Corruption's Price: A Spanish Deceit

by Charles Brett

  That was the good news.

  Her brow darkened when considering the bad news. Those letters asking for repayment wouldn't go away. Initially she had replied to the first ones, saying that the elapsed time was excessive and that her clients could do nothing to help. As anticipated, this hadn't worked, at least not for the first couple of letters. Marta did not think it would work for any of the others.

  More strident demands followed with the threat not so much of legal action, which she expected to be able to fight, but focusing more on future business, or rather the potential loss of it. The implicit challenge seemed to be that "If you do not repay what your firm owes us we will have to suspend buying from you". This was much harder for her clients to resist. It also made sound business sense, she admitted to herself, especially as it did not preclude legal action later if repayments did not occur.

  The problem was how to tell her clients. Marta was pretty sure they were not going to be pleased. No, she knew they would be furious and probably with her even though she had only been their agent executing their instructions. That would not prevent them blaming the messenger.

  Considering her choices, there was Luis 'El Cerámico' Zavala, now in his late seventies but still the patriarchal bull ruling a ceramics manufacturing empire located near Castellón, just north of Valencia, and permanently engaged in fierce competition with other major tile manufacturers in the region. In some ways, from a suitable distance, he was a favourite of hers. Still lecherous, at least with his hands, he appreciated striking-looking women who were competent. His beloved wife had died almost twenty years before. That did not stop him ruling his children with an iron rod, nor prevent him from expecting whatever he wanted from suppliers or politicians. The only people he treated well were his grandchildren, employees and customers, and the latter only if they ordered often and paid on time. She reflected that starting with him might be unwise. El Cerámico's temper was infamous. She needed practice to polish her story before making any appointment to see him.

  Alfredo Gómez was very different. A lawyer turned politician, he was an elegantly-dressed snake as far as Marta was concerned. He had made his first pass at her when they were at university and continued periodically ever since. Long ago she had comprehended that he had only two real interests, money and power. Sex was not a third, unless he thought it would increase his powers to influence. Broadly, he was faithful to his wife when he was near home. Beyond this he seemed to have some unsaid licence. In his defence Alfredo had taken his father's modest law firm and, over almost three decades, built this into a Spanish powerhouse with large offices in Madrid and Barcelona as well as Valencia. Now he was Senior Partner Emeritus, in theory with only an economic interest and no management one. This arrangement meant he could play politics from behind the scenes, at which he was rather adept. Alfredo might be approachable in the first instance. After all, they had known each other for more than twenty-five years, plus he was infinitely pragmatic.

  María Teresa (Maite for short) Valle was a pain in the neck. As the head of what had started out as a minor Comunidad de Valencia-sponsored Training College she had raised its prominence way above its – and her – competence. What she was best at was obtaining money from commercial enterprises and local government to sustain her position as Rector. To do this she knew everybody and worked everybody in the best American political style. If you needed an introduction she was the person to approach. Marta neither liked nor disliked her. Ten years older and unmarried, Maite was intolerant of anything that failed to improve her 'institution', meaning herself. This had, however, been profitable for Marta over the past decade.

  Vicente Pérez was your typical builder's merchant. Essentially a local peasant come good with the ability to charm birds out of any tree, he was devout, a discreet recent member of Opus Dei by reason of his wealth and utterly under the thumb of his wife Rosa whose daily attendance at Mass proclaimed a virtuosity she let no one ignore. He did not wander, being too scared of what could happen. On the other hand he was rapacious in both his business and local political dealings. He exploited all he could with a smile that left you innocent at the very moment he raped your wallet.

  The contrast with Estefanía Caballero was immense. Vicente and Estefanía each detested the other and made strenuous efforts to avoid meeting, which was kind of entertaining because they lived almost next door to each other near the old Turia riverbed park that runs through Valencia. Whereas Vicente was a die-hard member of the essentially right-wing Partido Conservador, often now referred to, ironically, as the 'PC' (traditionally this had stood for the now essentially-defunct Partido Comunista), Estefanía had a social conscience and was a life-long supporter of the Partido de la Izquierda or Party of the Left – equally irreverently known as la Piz. These left-leanings had not stopped her making a fortune from founding FyP, a chain of stores now spread across Spain and Portugal, which combined pharmacies and para-pharmacies in one, much like Boots in the UK or Walgreens in the USA. She had become fabulously rich, seemingly happy to ditch a dizzy sequence of boyfriends and husbands, who were no match for her. These days Marta felt somewhat overawed by Estefanía, even a touch lucky to enjoy a small part of her business.

  Finally there was Inocenta Acosta. She was the only one whom Marta counted as a genuine friend. In contrast to the others she was not self-made but had inherited her wealth after her much older husband died when Inocenta was in her thirties. Greatly mourning his loss Inocenta had first become depressed. Later she threw herself into supporting various charities related to the illness that had killed her husband. Her generosity had spiralled almost out of control until she met Marta who had introduced her to the disciplines necessary to protect Inocenta from an excess of the greedy seeking to dispossess her of her inheritance, all in the name of charity of course. Inocenta had been and continued to be grateful.

  Logically, thought Marta, Inocenta or Alfredo were the right starting points, even though each had their drawbacks. What to do?

  Friday: Malasaña

  Davide was frustrated. As of yesterday he possessed two Australian house guests and had seen virtually nothing of either. On arriving they had gone to sleep on the terraza sun loungers. They had only woken when the sun went down, demanding food and liquids. Having eaten the former, accompanied by an unhealthy amount of the latter, they had entered a short sharp debate about which room each should choose. Once resolved, they went to bed. He had been an onlooker, no more.

  This morning they had woken late and left. He hadn't even had time to give them the keys to the piso, meaning that he couldn't go out until they returned. Luckily this did not matter as he had planned to work from home today rather than go to Alcobendas. If Felipe, the principal for OverPayment Recovery Services (or ORS as Felipe preferred to shorten it) called he would answer but not move from the piso.

  Felipe was essentially decent in Davide's assessment. He was a typical hard-charging American, who had made good at a young age in the hyper-competitive American commercial environment. The son of Mexican parents who had illegally migrated to the US they lived without formal residence papers. Felipe described them as constantly existing in a state of constant fear of being deported, despite having been in Texas for over thirty years and ignoring Felipe's birth, which meant he was a US citizen. This apparently protected his parents but meant they had not been happy when he accepted the Madrid post with ORS.

  Felipe worked twelve hours or more a day. The trouble was that he expected everyone else to want to do the same. This was not quite how the Spanish work, nor was it Davide's preference. He was glad he was only a consultant to ORS and not an employee.

  He sat with pen and notepad before him. Usually he preferred to think into his laptop. On this occasion, so woolly were his fears, he found using traditional methods on paper opening more doors as to how he might set out what he needed to say to Caterina – if ever offered the opportunity.

  He was about to answer the doorbell when he heard Ángela step out
of the kitchen. Shortly afterwards the unfamiliar sound of Australian-accented Spanish was plain to hear. Clearly Emilia was sharpening her Spanish.

  He did not hear anything at all of Caterina. Perhaps only Emilia had returned.

  There came a gentle knock on his door. He swivelled in his chair to find Caterina looking doubtful.

  "Am I disturbing you?"

  "I seem to remember you saying that once before ..." he began, before discovering himself blushing fiercely. He saw she was doing the same, though much more prettily. He hurried on: "Did you sleep well? Did you do whatever you needed when you went out? At least you managed to find your way back here."

  Caterina smiled through her own discomfort. In a way it was heartening to see that Davide was similarly ill-at-ease. Might all not be ruined?

  "We wanted to get SIM cards for our mobiles. We didn't realise how long this would take. It was my fault because I made the mistake of insisting we investigate several networks to see what was on offer. In the end, according to Emilia's analysis, it was cheaper to buy one pan-European plan to share between us. Into the bargain we got a large data allowance and a new generation of the latest toys." She held up a brand new Samsung smartphone. "Completing the paperwork took forever. Is it always so slow here? By the way, I did send you an SMS with both our numbers. Didn't you get it?"

  Davide checked his phone. Caterina was right. He had been too intent on his papers.

  "You'll also need the Wi-Fi password for the apartment."

  Caterina nodded, saying, "Actually, I must confess ..."

  Both coloured, remembering previous confessions in Rome. This was awful. Whatever either said seemed to bring back explicit associations guaranteed to embarrass.

  "I woke in the middle of the night. I couldn't get back to sleep, so I used some software to crack the Wi-Fi code. I hope you don't mind. Using WEP makes it all too easy. I cracked another router as well, presumably next door or below."

  She managed to combine looking sheepish and clever at the same time.

  Davide smiled before answering, perhaps his first unselfconscious reaction to her since her arrival.

  "That's fine. I would have given you the piso's password last night but you both seemed unable to concentrate on anything other than food, wine or sleep."

  "I'm sorry, Davide. We were awful. The travel to and from Sydney is horrible and so drawn-out going through Dubai. Plus that second leg to Madrid was really, really uncomfortable. Will you forgive us?"

  "You, I'm not sure about. Emilia, yes, but only because I hardly know her well enough to blame."

  "What am I being forgiven for in my absence?" said Emilia walking in.

  "For us treating Davide like shit when we arrived yesterday, and this morning, putting it bluntly."

  "Yes, you're right, Caterina. I apologise, Davide. Can we take you out for dinner tonight to make amends?"

  "Another time would be great. However, Ángela has been assembling a feast for this evening. Shall we indulge her? She loves it when I take advantage."

  "I've already discovered that. She wouldn't stop talking about what she was preparing. But that's good for my Spanish. She's delightful and she obviously likes having you to mother."

  "Okay. Let me finish off some things in here. Shall we get together in a couple of hours? Or is that too early, or even too late, for you two?"

  "Sounds good to me," responded Emilia.

  Caterina nodded, suddenly feeling sore about the way Emilia was taking over. Was this how it was going to continue?

  Friday: Valencia

  Marta walked into the Bar Borja, named for the family had originated some kilometres south of Valencia in the town of Gandia before becoming infamous as the Borgias, namely Pope Alexander VI and his notorious children Cesare and Lucrezia. It was a bar Marta liked because it was modern, well-lit and comfortable. What it did not have was particularly good service, at least not compared to Madrid.

  This was one of the aspects of Valencia Marta found most tiresome. The city had the potential to be a future Barcelona, fashionable and by the sea if without the soaring mountains of its Catalan neighbour. What ruined Valencia's aspirations was its consistency of miserable customer service. This seemed to apply to everybody. Coming from the centre of Spain this had irritated her no end when she first arrived. Now she was accustomed to it, though still disliked it. At least the owner of the Bar Borja, when he was there, was courteous, which was notable for its rarity.

  She looked around, despite expecting to be the first to arrive. Estefanía was almost invariably behind schedule. Indeed, she had a reputation for appearing long after any agreed time, not that Marta herself could afford to be late for such a successful client. She was surprised, therefore, to see a hand waving at her from a side table. Estefanía was on time for once, even early.

  They exchanged greetings by kissing each other on both cheeks before Estefanía followed up with: "I bet you didn't expect to see me for another half an hour ... or more?"

  She smiled as she spoke, which took years off a face that was beginning to reveal the strains of successfully running an ever-expanding business.

  Marta was shocked by this open display of self-knowledge, though thinking about it, this was just like Estefanía: refreshing, direct, honest and without self-importance.

  "You're right. I even brought my tablet to read, just in case you were held up."

  "Very sensible of you, given what people say and the facts. What will you have?"

  Estefanía gestured to a waiter hovering nearby.

  "For me, I think a vino blanco."

  "Good choice. What I just had was most refreshing. The same again for me too, please."

  The waiter departed.

  They chatted inconsequentially for a few minutes, covering the social bases, until Estefanía prompted Marta with, "So why did you want to see me? What's the urgency? At least, knowing your usual understated way, I assume it is urgent and not just a desire to spend time with me?"

  Marta reddened a little. She was not used to such familiarity from Estefanía, which only made what she was going to have to say more difficult. She was uncertain where to start.

  "Come on. It can't be that bad ... can it?"

  "I'm not sure, Estefanía. Something odd has occurred. I'm uncertain what to do. But it does involve you, or at least FyP."

  She took a deep breath.

  "About a couple of months ago FyP received letters from a company called ORS, which stands for OverPayment Recovery Services, asking for repayment by FyP of various transactions it claimed reflected double payments or uncredited credit notes. These letters were forwarded by your accounting people to me as your 'special adviser'. ORS wrote each letter on behalf of three major customers of FyP."

  Estefanía nodded when Marta named them.

  "These claims dated from one to five years ago. In fact the biggest were from three, four and five years ago."

  "So? I trust you resisted?" encouraged Estefanía.

  "Yes, but that only produced letters more firmly asserting their accuracy and implicitly threatening to stop doing business with FyP unless FyP either paid or demonstrated that ORS had made a mistake."

  "Ah. I see what you mean. Losing any one of those three customers wouldn't be good; losing all three would hurt big time."

  "The difficulty is that ORS provides a detailed list of what it thinks is owing, right down to the invoice double payment and credit note details with dates. As far as I can make out it can only have obtained this information from each of those three customers.

  "By the way, I undertook some research into ORS. The service it offers is to examine past Accounts Payables in large commercial organisations' to identify where there might be monies owed, which had been written off because the buying organisation had not realised these could be repaid. It does appear to be legitimate. It's American-owned, operates on a percentage of the refunds it obtains and enjoys some reputable multi-national clients."

  After Marta named
several, Estefanía said, "Again I ask, what's your problem, or mine?"

  "In essence there are two problems. The first are the total amounts being asked for –"

  "Which are?"

  "For FyP it is, over the five years, around 840,000 euros. But that's not all. It's what these 840,000 euros relate to that may matter even more."

  Marta stopped, acutely aware that she had Estefanía's full attention.

  Estefanía said, "Repaying 840,000 euros would be very difficult, just as we are negotiating new long-term financing for FyP. That would be a horrific slap in the face for this year's FyP cash flow."

  "I know."

  "But you intimated there were other implications. What?"

  "Most of these 840,000 euros were paid to me so that I could – how shall I put it? – lubricate both your political and some new business opportunities, if you remember?"

  "Now I get you."

  Estefanía went silent. This was unexpected, coming at a bad time for her. Normally she might have just written a personal cheque to try disposing of the problem quietly. After all, she was wealthy enough to do this. But her latest divorce was becoming messy and 'losing' as much as this from her personal accounts might raise a host of unwelcome questions from her soon-to-be ex-husband who was nothing if not greedy.

  "I need to think. Would you mind if I went outside for a cigarette? I need one to help me order my thoughts before asking more questions and deciding what to do. No, no, no. You needn't accompany me. I'm sorry. You've taken me by surprise. Perhaps your tablet will be of use after all."

  Estefanía's attempt to smile ended up more like a sad grimace. She left.

  Marta winced internally. It was going to be a long evening and she had five more of these conversations to endure.

  Friday: Madrid