says the name like he knew it all along, as though he should have expected Eaton to be here, on his tail.

“He's at the Buddha Bar. We could take a cab over there right now.”

A grin crosses Perumal's face. “Chris Eaton,” he says again. He takes a breath, thinks about it. Then he speaks. “You know the scene in
Heat
?” The traffic light at the intersection turns green, and the cars pass by in a loud rush of sound. “It's a very interesting scene between Al Pacino and Robert De Niro. Face-­to-­face. And there's one sentence Al Pacino will say: ‘You do what you do; I do what I gotta do.' It's the thing. We both have a responsibility. Chris Eaton has a duty. I will try to beat the system. That's what I'm best at.” He pauses. Then he says, politely, “Say hi to Chris Eaton.” Perumal turns away and walks into the winter.