Corruption's Price: A Spanish Deceit (48 page)

Garibey entered the
Sala
. He saw Salvador Corcuera and had to work hard to conceal his instinctive distrust and dislike of the man and what he represented. He completed the opening formalities swiftly before continuing.

"Señor Corcuera, the reason for asking you to appear today is to explore some payments apparently made to you over a period of years and what happened to these payments afterwards."

Juez
Garibey went on to describe the M-Out Accounts, a reference that mystified Salvador, and that it seemed he was the recipient of a regular amount of 5,750 euros in cash every month handed over on the penultimate working day for almost seven years.

"Is this correct?"

Before Salvador could respond, his lawyer intervened to object that these so-called M-Out Accounts did not list his client by name, only the initials 'SC', which could stand for Stefano Crespo or even
Santo Cristo
. He smiled at his own witticism.

Juez
Garibey was not so amused. He conceded the point. He regrouped and moved on.

"Have you ever had an account with the
Caja Santiago
?"

Salvador started. This wasn't what he expected. He hedged.

"I'm not sure. It's now defunct if I remember correctly. The
Banco de España
took over the
Caja
when it encountered financial problems."

"Your memory is good. You're correct about the
Banco de España
. I repeat, did you have an account there?"

"I did, but not any longer."

"I have here a listing of the transactions made with one particular account. Could you explain the almost regular monthly deposit of 5,750 euros usually deposited in cash in the first two or three days of each month?"

"That was income from my business activities. I used the
Caja Santiago
as my savings account."

"If this was business income, why was the deposit always paid in cash? Was there never a cheque or bank transfer?"

"That was how I received this money. These were not the only payments in."

"That's true, they were not. But nearly all the other transactions were in cash also. I am, however, interested at this moment only in these regular monthly amounts. Why did you receive these monies in cash? Where did they come from? Was it always the same person or organisation paying?"

"I honestly don't know. I received an envelope each month in an envelope."

"Addressed personally to you? You are you asking me to believe that you received 5,750 euros per month, or nearly 70,000 euros a year, and do not know who was paying or why? That seems beyond incredible. Was this true of all your other cash deposits as well?"

Salvador chose not to answer. The more he said the worse it sounded.

"Very well. You do not wish to say more at this moment. You see, the difficulty I have in understanding is that the M-Out Accounts I referred to earlier show a similar 5,750 euros going out each month just a couple of days before you deposited them. From my investigation the money that provided the cash for your 5,750 monthly euros originated in payments made by organisations where there is a presumption of buying influence or money laundering or bribery or other non-legal purposes.

Juez
Garibey let the implication hang in the air.

Salvador's lawyer observed that it was quite feasible that it was pure coincidence that the amounts were the same and the dates were so similar.

"Quite so," responded
Juez
Garibey, looking wholly unconvinced. "Anyhow, let's move on. Just as
la crisis
took hold there were a number of large withdrawals in cash, in sums of 50,000, 100,000 and in one case 250,000 euros from the
Caja Santiago
. As the account owner, presumably you authorised these. Would you explain what these were for and why you asked for cash rather than make bank transfers?"

Salvador's lawyer interjected again, pointing out that, at the time, such cash withdrawal amounts were legal.

Juez
Garibey agreed. He repeated his questions.

Salvador was lost. He had thought when he discovered the
Caja Santiago
he had the perfect vehicle for discretion, far from Valencia or Madrid. Now his brilliance looked liable to unravel. He had no idea what to reply.

"Let's do it one by one. Did you authorise these withdrawals and pick up the cash?"

"Yes."

"Why did you ask for cash?"

"Because it's ..." he searched for a suitably emollient word "... discreet."

"Where did that cash go?"

"I don't remember."

"Perhaps I can refresh your memory though I am surprised that you do not recall, given the quantities. Each of those amounts was paid back on the same day into the
Caja Santiago
, but to a different account held at a different nearby branch. Analysis of the records of
Caja Santiago
shows this. I won't ask why you didn't perform an intra-bank transfer, which would've been cheaper and simpler for all. The implications are self-evident. The transfers were made with the intention to mislead. What does matter is who owns the account into which you were transferring well in excess of a three quarters of a million euros?"

"I do."

"Excellent. We make progress. And that account was even richer, was it not? It has total receipts in cash, amounting to well over ten million over seven years. Yet this account also has cash withdrawals. So where did these withdrawals go?"

Salvador was unable to respond. How did this persistent
Juez de Instrucción
know all this? Nobody else could possess all these details except himself. Anything he said now must condemn him, which he had feared at the outset.

Juez
Garibey waited.

"I prefer not to answer."

"Perhaps I can help you a second time. You see, details of large withdrawals in cash were communicated to the
Banco de España
. It was at the time researching, at the behest of the European Central Bank, the extent of payments made and received in cash, especially those involving bank notes with large denominations. With assistance from the
Banco de España's
records there appear to be a set of exact matches of the amounts and dates withdrawn that were paid into yet another account at the
Caja Santiago,
this time to its branch in Huesca in Aragón. By coincidence this place is not far from Andorra. Was this another of your accounts?"

"No."

"I agree. Was it the account of a Señora Exaltación Arellano Leiva?"

Reluctantly Salvador conceded a fainthearted, "Yes."

"Can you tell me more about Señora Arellano?"

"She's my adoptive mother."

"Thank you, Señor. Do you know what she did with what you deposited?

"No."

"I think I do. You see that same Banco de España research with the European Central Bank about the use of large denomination notes extended to other European banks, including those in Andorra. Andorra's banks cooperated with the European Central Bank but only in so far as no individual account holder details were involved, only the serial numbers of large denomination notes deposited at each bank.

"Curiously, many of those large denomination notes deposited in the Huesca branch of the
Caja Santiago
turn up in listings within a couple of days at one Andorran bank. This duly communicated the serial numbers to the European Central Bank. In turn it furnished all the serial number details to all its member central banks, including the
Banco de España.

"
You see where I am going? If my conclusions are right, as I feel pretty sure they are, I have evidence confirming that your mother was taking the funds that you obtained illegally and eventually moved to her Huesca account. She, or someone on her behalf, subsequently money-laundered those funds by taking them from that Huesca branch to tax-free Andorra."

Juez Garibey pre-empted Salvador Corcuera, who was bursting to argue. "No, you need not respond to my assertions. Instead, expect your next appearance before me to be as
Imputado."

Salvador turned, livid, to rage at his lawyer. How could this happen to him? What would his mother think of him?

He paled at the latter prospect. He had always soothed her concerns by describing the taking of suitcases of cash across the Spanish-Andorran border, unlike that of Switzerland, as being traceless, anonymous and utterly safe.

W
ednesday morning: Moncloa

Isidoro was clearing his desk. Pastor Nieves now wanted rid of him as soon as possible as
Jefe de Gabinete.
Though Pastor Nieves would eventually appoint his own crony he did not mind Isidoro's deputy standing in on a temporary basis until the permanent replacement was formally announced.

On Friday Isidoro and Consolación, without the children, were heading north for a short break. He had always wanted to visit Riga. It was time to celebrate, leaving Moncloa and more importantly being with her.

Isidoro had indulged by booking not only business class travel but also the best hotel available, and a suite at that. He felt both deserved it after all they had been through. He was looking forward to seeing the Art Nouveau buildings, about which he had read often, and the Old City.

As he was placing his last belongings in the final box – there was embarrassingly little to take away after almost three years of toil – his assistant walked in. Finally they were on first name terms, dispensing with the mad, formal u
sted
for
tú
now that both would not work in Moncloa as of tomorrow. She had decided to leave when her boss did. He was happy for her.

"Isidoro, there's a small gathering of people in the conference room, waiting to say goodbye."

"What's this? Nobody knows I'm still here clearing out except for you. Or did you have something to do with ..."

His voice tailed off. He wasn't at all sure he wanted to see colleagues, even previously close ones. He was leaving defeated. A
fiesta
was no comfort to a wounded soul who had lost Hernando and afterwards suffered under Juan Pastor Nieves.

His former assistant blushed as she said, "Possibly. You may be surprised."

"Why?"

"I suggest you come with me now that you have filled the boxes. The staff will have them delivered to San Lorenzo de El Escorial next week. I've arranged all that."

He followed her down the corridor towards the conference room. To his amazement it was packed. More people were there than he could imagine, including from other ministries. He saw many familiar faces along with other less remembered ones.

To his consternation, as he entered, they turned to applaud him into the centre. He was touched by the sentiment. Someone pressed a glass of Cava into his hand. Another called for him to say a few words.

As if pre-planned, his assistant ushered forwards a junior staff member carrying a wooden box upon which he might stand to be seen by all. He stepped up, uncertain what to say, to renewed acclamation. It took some time to persuade the noise to settle down. Finally with only a few talking he could begin. The short interval at least created a brief space for him to think about what to say.

"Friends and colleagues,
muchas gracias a todos.
It's been an interesting few years here ..."

This drew a jeer from one section of those present. He grinned and continued with what he hoped were encouraging and constructive words.

He ended by trying to acknowledge all those whose eye he could catch, but there were simply too many to do this by name. He realised he must find a way to shorten his impromptu speech otherwise they would be there forever.

He started to explain he was not going to have time to thank everyone personally, not if they wanted something to eat, that is. Anyone left out should not think it intentional, only that it was his way to try to restart the drinking. This drew a louder cheer, rather than the previous jeer.

Suddenly the conference doors crashed open.

"Silvestre, where in hell and damnation are you? ... Oh."

Juan Pastor Nieves looked around. A pathway opened spontaneously between him and Silvestre.

When the Moncloa staff had said Señor Silvestre was in the conference room, and this being his last day, Pastor Nieves assumed Silvestre would be alone rather than among a crowd of people holding glasses. He had no idea why they were there. Most faces he did not recognise. Nor did he care.

His anger and frustration were boiling over. His belligerence gave him the momentum which propelled him deeper into the room.

"Silvestre, why didn't you stop that
Juez
Garibey as I instructed? Look at what's happened."

Silvestre's automatic response was first to step down from his temporary podium and, second, reflexively to ask, "What?"