The Big Fix

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The speech he gives these days invariably instructs the ill-informed, the morally lax, and the financially curious about the inner evils and workings of match-fixing. In European conference halls and Asian banquet rooms and the New York bar or two, Eaton arrives as featured speaker, the face and voice of the fight against “the manipulation of sporting events for the purpose of illegal betting.” He is an official carved perfectly to combat fixing. Eaton is dogged, antipolitical, rule-bound, perceptive of people, and not afraid of an audience, which he doesn’t coddle. “Chris talks to powerful people like they’ve never been spoken to,” says one of his lieutenants.

When Eaton leaves these powerful people – elected officials, police superintendents, administrators in the sporting world – they often shake their heads in derision. Match-fixing could never happen to us. Invariably, months or maybe a year or two later, when enough time has passed for Eaton to fade from their thoughts, suddenly he returns. What he predicted has come to pass. And he is the only one to call for help, because no one else knows what to do. This has happened so often as to defy coincidence. The billions of dollars available in the manipulation of football matches are too tempting for organized crime to ignore, and match-fixing creeps into every local market. Eaton spreads his gospel and combats his criminal opponents, his monthly itinerary a checkerboard of takeoffs and landings from one continent to another. A lifelong policeman, he has become football’s redeemer, the one man with the will and the strategy to scuttle match-fixing and restore the integrity of the game.

Eaton never wanted to be a cop. In his view, the police force was a destination of lowly ambition. In 1960s Australia, it was. Policing employed muscle, rather than cunning. It reflected not only the predominate domestic view, that the law cast no shades of gray, but also the country’s sporting culture. Australian rules football was the sport of choice, a game that developed a man’s ability to wear down his opponent in barely legislated brutality. Football, the thinking man’s game, a sport of deft artistry, was the province of European émigrés, awkward souls stranded Down Under who gathered now and again on the patchy turf of neglected fields, communicating in this foreign language of strategy.

It was Eaton’s older brother, Ian, the firstborn of the family, who wanted to wear blue. At eighteen years old, he was the right size, six foot two and 200 pounds, big and rangy enough to succeed with aggression in the Victoria Police, but he failed the police exam.

Life’s path navigated away from Ian’s control, while Chris was certain that he would draw his own. The family spent its Christmas vacations at Mornington, outside Melbourne, bunking together in a mobile home, where Chris would break out pencil and paper. He had inherited a talent for sketching from his father, an architect, who encouraged him toward the profession. But Chris was interested in the human form. While he sketched the outlines of a face or a torso, he felt a person take shape in his understanding – how a well-placed stroke could manipulate them to one position or another. He thought that he would attend art college in Melbourne.

Ian’s path carried him to the army, though it always meandered back to Mornington every summery December. Ian would pack into a car with two of his friends, headed for nearby Cape Schanck, where the nineteenth-century lighthouse brought in the tourists, while the girls in bikinis attracted their own local attention. One clear afternoon, the boys wandered along the cliffs that overlooked the beach, the waves elapsing along the rocks, and the sandy pathway crumbled underfoot. Ian fell the full seventy feet to the rocks, causing the brain hemorrhage that killed him.

Sixteen-year-old Chris watched his mother sink into depression. Regret consumed his father, a career man who had known his oldest son only passingly. Chris’s younger brother, Anthony, was neglected. Chris put away his pencils and drawings, and he abandoned school in favor of the police academy. This would be his way of memorializing Ian. He didn’t see himself as a cop, but by sacrificing himself so that his family might emotionally recover, he displayed the character of the ideal policeman – shielding the victims, even if he didn’t realize, in his youth, that he was a victim, too.

At Melbourne’s St. Kilda precinct, Eaton looked the part physically, like his brother big enough to handle himself. But the difference in temperament between his colleagues and himself was so striking that Eaton was certain he was in the wrong profession. By the 1970s, St. Kilda’s nineteenth-century seaside mansions had been sectioned into apartments for low-income families, and the neighborhood became a dim environment of drugs, violence, and prostitution. Crime was such a part of life in St. Kilda that police could apply no lasting solution to it. They could only identify “natural criminals,” night-sticking them into temporary submission. “We were really the thin blue line in those days,” Eaton says. “I learned quickly that policing was there to repress the troublesome in society from those who didn’t want to be troubled by them.”

This was no element for the righteous or the philosophical, or even the merciful. One afternoon, police detained an offender, who arrived at the St. Kilda precinct. The man had groped a girl on the beach, but by law Eaton had to let him free. There was not enough evidence. Eaton later learned that the man had gone on to rape and murder. And so while the roughhouse nature of St. Kilda policing offended Eaton’s cerebral disposition, experience broadened his view. “By taking no action, you exude weakness,” he says. “Criminals only respect authority. And authority doesn’t come from the uniform. It comes from a style.”

In a place beholden to gangs, the police were St. Kilda’s biggest gang of all. As Eaton looked through the bars of the precinct’s back window and out onto Port Phillip Bay, he realized that he hadn’t signed up to be part of a posse. Each night, he felt for a solution, as he transited from the charged environment of the St. Kilda streets to his wife, Debbie, back home.

Debbie was the slim, brown-haired girl next door, laughing and animated. She was also sixteen, and the two married in a shotgun wedding in 1972 when Chris was nineteen and a rookie in the Victoria police force. They named their son Ian. A daughter, Sarah, came along in 1976.

As if compensating for the education that he had relinquished, Eaton became a reader of great hunger and interest. In the pages of the books that he read in his young family’s two-bedroom apartment, he encountered mention of an organization that might serve as a model for his own. It was the FBI’s cerebral approach to crime prevention that agreed with the ideas Eaton was rapidly developing. He admired the work of J. Edgar Hoover, if not the man himself, and Hoover’s vigorous application of the law to the influential, whereas police had before applied it only to the impoverished. In Australia, Eaton saw a mirror image. “The people who were committing the big crime in Melbourne, the people with money, the people who were committing enormous frauds on society, police didn’t even pay a note’s attention to them,” he says. Eaton understood that the crime that was visible on the streets of St. Kilda was the result of greater forces, grand manipulators hidden from view. He realized that it wasn’t enough to cultivate authority, but to apply it to effect.

Eaton wrote about his progressive ideals in the police journals. This gained him notice and promotion into the Australian federal police, working in Canberra, the Australian capital. Not yet thirty years old, Eaton had achieved all of the things that his brother Ian had hoped he would in a lifetime.

He was enjoying a cool respite in 1981 as he steered his Ford Fairmont north along the M31 highway, on his way home from Melbourne, where he had just served as best man at the wedding of his brother Anthony. The kids were asleep in the backseat. Debbie was slouched against a pillow in the passenger seat, her eyes closed. The fog in the air wisped in spirals around the rushing frame of the Fairmont coupe. It wasn’t a long trip from Melbourne to Canberra – five hours if you drove like you meant it – and Eaton was taking it slow. There was no rush. He steered along the highway’s winding curve, enjoying the way that felt, to be in control. Headlights roused him from his thoughts.

CHAPTER 4 (#u27ab88ec-d4cd-5075-86bc-12848a517557)

KUALA LUMPUR, 1990

Rajendran Kurusamy would stride into the raucous stadia of the Malaysia Cup like he was the tournament commissioner. In many ways, he was – controlling which players saw the field, determining winners and losers, paying referees and coaches from an ever-renewing slush fund. The Malaysia Cup was a competition between teams representing Malaysian states, along with the national teams of Singapore and Brunei. It was the early 1990s. Talking on his clunky, early-model mobile phone, Kurusamy would attend a game long enough for the players on the field to notice that he was there, remembering the money they had taken from him, understanding that the fix was on. Kurusamy would leave the match as forty-five thousand fans celebrated a goal, unaware of the man who had set it up. Those who knew him called him Pal. Those who made money with him called him the Boss. Those who owed him money often didn’t have the opportunity to call him anything at all, Kurusamy’s muscle engaging in one-sided conversations. Kurusamy was the king fixer in the golden age of the pre-Internet racket.

As Kurusamy walked out of Stadium Merdeka, with its view of the Kuala Lumpur skyline, Wilson Perumal was just walking in. The Petronas Towers were elevating into the sky, soon to be the world’s tallest buildings. Perumal was also rising in the estimation of those around him. His Chinese contacts from the small-time Singapore action respected him for the lumps he had given them. They pulled him along to the livelier action of the Malaysia Cup.

The betting was heavier than anything Perumal had ever seen. Men who displayed no outward signs of wealth would bet $100,000 on a game, and more. It was a frenzy, the action conducted through a web of runners and agents who transferred bets to unseen bookies. Chinese, Malaysians, Indonesians, Thai, Vietnamese. You called and placed bets over the phone. You had to build up a reputation before a bookie would take your bet, but it all happened quickly, as long as you paid your losses. No one knew who sat at the top, who pulled the strings, just that the bets escalated higher and higher, and if you delayed in paying a debt, it wouldn’t be long before someone paid you a visit. This was the action that Perumal had been looking for, and he fell to it naturally, any thought of a conventional life left behind. “If I go to work for thirty days, I earn fifteen hundred dollars,” he said to himself. “But here, I am gambling fifteen hundred per game. It doesn’t tally.” His wins got bigger, but his losses did, too. The point was that his money was in motion, which was a trait of a high roller, the only person Perumal wanted to become. He looked around, and he realized as the games played out on the field that there were no fans, just bettors. The match was a casino. The players were the dice or the cards, which could be loaded or marked by the manipulators who gravitate to apparent games of chance.

The games of the Malaysia Cup were not games of chance, or so the chatter led Perumal to believe. In the stands or on the phone or on the street, he would hear of the fix. Few people knew for sure. But everybody could tell. Perumal watched the ripple cascade through the ranks of the bettors, and he recognized the real game and who possessed the power in it. He learned to take advantage of the hints he heard, throwing his money in the direction of the fix. As he collected his winnings, he heard the name Pal. If you could get close to Pal, people said, you would know which way the wind was blowing. You could get rich.

Back in Singapore, Perumal continued his own small operations, publicly listing games between his friends, manipulating the outcomes, running the betting, making a few thousand here and there. But he was searching for bigger game, having gotten a taste for it, higher stakes, greater liquidity in the market. He searched for any usable angle. Bookies would take bets on anything, even friendly matches between company teams. Perumal fixed games between employees of hotels or nightclubs or corporations, graduating a level. These were existing teams, however amateur and marginal. They weren’t clubs that he had arranged from thin air. He couldn’t control every aspect of the match, as before. He had to concentrate his efforts. He realized that every player didn’t need to be in on the fix, just the goalie and the central defenders. He could even get by with just the goalie, if he had to, as long as the goalie reliably allowed the other team to score. Perumal learned that paying the attacking players, or even the midfielders, was throwing away his money. He paid the players to lose, not to score, not to win. As he looked around the field, Perumal watched the odd fan engaged in the action from afar, believing it to be real. The scale did not compare, though the feeling was the same. Perumal experienced the stimulation that Kurusamy must also feel. It was the power to deceive.

Perumal’s profits rolled in, but they rolled right back out. The money he earned on his fixes couldn’t back the kinds of bets he had to make in order to be taken seriously in the Malaysia Cup. When you bet big and you bet often, as Perumal did, you’re bound to lose big, especially when you’re not in on the fix. Perumal found himself in the hole for $45,000. He didn’t know who held the marker. He had placed the bet through a friend. The friend had “thrown” the bet to a runner, who had thrown it to an agent, at which point the bet had mingled with the thousands of other bets that made the circuit appear tangled and confused. It wasn’t confusing to everybody. One person could see through the confusion.

They said that Pal Kurusamy controlled ten of the fourteen teams in the Malaysia Cup, directing the clubs and circulating the players. Himself, he moved around in a big Mercedes. Pal was tough, unrefined, the richest guy in the game, known to bet millions of dollars on a single match. He didn’t mind letting people know that he had made more than $17 million from match-fixing, and this in only five months. Police and politicians depended on his payouts. Criminal groups acknowledged the necessity of his network. For a time, Kurusamy was one of the most powerful people in Malaysia.

Kurusamy punched Perumal in the midsection. “Pay up your bet,” he yelled at him. Several of Kurusamy’s enforcers had approached Perumal at a local stadium. They brought him to the Boss’s place near Yishun Park, in Singapore’s Sembawang district. It didn’t take long for Perumal to understand that his $45,000 bet had gone all the way up to the Boss. Kurusamy punched him again. Kurusamy was a small man, but Perumal knew better than to fight back.

Kurusamy also knew better than to push too hard, because he was always on the lookout for an edge. He knew that Perumal was fixing. It was his job to know. And a man who was fixing, at any level, might someday become useful.

Perumal wasn’t sure what to do. He was prone to looking for an exit route, rather than a solution. But he kept in mind the story of Tan Seet Eng, a Chinese-Singaporean horse-racing bookmaker. Eng, who went by the name Dan Tan, was associated with Kurusamy. Yet even he was forced to flee Singapore when he couldn’t cover a large football bet, hiding out in Thailand until he could negotiate a payment plan. This was a common story in the world of Singapore’s bookies and betting, one that Perumal wanted to avoid. If you were out of Singapore, you were out of the action.

Perumal eventually settled his bet. That was enough for Kurusamy to invite him to his regular poker game. Perumal could hardly keep up, the stakes were so high. Money meant everything to Kurusamy and his circle, although it was clear to Perumal from the action at the poker table that money for them held no value. So much cash was pouring in from Kurusamy’s fixing enterprise that he barely had time to account for it. Perumal would sit at Kurusamy’s side and watch captivated while the Boss handed out stacks of hundred-dollar bills without counting them, as players, refs, and club officials from Malaysia and Singapore paraded through his office as though he was their paymaster.

Perumal watched and learned how fixing was done at the highest level. How to approach a player in false friendship. The way to pay him far greater than the competition, in order to poach him. How to use women to trap players. How to develop a player, then pull strings to get him transferred to a club under your control. How to threaten someone else in the player’s presence, so that he would get the message without feeling in danger himself. How to take a player shopping, buy him some clothes, some shoes, make him feel special, as you would do for your girlfriend. How to follow through on a threat if a player resisted your demands.

Perumal also saw that even a figure as important as Kurusamy still had to bow to the Chinese in gambling circles. The Chinese ultimately held every big ticket. Not only did China have the largest mass of people the world, as well as a rising economy, but it also had the strongest organized crime network in Asia, the Triads. All down the line in the bookmaking business, Chinese controlled everything of worth and importance.

Kurusamy was undeniable, but he was not the only one. Perumal watched teams staying in the same hotel get friendly with one another. Club officials had drinks together in the lounge. One team needed a win to advance in the tournament. The other team had already gained the next round. Money exchanged hands. Or sometimes just the promise of a return favor. It was easy. No victims. It was just the way things were done in Asian football. To Perumal, it appeared that everybody was in on the fix, and that nobody was trying to stop it.

He watched players inexplicably miss the net on penalty kicks, and he knew why. The talk was in the market, and if you listened to the talk, you could make some real money. But the money was fleeting. It came and went. Whatever he made fixing, he ended up betting on English Premier League matches, on UEFA (Union of European Football Associations) Champions League matches. Sometimes he won, but usually he lost, because he never knew how those games would turn out. Sometimes he had just enough money to ride the bus down to the stadium, which had become the only place where he hoped to make a few dollars.

In his own fixes, Perumal was learning the valuable lessons of experience. He learned that the fix was not always easy to complete. Players were unreliable. They wouldn’t follow directions. They would score when they were supposed to concede. They were sometimes hungover, or they just didn’t care. Perumal would watch as the clock wound down on a match, and all he needed was his chosen team to let in one more goal, but sometimes it just wouldn’t come. He would harangue the players, but it was clear that even though he paid them money, they didn’t feel like they owed him anything. To them, he was just a small-time criminal. He couldn’t control them. He was missing something.

Perumal would escape it all at Orchard Towers, Singapore’s “Four Floors of Whores,” a shopping complex that turned into a sprawling boudoir in the evening. Here there was business to be done. Perumal mingled with football players there, many of them foreign players, the high-priced imports with the disposable income that Perumal was trying to secure for himself. As the European players tossed money around and as the girls laughed and wanted in on the action, Perumal sauntered into their circle. He approached one of the players, this time with a new strategy.

Perumal approached a foreign player he recognised from watching league matches in Singapore. And from what Perumal could surmise, the player was disinterested. At times, he was the strongest player on the field. At other times, it was hard to pick him out of the lazy back-and-forth of the play. As they spoke over the music at Orchard Towers, Perumal asked him to win.

Perumal had been fixing single games by compromising the defenders and goalkeeper, compelling them to allow the opposing team to score. Now he saw how the fix could work in another way, with a foreign player who was slumming, on the downside of his career, stuck in an Asian lower league for the nightclubs, the easy money, the women, not the glory that he had once imagined, but which had long faded from his aspirations. In those nights at the Orchard Towers, Perumal realized that the players were just like he was, living without a thought for tomorrow, concerned with money only to spend it. Perumal and the player locked eyes in agreement over the flashing lights of the action.

Perumal instructed him to jog along with the rest of the players throughout a game, until that moment when he needed a goal. Perumal would then shout from the stands, like an impassioned fan. That was the signal, and the player would exert himself. In the first game under this arrangement he scored four goals. He easily controlled the intensity with which he played, especially since he was superior to the competition he faced. The partnership thrived. Things went well, so successfully and profitably that the player started suggesting fixes. Perumal realized that he was not the only one getting addicted to easy money.

Perumal was liquid again, and he rejoined Kurusamy’s poker game. He wasn’t consistently winning at Pal’s table, but he was bragging plenty. The Boss listened closely to what Perumal said, even if he didn’t let on. And soon his player had slipped through Perumal’s fingers, going to work for Kurusamy. Perumal was left with nothing besides a costly lesson in the fix. Players had fleeting loyalty. Fixing partners had none at all. Years later, such realities would upend the high life that Perumal had constructed for himself.

There was another lesson that was more valuable, though Perumal was not ready to learn it. Since Kurusamy had many influential people on his payroll in Malaysia and Singapore, he felt comfortable enough to boast. He had spent ten years in prison, starting in the 1980s, and through that despair had attained wealth and criminal authority. But he became too public. The king of this “victimless” crime hadn’t figured on the pride of the victim. Kurusamy wasn’t concerned about defrauding bettors or preying on the morality of the players on the field. But he would have profited by understanding that he was lampooning the state. In 1994, Singapore’s Corrupt Practices Investigation Bureau (CPIB), the terror of local criminals, initiated a match-fixing crackdown. Kurusamy was arrested.

He wasn’t the only one. In September 1994, a Singaporean tournament called the Constituency Cup was coming up, and Perumal phoned a player, proposing a fix in the competition, offering $3,000. In light of the CPIB crackdown, the player reported the approach to police. The authorities researched the phone record. They traced the call to Perumal’s residence, and in short order, Perumal had a new residence: prison. But in time, he would soon go further afield than he had ever imagined.

Bail was Singapore’s beautiful game, as Perumal and Kurusamy quickly gained their liberty while awaiting sentencing. But their business was shackled by the CPIB. Fixing was too hot in Singapore and Malaysia. The cash had ceased flowing. Kurusamy needed to find another way.

Kurusamy had no other way, no other place. He was uneducated. He spoke only passable English. He was not a man of the world. His world was the Malay Peninsula, with its government and police officials whom the Boss knew by name and shared history. Now this world was off-limits to him. Kurusamy developed an idea. Like the many goods that flowed out of the Singapore port, one of the busiest in the world, export was the key to financial mobility. The Boss summoned Perumal. “Go to Europe,” he told him.

Perumal traveled on the passport of a friend, easily slipping off the island, breaking the bounds of his bail agreement. He traveled with a partner. The two flew to the United Kingdom, the center of world football, where the inhospitable weather surprised them. They weren’t in Asia anymore, and they realized that they had wandered into the deep end of the pool. Back home, they had been suave operators. England neutralized any special powers they thought they possessed. They didn’t know any players. They didn’t know any cops or politicians. Wandering nearly without aim, they found their way to the training grounds of Birmingham, and of Chelsea, the latter one of the biggest clubs in the game. Like rank amateurs, Perumal and his partner posed as journalists.

This was the land of Ladbrokes and William Hill, a sophisticated, legal gambling market that provided the Englishman with a betting slip to heighten his interest in a match. But this had nothing on the Asian marketplace. Betting in Asia was not for fun, or even for watching a game. It was serious business, the business of cultural addiction, and it was about to grow exponentially, making the English market look like a child’s hobby. The Singaporean, Indonesian, and Chinese had no favorite teams, just favorite bets, those that appeared winnable. These billions of people drawn together in identical behavior constituted an enormous market. Ladbrokes and the other regulated bookmakers had the name, the veneer of English respectability. But as Perumal realised, the market and the power were Asian. But few people knew this. Not yet.

When Perumal approached players in Great Britain, they turned their backs on him, walked right past him, looked right through him. When he did happen to get close enough to players to make his proposal – £60,000 to enhance a match – players laughed at him, then reported him. Word got around, and soon coaches and administrators were running Perumal and his partner off their grounds. Most insulting of all: no one ever called the cops. They didn’t take Perumal seriously.

Back in Singapore, Kurusamy was furious with Perumal’s lack of results, though there was not much he could do. His trial was approaching. Perumal himself stood trial in January 1995. The court convicted him for match-fixing and leaving the country on a false passport. He was sentenced to one year in prison.

When Perumal received parole, eight months later, little had changed. Match-fixing was still too hot in Singapore. The country’s international reputation was at stake. How could Singapore be known for best business practices when its most public events constituted a fraud? The CPIB set out to eradicate fixing in Singapore. The Boss still had to make his money. The United Kingdom had proven impenetrable, for now. But there was another market, and it was even bigger.

Kurusamy arrived in the United States flush with cash, connecting in New York for a flight to Atlanta. Perumal joined him, as did several others from a gathering Asian syndicate. The opportunity before them was worth a concentrated effort.

In Atlanta, they blended in with all the other tourists who were there for the 1996 Olympics. They hung around the hotels, the stadiums, and practice fields where they might encounter players for the sixteen national teams included in the football tournament. Olympic football was a jerry-rigged competition that FIFA tolerated, so long as it wouldn’t infringe on the popularity of the World Cup. After limitations on players’ ages and levels of experience diluted the rosters, the result was a marginalized round-robin that hardly did justice to an Olympic competition of the world’s most popular game.

All the same, the betting on the Olympics football tournament would be worth the effort that Kurusamy and Perumal put into manipulating it. Five different cities in the eastern United States hosted the Olympics football competition. Kurusamy and Perumal traveled to one of the venues – Legion Field in Birmingham, Alabama. There, according to Perumal, they approached Mexico’s goalkeeper, Jorge Campos, one of the most well-known players in the international game. The Singaporeans attempted to corrupt Campos, but he turned them down.

A partner of Kurusamy, a middle-aged man whom Perumal knew only as “Uncle,” had made contact with players from another national team before the games started. He claimed to have struck a deal with the team’s defenders and goalie. Perumal couldn’t be sure, but it appeared to him on seeing their results that Uncle wasn’t exaggerating his influence over the team.

It was Perumal’s first taste of success while abroad. He saw how it might be done, how you could approach national team players, how willing they were likely to be. And when he returned to Singapore, Perumal wished he had simply stayed in America.

Singaporean police had issued another warrant for his arrest. He spent the night in lockup at the CPIB holding pen. The following day, as officers escorted him to a car on the police grounds, Perumal slipped one of his handcuffs and ran for it. He tried to scale a fence, but it was too high, and the officers dragged him back to the ground. At court, a judge sent him down for two years – plus extra time for attempting to escape custody. Police also picked up Kurusamy. The Boss ended up spending two years in solitary confinement.

When Perumal was released, in 2000, while those around him were excited about the prospects of the new millennium, his hopes were dim. He was thirty-five years old, a convicted felon with no professional skills, no references, and no viable financial prospects. There was only one thing he had ever known how to do. And his time in prison, where he shared a small cell with a dozen men, where a small bowl served as his toilet and his drinking cup, this period had not caused him to develop his talents.

When Perumal consulted the schedule and noticed that a match between two S. League teams was a few days off, he got an idea. There was still too much heat on fixing. Perumal didn’t trust the players. They were liable to turn him in, notifying the CPIB to save themselves. But there were other ways to influence the outcome of a match.

The strongest player for the Woodlands Wellington club was a Croatian import, a midfielder named Ivica Raguz. Perumal had watched enough Wellington matches to understand that the team’s chances were largely dependent on Raguz’s performance. If Raguz happened to miss a game, and if Perumal happened to possess this knowledge before a bookmaker knew that Raguz was going to sit it out, Perumal stood to gain. Perumal had always considered match-fixing a victimless crime. The only people who got burned were the bookies, and they were dealing in such high volume that, Perumal rationalized, his manner of fraud made little impact. Perumal had developed a philosophy by which he was the patron of football’s lost souls, the financial champion of players whom the establishment paid less than a living wage. Perumal was the one who augmented their salaries, made their lives possible. Financial desperation may have altered his character. Maybe it was prison. Or maybe the elaborate stories that he was telling himself and others were the convoluted justifications of someone who would indeed do anything to beat the system.

Perumal hired two Bangladeshi men to assault Ivica Raguz before Wellington’s next match, against Geylang United. Perumal and a friend placed a bet, 30,000 Singapore dollars, on Wellington’s opponent to win. Then they sat back and waited to hear from the Bangladeshis. But the call from the Bangladeshis, confirming that they had incapacitated Raguz, never came. Raguz was a large, heavily muscled man, and when the Bangladeshis saw him in person, they froze. They decided this job wasn’t for them. But the bet had already been placed. Perumal had to do something. He had to do the job himself. With money on the line, and a crude sort of match-fixing proposed, Perumal proved his industry.

He lay in wait in a stand of bushes near the Lower Seletar Reservoir, in northern Singapore, where Wellington’s practice field was located. Perumal held a field hockey stick in his hand. He waited for some time before Raguz appeared. When Raguz did materialize, a teammate was by his side. This was Perumal’s chance to abandon his plan. He hadn’t yet crossed over from fraud to felony assault. His victims showed no visible bruises. He hadn’t threatened anyone’s health or livelihood. But desperation outweighed all concerns. Perumal didn’t want to miss the chance. He stepped out of the bushes, approaching the men from behind. He swung his field hockey stick, striking Raguz on the knee with the dull, hard wood. Raguz and his teammate managed to escape, but the damage was done. Raguz didn’t play against Geylang United, and the bet came off.

Perumal had little time to enjoy his winnings. A few days after the match, police arrested him on assault charges. He spent another year in prison.

When he was released, in September 2001, Perumal kept to himself. He felt like a pariah. He kept away from the few friends who continued to associate with him. Fixing was off-limits, even if he had wanted to revive his connections in that world. But he had to earn a living somehow. Regular work was not an option for Perumal. He had never held a traditional job. With his criminal record, he would not have been able to find honest work that equaled his conception of himself. Instead, he opted for credit card fraud. Match-fixing had earned Perumal fairly light sentences – six months, a year. Considering fixing’s financial potential, the risk of such limited prison time seemed worth the gamble. However, institutional financial crime was serious business in Singapore. When the bank that Perumal targeted traced the source of the fraud, it was easy to identify the perpetrator.

Perumal was too poor to hire an attorney, and he instead represented himself at trial. Because of Perumal’s previous escape attempts, the judge ordered him to wear handcuffs in court. It was humiliating. And inevitable. Perumal wasn’t surprised when he was convicted of fraud. He understood the evidence. He also figured that his days as a match-fixer were over. He had already begun to conceive of how he was going to make a living when he got out of prison. But all of this thinking stopped, as he was staggered to learn of the penalty he would have to pay. When the judge pronounced a judgment of four years, Perumal wanted to hide his face in his hands. But he couldn’t, since he was shackled.

CHAPTER 5 (#u27ab88ec-d4cd-5075-86bc-12848a517557)

Chris Eaton was at the wheel of his Ford Fairmont. The headlights up ahead belonged to a refrigeration truck that was crossing over into his lane. Eaton had little time to react. Instinctively, he swerved to the right. Eaton was driving in the left lane, as is the way in Australia, in a right-hand-drive car. A simple twist of the steering wheel. Debbie, mercifully asleep against her pillow, accepted the force of the collision. Everything transpired at highway speed.

Ian’s front teeth were knocked out, and his face was severely lacerated. Eaton’s daughter, Sarah, was just fine. At the door of the ambulance, parked across the M31 highway, Eaton looked on. He knew the protocol. He was a cop. He had looked the victim in the eye before, delivered the news. The victim was the last one to hope for a good outcome, and Eaton knew better than to do that now. He watched the paramedics work, and he knew. The whip of the crash had snapped Debbie’s brain stem. She was gone. “Life was to be lived for Debbie,” Eaton says. “Which was good, since she had such a short life.”

Eaton was a widower at twenty-nine, with two young children. He couldn’t handle the variable hours of shift work any longer, nor long-term investigations. He had to find stable work. This is how the man who wasn’t suited to be a bureaucrat became just that, joining Australia’s federal police union, eventually becoming its chief. He thrived in the union, learning how to operate in a political environment, though a rough-and-tumble Australian one, aided by what he had endured. “I developed a healthy cynicism as a result of the tragic parts of my life,” he says. “It made me see the realities of life for what they were.” Eaton remarried, and with his second wife, Kathie, he had twin daughters. He spent the rest of the 1980s and ’90s gaining administrative experience, an Aussie cop for life, it appeared, until an unexpected opportunity arose, expanding his policing portfolio in ways he had never imagined.

In 1999, at the age of forty-seven, Eaton broke from his established career path, challenging himself in a foreign world. He joined Interpol. Headquartered in Lyon, France, Interpol was the eyes and ears of international law enforcement, the second-largest intergovernmental organization in the world, after the United Nations. Interpol didn’t arrest suspects. It served a more critical function in the modern, globalized environment. Interpol was the one agency that could serve as a liaison between various national and local police forces, a hub of international criminal intelligence. When a suspect fled one country for another – or, worse, one continent for another – Interpol was instrumental in tracking this person and connecting the relevant policing agencies in order to apprehend him. Interpol was like an international FBI, which made sense to Eaton, from his study of J. Edgar Hoover. As international borders, especially European borders, disappeared, as technology shrank the world, Interpol’s role enlarged.

However, when Eaton arrived, Interpol was technically behind the times, and woefully so. The agency still dispatched messages to foreign branches by telex. Among various initial jobs, Eaton managed the implementation of a new communication protocol, Interpol 24/7, which replaced the telex system. He worked as the chief of staff for Interpol’s president. All the while, he attended a school of new social and professional manners. He had come from a continent unto itself. Australia in its isolation produced some of the most professional, energetic, and cooperative police officers in the world. But they had limited experience globally. They knew a little about Southeast Asia. But for Eaton, this didn’t compare to the astounding complexity of working in Europe, with its sophistication, with its fifty countries and dozens of languages, customs, and legal codes.

At Interpol, Eaton also mixed with African, Middle Eastern, Asian, and American colleagues. A great reader, he now became a great listener, coming to understand what other cultures valued, how they operated. He made quick friendships with his counterparts from Germany, Austria, Russia, Thailand. Eaton further burnished his international credentials when Interpol lent him to the United Nations’ independent inquiry committee, which was investigating the Iraqi Oil-for-Food program. Working under Paul Volcker, the former chairman of the U.S. Federal Reserve, Eaton traced the sources of Saddam Hussein’s wealth. Eaton had come a long way from the beat in St. Kilda. He was learning the skills that would transform him into a cop who could capably and imaginatively combat an international criminal conspiracy.

Eaton had come to the attention of Ron Noble, Interpol’s secretary general. A tenured professor at the New York University School of Law, Noble had served as an undersecretary at the U.S. Treasury Department before coming to Lyon. He was credited with sweeping structural reform that revitalized Interpol after the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001. But he was frustrated. Interpol’s Command and Coordination Center was brand new, a reaction to the rising global terrorist threat. It was designed to be the room through which all of Interpol’s critical information flowed in up-to-the-minute fashion. In practice, the center was underutilized, noncritical, an underperforming asset. Noble recalled Eaton from the UN in order to fix the problem.

Noble knew that Eaton was a talented administrator. Eaton was aggressive. In pressure situations, he acted calmly, assertively, insulating his subordinates from distraction and giving them the assurance to perform. When he returned to Lyon, Eaton went about transforming the command center into the innovation that Noble had envisioned. In short order, the command center became a hive of activity. A massive screen hung on the main wall, and it displayed the status of active incidents and investigations from across the globe. Operators at individual desks communicated to international police agencies in Russian, French, Spanish, Urdu, Arabic. The world of crime and cops generated an intense, unending flow of information, which Eaton’s seventy-five charges coordinated with increasing adeptness. A serial killer on the loose in Southeast Asia, a terrorist incident in Africa, a drug suspect arrested in South America, a prison break in the Middle East. As Eaton’s daily attention switched from terrorism to organized crime to genocide, he learned the value of sharing live operational information with the people who could utilize it to put an end to the victimization of others.

When this sharing didn’t happen, Eaton grew furious, then morose. He watched in disgust as national police agencies greedily hoarded information about a Swiss pedophile who had traveled around Europe on a thirty-year killing spree. This only confirmed Eaton’s belief in the need for international cooperation. It didn’t matter who got credit for solving a crime or making a collar. All that mattered was getting it right in the end.

Within a few years, Interpol’s command center had become the single most important repository of operational data and information in all of international policing. Cops in the field contacted the command center because they believed that Interpol – through Eaton, its manager of operations – would react with the information and assistance that would make a difference in their investigations. Each day, as Eaton scanned the command center’s big screen of human frailty, he knew that he was harboring a secret frailty in his own personal life.

Eaton took some getting used to. Colleagues who met him for the first time often found him crass, direct, a little touchy. But once the heat rose in the command center, these same people discovered that there were few senior Interpol officials who were more capable, more fraternal.

Eaton displayed a striking, fundamental dedication to the job. Most people who worked at Interpol were there by appointment, on temporary assignment while still employed by national policing agencies. They were there to make professional contacts, to pad their résumés – there for an education in French wine – until their real bosses called them home. Eaton was an Interpol employee, so he had a stake. But there was something more. “Always remember what you’re doing this for,” he would routinely tell those in his charge. “What you’re trying to do is help the police officer in the field.”

One night, Eaton was leaving work, making his way around the command center to shake hands with each person on duty, as was his custom. Word arrived of a South American prison break. When Eaton learned that one of the escapees had shot and killed a cop, he hung up his coat. He slumped in a chair, identifying with the victim.

He phoned one of his underlings, whose expertise he required in order to dispatch the Interpol notices that would aid in the search for the suspects. The employee said that she was home, and that she would come to office once she had finished her dinner. “The only reason you have food on your table is because of these police officers,” Eaton told her. “Get your ass in here. Now.” Eaton’s professional behavior left no doubt that he was operational, not political, and come what may.

When his passion was inflamed, Eaton’s voice would boom. His words would come out in a high-vocabulary jumble, and it might be hard to understand him, especially if you weren’t a native English speaker, which was true of many at Interpol. Although his arguments were often correct, the bluntness of his debating style derailed him from a path to the top jobs in Interpol’s highly political environment.

Often over the years, he and Ron Noble differed. Yet they retained mutual respect. One night over dinner in 2008, Noble told Eaton: “You might be the only person who is more loyal to Interpol than to me.”

Eaton “aspired to leadership at Interpol,” but he was not obtuse. Such a determined cop, such a disinclined politician. His fundamental political flaw was what made him operationally effective. He was unforgiving. But he was not perfect.

He had had a liaison with a Frenchwoman he had met in Lyon. In secret, there was a daughter. Eaton’s marriage to his second wife, Kathie, ended – though, he says, not acrimoniously. The two remain in cordial contact today. “My wife was a good housekeeper,” he says. “She kept the house. She deserved it.”

Approaching sixty, Eaton’s career had stalled, advancement at Interpol closed off to him. His personal life was an open question. But unlike many others of his age, he was not unduly discouraged by the future. He believed he had more to do. He had energy. He was an expert in not only the way that international organized crime operated, but also the way that international police did its business – and how it might cooperate more effectively in combating global conspiracy. Eaton had acquired the knowledge and skills that come to only the adept, energetic, well-placed international policeman. All he needed was a place to apply them.

CHAPTER 6 (#u27ab88ec-d4cd-5075-86bc-12848a517557)

HONG KONG, PRESENT DAY

Hong Kong’s Wooloomooloo Steakhouse attracts a busy lunchtime crowd. On the thirty-first floor of the Hennessy building, the restaurant overlooks Victoria Harbor, toward Kowloon and mainland China and all of the money that has transformed global sports betting.

Patrick Jay works his way through a cut of meat. Jay is the head of the sportsbook at the Hong Kong Jockey Club. This may be the most profitable sportsbook in the world, though such rankings are impossible to calculate, given the nature of the business. Jay explains that the Hong Kong Jockey Club handles roughly $6.5 billion in betting on football per year. From its entire gambling portfolio, the book takes $1 billion in profit annually. The Hong Kong Jockey Club is the largest taxpayer in Hong Kong, representing 8 percent of the local budget.

Jay is a tall, large-boned man, with the gregarious and happily ravenous manner of someone whose strategic decisions have guided him to a windfall. He projects the attitude of that rare animal, the winning gambler. Jay is one of an expanding cast of Englishmen come east. They carry expertise in the traditional, respected, English way of making a book – at shops like Ladbrokes and William Hill – and they now apply these business principles to Asia, where their experienced hand is welcomed. The Asian market has grown exponentially in the last decade. Jay estimates that the market represented about $100 billion at the turn of the millennium. Today, he says, Asian gamblers wager $1 trillion on sports per year. “The numbers are absolutely unfathomable to everybody,” Jay says. “People back in the U.K. don’t believe it. If you show them financial numbers, they say, ‘You’re making this up. You got Enron to do your accounting for you.’ ” It is not only the size and growth of the Chinese economy that has attracted so many in Western gaming. Nor would adventure be a sufficient motive for someone as oriented to business as Jay to relocate this far from home. It is habit most of all that draws people in Jay’s line – Chinese habit, the role that gambling plays in Asian cultures, the well-documented acquaintance with risk. This, as much as Asian economic dynamism, is the guarantor of continued growth in the gambling business. Jay’s research tells him that in Hong Kong, locals allocate upward of two and a half times more of their disposable income for gambling than do people in the United Kingdom. “Asia is not the center of the universe,” Jay says. “Asia is the universe.”

Jay’s sportsbook is located at, unsurprisingly, a racetrack. It is public, open, legal. And it is categorized in the minority. Throughout nearly all of Asia, the most active gambling continent, gambling is illegal. It is illegal to bet on sports on mainland China, for this activity is antithetical to the precepts of the communist state. The Muslim religion does not permit gambling for Indonesia’s 250 million people. This doesn’t mean that legal statutes prevent gambling. On the contrary, illegal, unregulated bookies in China, Indonesia, and all across Asia predominate. Jay claims that the illegal betting market is ten times larger than the legal market. Of the $1 trillion total, he says that $900 billion is wagered in the dark, administered by the criminal entities that finance, regulate, and enforce a parallel industry.

At Wooloomooloo, lunch draws to a close, and Patrick Jay readies to make a demonstrative point. “Look around the restaurant,” he says. “What do you see?” There are tables full of what appear to be businessmen in the midst of congenial lunch meetings. There are a few romantic couples sharing their little moments. At other tables, friends speak loudly with one another, then laugh. It is the usual steakhouse crowd, but for one missing element. “No booze,” Jay says. He’s right. Plates of steaks and potatoes cover the tabletops, but no single glass of beer or whiskey accompanies them. “These people don’t spend their money on alcohol. They gamble.”

China’s market reforms of the late twentieth century incited one of the most remarkable periods of localized economic growth that the world has ever experienced. Throughout the 1990s, the Chinese economy grew at a rate of roughly 10 percent per year. In rapid fashion, this swelling generated both great personal wealth for some individuals and general liquidity in Chinese society.

While this miraculous event was unfolding, so was an episode of even greater global significance and revelation. During this period, the Internet was growing from a computer engineer’s curiosity into the world’s primary means of commerce and communication. At the moment that many millions of Chinese people all of a sudden possessed disposable income, there was a new place to play with it. When these fortunate Chinese considered how they might float their new wealth for the enjoyment and risk that had long been a central part of their culture, they were presented with a growing number of gambling options online.

The emergence of the Internet not only precipitated the growth of online betting sites, but also improved options for the gambler. Before the Internet, the corner-store bookie, such as Ladbrokes, had little incentive to offer its clients competitive odds. It possessed a quasi-monopoly, defined by location and the immobility of the gambler. Internet betting introduced choice to the betting market. A new catalogue of gambling sites began dropping odds and commissions in the competition to attract business.

In China, the new bourgeoisie within this population of 1.3 billion people flooded the Internet gambling market. As the millennium turned, European sportsbooks followed the lead of their Asian counterparts, establishing online portals. Eventually the European and Asian markets began to work in concert, online, following each other’s price and line movements, bookies on one continent laying off bets with bookies on the other as part of their risk management strategy. Asian books established European-registered subsidiaries under different names, the client none the wiser. As happened with other industries as they migrated online, in gambling, national borders dissolved. In short order, the Internet enforced global regulation, of a sort, on a largely unregulated, gray-market, underground industry.

“The Asian and European betting markets have come together and created one giant pool,” says David Forrest, an economics professor at the University of Salford, in Manchester, England, who specializes in the study of sports gambling. “It’s now one huge liquid market. And liquidity is the friend of the fixer. You can put down big bets without notice, and without changing the odds against yourself.”

The Internet altered what people bet on, as well as the way that they bet. Twenty years ago, roughly 15 percent of bets on the international sports market were placed on football. But as the Internet enabled betting houses to offer continuous propositions based on the various factors of a game in progress – including the time remaining, the score, the players on the field, and the intuition of the bookie adjusting the line and the odds – the rise of in-game betting enhanced the popularity of football as a gambling proposition. The game now accounts for roughly 70 percent of the international sports betting market, according to Interpol estimates. The Internet also allowed for a rise in the trading of bets between bettors. International gambling on football matches has come to resemble a stock market, with constant fluctuations, numerous propositions, and instantaneous arbitrage.

Along with these changes came heightened scrutiny on football matches and the valuable information secreted within them. Patrick Jay tells the story of a grizzled old bookie he worked with at Ladbrokes. “In 1995,” the man liked to say, “if the midfielder for Manchester United broke his leg, five people would know about it. His wife, his father, his coach, and his trainer. And me.” Now, said the man, if a minor injury afflicts an inconsequential player on an unknown club, “they’re betting $10 million on it in that Macau.”

Before the Internet, one of the only ways to bet on football was on the 1x2 market. The “1” represents a victory by the home team. The “2” represents an away-team win. The “x” represents a draw. The 1x2 market does not incorporate a line, or a point spread. Odds are simply established for the chances of each of the three possible outcomes. The final score is irrelevant. When the favorite builds an insurmountable lead in a match, the gambler doesn’t have much incentive to watch anymore. Despite this, the 1x2 market remains the most popular form of football betting in Europe.

Almost no one in Asia bets 1x2. The majority of people betting on football in the world – and this includes all sizable international match-fixing groups – operate on the Asian handicap and Asian totals markets. Locally known as hang cheng, the Asian handicap market takes the draw out of football betting. In essence, you bet on one team to win by an assigned handicap, or on the other team to lose by this same handicap. Bookies establish a point spread that recognizes one team as the favorite. They also assign odds to each bet. The odds place a number value on the chances of a proposition and thus the payout on a winning bet. The Asian totals market, on the other hand, offers the chance to bet on the number of goals scored in a match in aggregate, the over-under. Except for a few minor differences, the Asian handicap and the Asian totals markets are identical to the markets for betting on the NFL or NBA, in the United States.