Corruption's Price: A Spanish Deceit (5 page)

Davide paused again, before adding, "If it takes longer I will contribute from my consulting company's funds. The last few months, as you well know, Caterina, brought in an awful lot more than my wildest expectations. It wouldn't be unreasonable to share some with you."

Davide hoped that this was not sending yet more of the ambiguous signals that currently seemed to be their mutual plight.

Caterina forced herself to consider. Davide was being generous. Would he include Emilia? She could not predict. She decided to take the plunge.

"It's not that I need the money, though every little extra in Madrid helps of course. We have a budget and the time. Staying with you already makes our living costs negligible, especially when we'd otherwise have to pay for hotels."

"Of course you can stay. You might even get to meet
tío
Toño."

"Davide, there's something you need to know."

"That sounds ominous."

"No, quite the opposite. Emilia is more than just an old friend and travelling partner. We trained and worked together. Where I chose to go down a computing path, her speciality became forensic accounting – you know, where someone inspects the financial trails left by organisations and people."

"Really? That sounds right up our street. Why didn't you tell me before?"

He turned to Emilia who was listening and more than surprised at what Caterina was saying. It was the last thing Emilia had expected. In fact she had already more or less decided to tell Davide, irrespective of any of Caterina's objections.

"It was because of me," confessed Caterina. "I asked her not to say anything until we knew more about what you were thinking. Now that we know, it seems stupid not to tell you."

"Fair enough, though I still think it seems strange you didn't mention anything before. Shall we head over that way? I think there is a
restaurante
with a terrace where we could have a drink and something light to eat while we work out what we want to do. What d'you think?"

Emilia nodded while Caterina said, "As long as you let me buy."

After the waiter had brought drinks and some small tapas and olives, Davide resumed.

"On Monday I will talk with Felipe. If that goes well I suspect he'll want action and fast, he being American. That might mean Tuesday or Wednesday for the start of your involvement. Given that, if you want to, you should be planning for tomorrow and Monday as days to see more of Madrid. But remember, most of the better museums here – should these take your fancy – are closed on Mondays."

Saturday: Valencia

Marta extricated herself from the taxi that had brought her to the Jardins de Neptú, by the beach close to the Old Port area from where the Americas Cup had been based during the giddy days of Valenciano excess some years before. The aggressively modern club house still stood white and proud, dominating what had been the old harbour.

Taking a taxi meant she didn't have to find somewhere to park, which was always difficult at weekends by the beach and yacht harbour. The downside involved her clothes. She had tried to find a balance between professional, for Inocenta, and alluring, for her 'mister'. Marta hoped she'd achieved it.

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. Nobody 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.