Corruption's Price: A Spanish Deceit

by Charles Brett

  "Just looking at file structures is like trying to understand a pear tree by looking at only its fruit. I think we need an Android simulator and restore the backup to this if we're to make progress. I'm still hesitant. Should we be doing this? I didn't mean to capture it."

  "What the hell? We have the data. Let's look. We can treat it as a learning exercise. Maybe it'll be relevant to ORS. After all, she did visit ORS on behalf of a client. Are you able to find a suitable simulator?"

  "Not sure, but probably. Make us some more coffee. While you're at it, I'll do some digging around. It could take time."

  Emilia turned, without enthusiasm, to start on the coffee. However much she wanted instant results, from coffee or computer, she also knew Caterina. If she said it would take time, it would. But Caterina almost always delivered on what she said she could, eventually.

  Her mind wandered. No Davide? Where did Caterina sleep last night? It was back to the previous evenings. Again, Caterina left her no wiser. Whether it was about Rome or Davide or now this smartphone copy, always she, Emilia, was the one to be left out. It bugged her. It was as if Caterina was becoming sneaky.

  Her phone rang. It was Alberto. Where would she like to go this evening? What would she like to do? Emilia knew the answers, but these were not necessarily those that Alberto was expecting and certainly could not be said to him on the phone. What should she suggest?

  "Why not come here for a drink around eight and then decide?"

  Alberto accepted. This done, Emilia wondered whether and how she could despatch Caterina and Davide beforehand so that the piso was hers – to do as she was desperate to do with Alberto. Knowing her luck and those two, probably she hadn't a maiden's prayer. She refocused on the coffee.

  Saturday: Madrid

  Davide finished making the salad. He had sliced the jamón and chorizo and removed the head of the Torta del Casar. The smell of the latter was of sheep's cheese, rich and strong. He hoped it would not be too much for his Australian guests' stomachs. He was convinced that something with fortitude was needed as a diversion. He opened a red wine, nothing special but tough enough to complement the cheese, and carried everything into the dining room, the terrace being too damp to eat on with any pleasure today.

  "Lunch, even if it is a late one, is ready," he called.

  Caterina and Emilia seated themselves, looking a touch sheepish (they complement the Torta, Davide thought dryly).

  "Okay, take me through this once again."

  Caterina and Emilia started speaking at the same time. Both stopped. Caterina pointed to Emilia to continue.

  "The long and short of it is that Caterina took a copy of Márquez's smartphone when she visited ORS yesterday. Caterina says she didn't mean to do it and it was hardly Caterina's fault that Márquez failed to switch off her phone before recharging, which would've prevented any copying occurring during the recharging."

  "Forget the self-justifications and recriminations for the moment," admonished Davide. "What I want to understand is what you've done and what might be the implications before we decide what to do."

  "I'm partly to blame," confessed Emilia, failing to obey Davide. "When I saw that Caterina had the copy on her laptop I encouraged her to have a look at what was there. At first this didn't work. While I made coffee, and you continued snoring, Caterina established an Android simulator within a virtual machine and recreated a working copy of what Márquez would see and do when she uses her smartphone. Of course, not everything functions as it would do on a real phone. But we can see what apps she has and uses on the smartphone, plus her music, movies, photos and data. And there's a lot."

  "A lot of what?"

  "A lot of data and photos."

  "You look uncomfortable, Caterina. What is it?"

  "You remember that Ana and I were looking for information about Márquez? Well, we printed off some pictures of her and her husband. The latter, putting it simply, is blob-like, looks sedentary sixtyish with accompanying paunch and is largely without hair, except for some wisps inelegantly drawn across the top of his head."

  "Why is what he looks like relevant to this conversation?"

  "To quote yourself, 'patience', Davide. I'll get there. What I'm saying is that he's physically distinctive, not elegant. In the photos on the phone those are ones clearly of Márquez, showing off an overly-full figure in various stages of dress and undress. Plus there are photos of a man who's clearly not her husband, also in similar states of dress and undress. And there are photos of them jointly, if you see what I mean."

  "You mean that the smartphone has selfies of Márquez who has a lover who's not her husband?"

  Emilia nodded. Caterina squirmed.

  "Are there any indications of dates? Are these from some time in the distant past?"

  "The most recent are dated within the last month. There are lots of them, mostly of her rather than of him ... Presumably he took these because the backgrounds of the rooms match."

  "You've been looking at these more than thoroughly. Being voyeuses?"

  "No, Davide. It wasn't like that," denied Emilia, "or at least not from Caterina, who constantly wished to shut the sequences. It was me who insisted. I'm sorry if you're disappointed. I thought they might reveal something."

  "Like what? No, no; don't answer. I think you would've already told me if your prurience" (at this Caterina shuddered at the clarity of his distaste) "had produced anything. Is that all?"

  "No. This is where it becomes more difficult, and relevant to ORS, we think."

  Davide signalled her to keep going. Emilia suggested Caterina take over. Failing to achieve this, she restarted.

  "Among the data files is what looks to us like a primitive accounting system. No, it's not a conventional double entry bookkeeping one that accountants like me are used to. Instead it's based around groups of three spreadsheets that seem connected in a way we don't understand. The key point, however, is that we recognised a number of names within the spreadsheets. Looking deeper, there are a number of large transaction amounts, ones that seem to be associated with the three main ORS clients."

  "Do I understand you correctly? You think you've found some form of system, in the loosest sense of the word, which demonstrates a relationship to ORS clients?"

  "Exactly. But we don't understand these groupings of three, which appear to have so aspects in common but not everything."

  "I wonder. Could it be?" mused Davide. "Have you heard of Italian accounting?"

  "Yes, Pacioli invented double-entry book-keeping in the fourteenth century, or was it the fifteenth? Is that what you mean?" suggested Emilia.

  "Not exactly. Traditionally, Italian businesses keep three sets of accounting books. One is for the tax man, another for management. The third is for the owners. Deliberately they each show quite different results. The first, almost invariably losses or minimal profits, the second shows how the business is running, while the third is the true picture."

  "Two sets are not uncommon back home amongst the better organised of the criminal fraternity. I've never heard of three sets. Are you suggesting that she may have different reasons to keep similar information together?"

  "Precisely. Hmmm. I need to think, and to think also about what to do. Shall we eat? Oh, you've already been helping yourselves. Good. I'd better try to catch up. Let's have a siesta before reconvening to make some decisions."

  He used a spoon to dig out some of the Torta del Casar onto his plate, which he set about eating with his fork.

  "Delicious. But there could be multiple levels to this," he muttered to himself.

  Emilia glanced at Caterina who returned raised eyebrows. Davide had clearly disappeared into some other world even as he ate lunch. Without saying anything they continued the silence, though they copied his method of scooping out the Torta.

  Saturday: Isidoro

  It was happening ever more often. He might be the Jefe de Gabinete for el Presidente del Gobierno, the Prime Minister, in Moncloa but increasin
gly it was in name more than practice. Where in the past Isidoro had truly been the gatekeeper and director of daily operations for Hernando when he'd been Prime Minister, now he was more and more a sad, sore thumb barely tolerated by the new Prime Minister with whom he had little in common.

  Juan Pastor Nieves came from the north of Spain, from Asturias, an area noted for its wonderful food and verdant mountains ranging along a rugged coast that fronted the Bay of Biscay. Pastor Nieves possessed a merited reputation as a political fixer, an aspect that was reinforced by his energy and therefore presence at almost every Partido Conservador gathering of any size. He knew everybody and, possessed of a phenomenal memory for faces and names, exploited this to amplify his influence, to the point that no one could resist his 'election' by the PC to be its nominated successor for Hernando.

  Besides his influence, Pastor Nieves basked in a reputation as being honest because he was demonstrably self-made, having built a decent small fortune from being a Notario for many years. Qualifying as a Notario in Spain is notoriously difficult, so the man was clearly intelligent. He'd also had the good luck to land a Notario appointment in one of the Spanish Costas that was rapidly developing. House prices had risen steeply during his tenure, assuring him of a good income, which in turn enabled him to retire early and enter politics full time. Unlike many of his contemporaries he was austere – he did not smoke and drank mostly mineral water or tea. He was not ostentatious but was cold and detached. Though rumour said he was warm within his family, nobody was sure for he kept that family well hidden. It was equally possible that this warmth was a political invention of his few close advisers seeking to paint him with voter appeal.

  What troubled Isidoro were a couple of episodes from his past. In one, when he had been a junior politician, he had responsibility for the environment. There had been a sewage spill that had leaked into the drinking water supply. Pastor Nieves had denied that this was possible, right up until a voter had shown him, in front of cameras, polluted water coming out of the voter's own kitchen tap. If that was not bad enough, Pastor Nieves had shown the same alacrity in denying what was obvious to almost everyone else in another not dissimilar incident, this time involving poisoned food.

  From the evidence, his instinctive disposition was to deny all in the hope that issues would just evaporate, with no further action required. Whether this was due to laziness, or ignorance, or fear of the unknown, or sublime confidence in his own judgement, was a matter for heated argument. What was clear was that he had a poor record of reading abnormal situations in the right way.

  Did this matter? Isidoro had just returned from attending a meeting of el Presidente del Gobierno with a gathering of some younger PC members. Among various subjects they had raised with the Prime Minister was an issue they asserted their voters increasingly cared about: corruption. Though, or perhaps because, those asking what Pastor Nieves was planning to do were only a small number within the larger party population, Pastor Nieves had dismissed their concerns. He was almost rude, implying he was the fount of all wisdom. Whether Pastor Nieves realised it or not Isidoro saw he had left a sour taste in the mouths of his younger party colleagues.

  The difficulty was that these young concerned PC members were precisely in tune with what Hernando had obsessed about. The evidence from today was that the el Presidente del Gobierno was not, and was yet again placing his head deeply in the sand and about an issue that was insidious in its ability to damage any government's reputation.

  Pastor Nieves clearly saw no need to act. Such concerns 'will go away' was the 'we don't do anything' refrain with which he'd tried to reassure his audience. They were too polite to disagree. Equally it was obvious they were not buying his assertions.

  Isidoro was certain that his political boss was wrong. But there was nothing he could do. He would have to bide his time.

  At least, however, he now had an evening where he could leave relatively early. He was pleased because it meant that he could visit Consolación and children, to continue his support.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Much Crawls, Slowly

  Monday: Malasaña

  Davide said to the Australians, "Okay, I've called Felipe and said that none of us will be in Alcobendas today and possibly not tomorrow. Felipe seemed relaxed about it. It helps that he's on his way to Valencia to meet Luis Zavala, the one who's also known as El Cerámico.

  "I've asked Ana to join us here after she leaves. She seemed unfazed when I suggested keeping quiet about this. I'm not sure about asking Alberto. We don't want to put him in an invidious position. Ana's different, as I think you both understand."

  "You seem to have all in hand," accepted Emilia. "What do you want us to do?"

  "I suggest that you and Caterina carry on printing and trying to penetrate the significance of those spreadsheets and any related information. I'm still uncertain about whether or not we should delete anything. This is in part why I want Ana here. She trained as a lawyer and could, I think, have been rather a good one. I'm unclear why she didn't go for something more ambitious than ORS."

  "Right you are, Davide. I'll return to your study to work with Caterina. You may want to think about another printer and lots more paper."

  "Already done. Ana's ordering a colour printer able to do A3. She's also ordering a large screen, over 48 inches, so that a group of us can look at anything together rather than peer at one small screen. The last will become my present to tío Toño when I leave. His TV in the corner is an antique."

  Emilia returned to Davide's study, which she and Caterina had appropriated the day before. She found Caterina in the one reasonably comfortable chair, sitting back and looking pensive.

  "What's up? Why so thoughtful?"

  "I was cogitating – I do love that English word. Conor always used it – about how what should have been a deliciously post-coital weekend was diverted into a legally-focused, never-ending debate."

  "So you admit it, finally?"

  "Admit what?"

  "That you, at long last, did something to obtain a rise, and hopefully fall, from Davide."

  "Emilia, you're being coarse. You've been trying to find out for days. Your gutter mind thinks only of one thing."

  "That may be true and I'm still pissed off for having to postpone Alberto on Saturday. Why should you have all the fun?"

  "What fun, when? We've been slaving since we opened the Márquez files on Saturday morning. When have I had chance to enjoy anything?"

  "Wednesday night? Thursday night? Friday night? And those are merely for starters."

  "All right, I give in. Yes, Friday night finally 'it' happened. And very nice it was, thank you, and no, I won't tell you any more. For your information, not that I need tell you, we were both so emotionally knackered on Saturday and last night that we fell asleep as soon as our heads hit the pillows."

  "You are joking, aren't you?"

  "No, Emilia, I'm not. Didn't you do the same?"

  "Actually, no. On Saturday I couldn't sleep because I felt like we're on the edge of a precipice."

  "And you were missing the potentially amorous attentions of Alberto?"

  "Those too. Last night I did sleep but woke in the middle of the night worrying that we were pushing too hard."

  "Me too, regarding the last matter. I am finding being with Davide is more complex than I expected. He is so full of strange information and insights. It must be the mix of Spanish and British. He gives off confusing vibes."

  "Can you give me an example?" encouraged Emilia.

  "Possibly. You remember his story about wanting to complain to his Spanish member of parliament? A diputado I think he said they were called."

  "You mean that, unlike in Canberra or in Westminster, Spanish diputados don't represent anybody, especially not constituents?"

  "Exactly. It's a very foreign concept to Davide, and to me, that you vote for a party with a list of potential diputados. That the number of votes each party receives determines the number of dip
utados each one obtains makes some sense to me. But the concept that the people who'll actually sit in a parliament are determined by how high up they are on each party list is weird.

  "That means, as Davide points out, a diputado's only electoral interest is on rising high enough on the party list to improve the chances of receiving a seat as reward. As he put it, this certainly explains why writing to the person representing the division where you voted, as we do in Australia, is a waste of time in Spain."

  "If Davide is right, does that mean diputados have no association with voters? To me this disconnects voters and representatives. Actually, thinking about it, it's worse. Between elections voters can do nought whilst diputados can only do only what their party tells them, on pain of being shunted down the next list if they don't conform."

  "I agree. Writing to the representative for your division probably may appear a facile idea to those who don't have it. But you and I know it can work. Remember that instance where somebody complained about Gus' boss, who had to fall on his sword when it was proved he'd misled both boss and Parliament in Canberra?"

  "Yes, Caterina, I do – and the reorganisation hell that followed. I wonder if Davide's correct about this being a deliberate artefact from after Franco died, so that there was a party system in place from the start. That would kind of make sense if you haven't been a democracy for fifty years."

  "I dunno. Computers, not historical context, are my speciality. Anyhow, we should move on. Davide told me he wants us to printout as much as we can so that we have as much as possible in paper format.

  They bent to their respective tasks. Not much more could happen until Ana arrived.

  Monday: Felipe

  Felipe had decided to drive to Castellón to meet 'the old brute', which was how Ana categorised him. He had asked if she had ever met him, seeing that she seemed to have met the rest of Spain. She confirmed she hadn't and didn't want to. He was famed, if that was the right adjective, for being a surly cuss, very much in charge and dominating his family. She added that, as he was a Valenciano, Felipe on leaving should be careful to inspect the number of fingers on his hand, if he was permitted to shake the 'great' man's own hands.