Corruption's Price: A Spanish Deceit

by Charles Brett

  She entered the restaurant and gave her name before being shown to a table under a large sun umbrella overlooking the beach and out to sea. This was one aspect of Valencia she really liked. You could be in the heart of the city one moment and fewer than fifteen minutes later beside a never-ending beach stretching to the north. Where else in the world might you go to the seaside by metro? Rio? New York? She couldn't remember anywhere else offhand.

  Marta had deliberately arrived early. After the previous evening she needed time to reflect on how Estefanía had reacted, plus the questions she had asked and asked. That was one explanation for why Estefanía was so successful with FyP. She had a dedication to detail unmatched by anyone else that Marta could think of.

  Half an hour passed, in which she drank a whole litre of agua con gas, for which she would pay later with bathroom visits. Her thoughts were interrupted by a cheerful Inocenta who greeted her with gusto whilst looking her up and down.

  "Are we dressed for seduction? Are you going to carry me off onto the sands to ravish me?" A peal of laughter emerged from Inocenta at the expression on Marta's face. "Don't worry, guapa, I won't tell. You look as if you are off to a naughty assignation as soon as we've finished. No, I won't ask. Good for you! I like your style. You look ... magnificent. Nothing could be tighter, anywhere. If you came by taxi, how did you get in, never mind climb out?"

  One of the best aspects about Inocenta was her general air of good cheer. She lacked malice and was not a gossip. Those were amongst the reasons that had drawn Marta closer to her after they first met. That Inocenta was like her name, financially naive, had been part of what Marta had been pleased to help her clear up. They were not quite intimate friends. Marta had not shared some things yet with Inocenta, for example about her 'mister'.

  "Gracias, Inocenta. You always make me feel good."

  "De nada. I am pleased that you manage to organise both me and your private life so elegantly. What are you drinking? Only water? I think I will have a Tinto de Verano and you should have one as well."

  She summoned a waiter and ordered two.

  As the drinks arrived a couple walked by arm-in-arm, he in nothing more than the briefest of floral swimming shorts, she in an equally material-lacking bikini in fluorescent yellow. Both Inocenta and Marta admired them as they sauntered casually across the beach.

  "Very handsome! A feast for the eyes. What's that American expression? 'Eye candy' of the highest quality."

  Marta nodded in agreement.

  "So, tell me. Why did we have to meet so urgently?"

  "I am embarrassed to tell you."

  "You embarrassed? Dressed like that? I don't believe you. Don't tell me, you've lost my fortune?" Inocenta wisecracked.

  "No. Yet something serious has happened and I'm not sure about the implications. What I am clear about is that you need to know."

  Inocenta turned serious: "This sounds more ominous than I expected. Go on. Tell me."

  Though using different words to the previous evening Marta began to explain about OverPayment Recovery Services, what it was asking for and what it might mean. After almost half an hour's explanation, with Inocenta listening without interrupting, she finished with her fears about both the repayment amounts and also where this money had gone.

  Echoing Estefanía, Inocenta asked: "How much are we talking about?"

  "In your case, about a quarter of a million euros over the five years, mostly from double invoicing two of the buying companies for the charitable support work you provided."

  "That's not as bad as I feared. Could I just pay the money back?"

  "In principle I think, yes. That would certainly keep the Overpayment enquiries quiet. But what concerns me is how you would explain such a repayment to the tax authorities and what could happen to your charitable foundation."

  "Hmmm. I'll need to sleep on this, Marta. My initial reaction is to pay off the immediate problem and see what happens afterwards. It is, after all, a repayment of what's owed ... isn't it? But you don't look convinced."

  "I'm not and I don't quite understand why. I sense I'm missing a dimension, one that could be more significant than first appears. But what this might be, I haven't a clue, though it could be about how I spent the monies on your behalf."

  "Okay. As I say, I'll sleep on it. Now let's have some lunch and quickly. I'm starving and you need to be away before too long for your next 'appointment'."

  Inocenta smirked at Marta's blatant discomfort.

  Saturday: Isidoro

  Isidoro Silvestre strode into his office, almost slamming the door behind – not that there was anyone left around at this time of the day to notice his frustration. He was becoming both disappointed and disenchanted; an insidious blend and he knew it.

  Several years earlier he had been working without ostentation running one of the more obscure ministries of the Spanish state, not that well-paid but with a comfortable life albeit with no wife or children. In the latter regard the right connections had not come. He lived in hope and his siblings continued to provide opportunities. Yet nobody clicked.

  At that time he had been glad he was outside the epicentre of Spain's traditionally politicised Civil Service. La crisis, the great financial meltdown of the early twenty-first century, had brought thorough disillusion with the traditional political parties of left and right – the PC and la Piz. Disappointment with a bleak economic future and excessive unemployment had produced first a swing from one party to the other, followed by deep disillusionment with both.

  To avert a meltdown in which new radicals took over, the PC and la Piz had hurriedly agreed that their only way forward was to combine in coalition. As it had been the PC that had previously held the post of Presidente del Gobierno, what most countries would refer to as the Prime Minister, it fell to la Piz to nominate a new holder for the post with the agreement that he or she would be followed by someone from the PC.

  Astonishing nearly everyone, Hernando Torres won precedence. The amazement came from the multiple facts that he was largely unknown, competent, untainted, spoke French and English well and was not a lawyer but the son of a respected international business executive – pretty much a total contrast to the traditional image of a senior Spanish party politician.

  By happenstance Hernando and Isidoro had first met at the Complutense University in Madrid where both were studying Economics. They became close friends. They had been intellectual socialists though their paths, once they graduated, had diverged. Isidoro opted to serve people by becoming a civil servant, a funcionario. In contrast Hernando preferred slowly to ascend the greasy ladder that all political parties possess: la Piz was no exception.

  Suddenly Isidoro's oldest friend was the handsome, fresh Presidente del Gobierno, seeking equivalent new blood similarly untainted by past associations to support him. One thing that Hernando's long climb had given him was a deep knowledge of where the proverbial political bodies were buried. He was also uncannily aware of how much corruption occurred and had once been tolerated by most Spaniards – at least while their own families benefited. With la crisis that passive acceptance began to evaporate. Hernando understood that one of his tasks was to clean up, as well as rescue the economy and improve employment.

  To assist with the anticipated burden Hernando had turned to his old friend, Isidoro, the accomplished if largely invisible bureaucrat. Invited to take on the role of Jefe de Gabinete, in effect the Presidente del Gobierno's chief of staff and gatekeeper, Isidoro had resisted and resisted again. The job was a head-breaker. Then Hernando's wife, Consolación, an old friend of Isidoro as well, had added her plea – for the good of both themselves plus that of Spain. Isidoro, to his bemusement, had found himself accepting.

  For two years all proceeded well enough. The workload in Moncloa, the centre of Spain's central government, was punishing. In that sense he was glad he was still single. He could see the toll being Presidente was taking on Hernando and his family. Yet Isidoro had not expected what came next. N
obody had.

  Hernando, with Consolación, had left for a trade promotion tour of several South American countries. While in Lima he had collapsed after a dinner. Rushed to hospital he had been operated on by a distinguished cardiologist. Alas, it was too late.

  Of all sad ironies it emerged later that this same surgeon, as a young man, had operated on Hernando as a baby born with a hole in the heart. Because this occurred in Peru, where Hernando's father was working for an international conglomerate, the details had never made it back into Hernando's medical records in Spain. There was no knowledge that he carried any risk. There was no obvious risk either. As a student Hernando had been good enough to trial as a professional football player before deciding that politics and economics were more interesting.

  Anyhow, he died, leaving Isidoro with the unlovely task of coordinating the obsequies for his old friend before being forced to evict (or that was how it had felt) Consolación and the children from the Presidente's official residence within the Moncloa complex. That this was to make way for a greedy-for-power reactionary only rubbed salt into an already gaping wound.

  The infighting about who should succeed as the next Presidente had been short but ferocious. It was a process that Isidoro had been forced to referee.

  To his dismay the victor was Juan Pastor Nieves, a weak-chinned, right-wing greybeard (ironically, balding plus clean-shaven) from the PC who claimed that what was needed in difficult economic times was continuity. Sadly, such continuity meant, for Juan Pastor Nieves, maintaining the old styles of politics, precisely the opposite to what Hernando had been looking to improve.

  With Pastor Nieves' ascension Isidoro had expected to be asked to resign, if not fired. Yet, at a meeting soon after his formal confirmation as prime minister, Pastor Nieves had demanded in formal yet cold terms that Isidoro remain in post until at least the next elections. He explained he knew Isidoro and he were not ideological soul mates and never would be. Yet Pastor Nieves played the continuity card to perfection.

  Accepting that he had little choice, Isidoro soon regretted his acquiescence, even if it was really for the sake of Hernando. Gradually he saw that he was becoming a keepsake, with Pastor Nieves working round him while paying lip service in public to his importance as Jefe de Gabinete. It was maddening, just what he did not need at a time when Consolación and the children needed what her name embraced.

  He cursed his feebleness. If only he had refused he could be sitting in some comfortable minor ministry doing something more rewarding for people, with far nicer colleagues, rather than mollycoddling Pastor Nieves and his cronies.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Not so Simple

  Tuesday: Alcobendas, on the outskirts of Madrid

  Felipe waited impatiently. His conversation the previous day with Davide had gone much as he had expected. He found Davide a mix of useful and irritating. Useful, because he clearly understood Spain and how it worked, or didn't work, better than he himself did. Irritating, because he was so tiresomely English and European. Fuzzy yet polite perhaps summed it up best.

  Felipe was used to quick clean decisions based on hard rational business grounds. If there was a net dollar to be made here or saved there it was only common sense to take those actions that reeled in that buck. People with similar training to Felipe expected employees to work hard for their employer because this would ultimately benefit both. If the company flourished so did its employees.

  So far as he could make out this was not so in Spain. The Spanish mentality seemed to be that work was merely a necessity in order to earn a living, and little more. Yes, there were individuals who were exceptions, but not many in his admittedly limited experience. Employees turned up so that they would be paid, not because they wished their employer and thus themselves to do better. From what Davide was teaching him, this had a historical justification, at least in a past when owner-employers took the rewards and signally failed to share them with their employees.

  The difficulty was that this made his job of promoting ORS much more challenging. In some senses he had been lucky that his bosses in the US had introduced him to two willing clients before he arrived. Afterwards he and Davide had worked hard to bring in the third. But the business reality was that his Iberian operation needed at least another two to three clients this year to be viable long-term, followed by an additional couple of new ones each year thereafter.

  Furthermore, success assumed that the ORS expectation, of a 0.1 per cent recovery rates, which it had proved it could achieve in the US, was repeatable in Spain. So far, after several months of operations, the recovery percentage was disappointingly lower, at around half the expected rate. Compounding his frustration was that the analyses from the existing three clients indicated that the actual recovery rate should be double or even triple the US rate. But the monies were simply not trickling in as had happened in Texas when he was learning his ORS trade.

  Davide's suggestion of introducing his Australian colleague intrigued him. Davide would not discuss exactly what had happened in Rome but his recommendation to Felipe about this Caterina was of the highest order. She must be special. Davide had given her the bulk of the credit for making the breakthrough in Rome, though Felipe's own contacts said the real insights had originated with Davide.

  As for the other Australian lady he was unclear. He could understand the applicability of forensic accounting but was uncertain what this might add to the formidable experience of the recovery specialists ORS already employed, people with deep knowledge of the bizarre purchasing practises that most large organisations possess. He would just have to wait to see.

  He let his mind wander to the previous Saturday. It had been agreeable. Meeting single people like himself in Madrid was unexpectedly hard. He had resorted to the Internet and Meetup to find a fitness gathering in the main Madrid park, namely the Retiro. There he found himself part of an eclectic group in their twenties and thirties, almost entirely non-Spanish and mostly female. They had welcomed him with open arms, though many seemed to be married or already engaged. Yet there were two whom he rather fancied. He had expectations for the next Meetup fitness class scheduled for later in the week. It was good to exercise with others. Jogging alone all the time became depressing.

  He heard voices speaking in English, two of them with what he guessed must be Australian accents. If he was honest he couldn't tell the difference between British English and South African or Australian or even Canadian English. He was better at differentiating a Texan from a Bostonian, or a Californian.

  There was a knock on his door.

  Davide ushered in two ladies, one tallish and slender, the other shorter and, on first appearances, much less striking. Davide introduced the former as Caterina and the latter as Emilia. Felipe invited all to join him around the small conference table in the corner of his office, asking if they would like something to drink.

  Davide declined. Caterina wanted water, while Emilia requested a Diet Coke. Felipe left his office to ask Ana to bring these, plus an instant decaf coffee for himself.

  He returned, saying, "The refreshments should be here in a moment. Should we begin? Where do you want to start, Davide?"

  "As we discussed yesterday, Felipe; Caterina and Emilia are making themselves available over the next couple of weeks or so. If you will provide them with desks and access to the data, plus some processing capabilities, they'll start looking. What I have also told them is that ORS will pay them a small daily fee, which will increase if they find anything that assists ORS to improve its recovery rates."

  Davide turned to address Caterina and Emilia: "Does that accurately cover what we discussed yesterday?"

  "Yes," answered Caterina.

  "When can we start?" demanded Emilia.

  She was already intrigued by Felipe. For one he was not especially tall and for another he appeared to be in in his late twenties. He was young for this level of responsibility. Perfect.

  From the corner of her eye she noticed Caterina watc
hing her, though whether this was with suspicion or relief was unclear. Emilia could think of a justification for each.

  The door to Felipe's office opened. In came a tall lady with spiky short hair and a severe jaw carrying their drinks. She looked to be in her mid- or late twenties, similar to Felipe, and was attractive in well-cut jeans and crisp blouse. Emilia immediately glanced at Felipe. This was followed by an inspection of the newcomer's fingers. Her left hand was adorned with decorative jewellery but her right wore what looked to be a slim band of gold. This was very confusing. She had read that in Spain it could be either hand that wore engagement or wedding rings.

  "This is Ana, my assistant," said Felipe. "She works long mornings and manages to keep me organised. If you need anything, she is the 'go-to' person. I couldn't cope without her.

  Tuesday: Castellón

  After leaving Maite, who had behaved even worse than she had expected, Marta had thought to herself, "Who needs clients like this?" Somewhat shell-shocked by Maite's treatment she had taken a break for a couple of hours before driving to meet Luis, 'El Cerámico', at his main factory site outside Castellón.

  The drive there from Valencia had been pleasant and Marta had indulged in some detailed introspection about what had passed after leaving Inocenta. Saturday afternoon really had been a time to luxuriate in her sensuality, wonderfully aided and abetted by Salvador, who in this particular instance was definitely her saviour.

  That he was almost a decade younger gave an extra zest to their fun. He was charming and with some wealth, albeit with a wife who was totally consumed with child-rearing – there were already six and she was pregnant again – which enhanced her pleasures further. The only thing that discomforted was that she really ought to go back on the pill. This was something to ponder. Chemical contraception carried dangers at her age. Yet condoms carried risks: one had broken on Saturday. He was clearly super-fertile and, though she had never conceived, it was still not impossible. She needed to do something. The consequences of falling pregnant now would be a colossal inconvenience, not least trying to explain it to her dull husband. Even he might be suspicious given that they rarely even slept in the same bed and that her thirties had been spent valiantly (in his mind) trying to produce an heir when the lack of success turned out to be his own infertility.