• How the Biggest Fraud in German History Unravelled (1/3)

    From Socialist Democrats@21:1/5 to All on Sat Mar 11 19:15:40 2023
    XPost: alt.fraud, sac.politics, alt.politics.democrats
    XPost: talk.politics.guns

    Late in the spring of 2020, Jan Marsalek, an Austrian bank executive, was suspended from his job. He was a widely admired figure in the European
    business community—charismatic, trilingual, and well travelled. Even at
    his busiest, as the chief operating officer of Wirecard, Germany’s fastest-growing financial-technology company, he would assure subordinates
    who sought a minute of his time that he had one, just for them. “For you, always,” he used to say. But he would say that to almost everyone.

    Marsalek’s identity was inextricable from that of the company, a global
    payment processor that was headquartered outside Munich and had a banking license. He had joined in 2000, on his twentieth birthday, when it was a startup. He had no formal qualifications or work experience, but he showed
    an inexhaustible devotion to Wirecard’s growth. The company eventually
    earned the confidence of Germany’s political and financial élite, who considered it Europe’s answer to PayPal. When Wirecard wanted to acquire a Chinese company, Chancellor Angela Merkel personally took up the matter
    with President Xi Jinping.

    Then, on June 18, 2020, Wirecard announced that nearly two billion euros
    was missing from the company’s accounts. The sum amounted to all the
    profits that Wirecard had ever reported as a public company. There were
    only two possibilities: the money had been stolen, or it had never

    The Wirecard board placed Marsalek on temporary leave. The missing funds
    had supposedly been parked in two banks in the Philippines, and Wirecard’s
    Asia operations were under Marsalek’s purview. Before leaving the office
    that day, he told people that he was going to Manila, to track down the

    That night, Marsalek met a friend, Martin Weiss, for pizza in Munich.
    Until recently, Weiss had served as the head of operations for Austria’s intelligence agency; now he trafficked in information at the intersection
    of politics, finance, and crime. Weiss called a far-right former Austrian parliamentarian and asked him to arrange a private jet for Marsalek,
    leaving from a small airfield near Vienna. The next day, another former Austrian intelligence officer allegedly drove Marsalek some two hundred
    and fifty miles east. Marsalek arrived at the Bad Vöslau airfield just
    before 8 p.m. He carried only hand luggage, paid the pilots nearly eight thousand euros in cash, and declined to take a receipt.

    Philippine immigration records show that Jan Marsalek entered the country
    four days later, on June 23rd. But, like almost everything about Wirecard,
    the records had been faked. Although Austrians generally aren’t allowed
    dual citizenship, Marsalek held at least eight passports, including
    diplomatic cover from the tiny Caribbean nation of Grenada. His departure
    from Bad Vöslau is the last instance in which he is known to have used his
    real name.

    The rise of Wirecard did not occur in a vacuum. Rather, it reflected a convergence of factors that made the past half decade “the golden age of fraud,” as the hedge-fund manager Jim Chanos has put it. In the aftermath
    of the 2008 financial crisis, governments sought to revive depressed
    economies, and central banks suppressed interest rates, making it cheaper
    for businesses to get loans. The venture-capital and tech worlds, awash in
    easy money, developed a culture of selling narratives and vaporware—lofty
    and sometimes fantastical ideas, with no clear path to implementation. Redditors shared their yolo trades; offshore crypto exchanges posted their
    own tokens as collateral for multibillion-dollar loans. In late 2021, amid
    the investing frenzy, a CNBC guest—the author of such books as “Trade Like
    a Stock Market Wizard” and “Think & Trade Like a Champion,” who charges
    people a thousand dollars a month for “private access” to his market research—recommended a tech company called Upstart, asserting that its
    earnings were “very powerful” and that the company had “a good-looking

    “What do they do?” the host asked.

    “Uh, excuse me?”

    “What does Upstart do?”

    “Uh, well . . . I’m, I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

    “What kind of company is it?”

    “Yeah, I’m not . . . You’re breaking up,” the guest said. (Upstart’s share price has since dropped by ninety-five per cent.)

    It was against this backdrop that German institutions supported Wirecard.
    The country’s traditional industry is in cars and energy systems—BMW, Volkswagen, Daimler, Siemens. Wirecard represented the nation’s challenge
    to Silicon Valley, its leap into financial technology and the digital era. “German politicians were proud to be able to say, Hey, we have a fintech company!” Florian Toncar, a German parliamentarian, observed. Wirecard’s
    rising stock price was regarded as a sign that the business was
    dependable, that its critics were clueless or corrupt. The German business newspaper Handelsblatt called Wirecard’s C.E.O. a “mastermind” who had
    “come across the German financial scene like the Holy Spirit.” But it was
    not regulators or auditors who ultimately took the company down; it was a reporter and his editors, in London.

    Dan McCrum often jokes that his marriage was a minor fraud—his wife met
    him when he was a banker, but she ended up with a journalist instead. When McCrum was in his mid-twenties, he worked at Citigroup in London for four years, “which was long enough to look around the room and think, Hang on, there’s nobody I want to be here,” he told me. One evening, he went out
    for dinner with a group of colleagues “and everybody was bitching about
    their jobs,” he said. A young woman suggested that they go around the
    table and share their real aspirations, most of which required years of training or an advanced degree. “And when it came to me, without
    hesitation, I was, like, ‘I’d be a journalist,’ ” he said. “And the woman
    who had asked the question just looked at me as if I were a bit stupid and said, ‘Well, you know, you can just do that.’ ”

    The timing was serendipitous; eighteen months later, in July, 2008, as a fledgling reporter at the Financial Times, McCrum was sent to New York,
    where he witnessed the collapse of Lehman Brothers and the chaos that
    ensued. By the end of the year, Bernie Madoff’s Ponzi scheme had
    unravelled, leaving investors some sixty-five billion dollars poorer. “It
    felt as if we were through the looking glass,” McCrum recalled. “If a
    fraud of that magnitude was hiding in plain sight, then anything could be fake.”

    In the summer of 2014, McCrum was casting about for story ideas in London
    when a hedge-fund manager asked him, “Would you be interested in some
    German gangsters?” He added, “Be careful.”

    In 2000, a year after Wirecard was formed, it nearly imploded—partly
    because it had hired Jan Marsalek to oversee its transition to the mobile
    era. “The first warning sign was when the company’s systems crashed and Wirecard’s engineers traced the problem to Marsalek’s desk,” McCrum later wrote, in a book called “Money Men,” from 2022. “In an ‘accident,’ he’d
    routed all of the company’s internet traffic through his own PC, rather
    than the dedicated hardware in the server room—a set-up ideal for
    snooping.” But Marsalek, a talented hacker, couldn’t be fired; his job was
    to rebuild from scratch the software that the company used to process
    payments, “and the project was too important and too far along to start
    over with someone new.”

    Around the same time, a German businessman named Paul Bauer-Schlichtegroll
    was trying to move into online payments, focussing on pornography. There
    was no shortage of demand, but it was the end of the age of dial-up
    Internet, and Bauer-Schlichtegroll’s payment systems were clunky. When he learned that Wirecard could process credit- and debit-card transactions,
    he offered to buy it. Wirecard refused. But the company was struggling,
    and after its offices were burglarized it became insolvent. Bauer- Schlichtegroll bought what was left of it for half a million euros.

    In the early two-thousands, Wirecard’s company culture resembled that of a
    frat house. Marsalek took new hires for bottle service at night clubs, and sometimes sent clients back to their hotels with models in tow. When
    Wirecard signed a live-streaming porn service as a client, Marsalek’s
    colleague Oliver Bellenhaus, who often played Call of Duty at the office, hooked up his laptop to a TV and paid for a private session. It was ten-
    thirty in the morning. “Touch your nose,” Bellenhaus and another salesman instructed a topless woman onscreen, to test if the service was really
    live. The woman complied; the men burst out laughing, and carried on with
    more orders, as colleagues filed by. “Touch your nose” became a running
    joke at the office.

    Wirecard’s new C.E.O. was a tall, somewhat awkward consultant from Vienna
    named Markus Braun. He lacked Marsalek’s charisma and affability, but he claimed to have a Ph.D. in social and economic sciences, which gave
    outsiders the impression that he was a quiet visionary. Under his
    leadership, Wirecard expanded its payment processing to the world of
    online gambling—legal in some jurisdictions, prohibited in many others. Wirecard skirted rules by acquiring companies in other countries and
    routing payments through them. “By allowing third parties to serve as the primary processor or acquirer, Wirecard is not directly identified” by
    Visa or Mastercard, a critical investor report later noted. “Some of these partners may ultimately lose their own license, but Wirecard’s remains

    The core tenet of the business was that for anything to be sold there must
    be a way to pay. The fewer the options for payment, the higher the fees;
    the higher the legal risk, the more complex the transaction.

    In 2004, Bauer-Schlichtegroll saw an opportunity to transform Wirecard
    into a publicly listed company, whose shares could be traded on an open exchange. He bought a failing telephone-service provider that was listed
    on the Frankfurt stock market. With the help of lawyers, Bauer-
    Schlichtegroll implemented a process known as a reverse takeover, which
    allowed for listing with less regulatory scrutiny. “Like a parasite
    devouring its host from the inside, Wirecard was injected into the
    corporate shell, emerging to walk the stock market in its place,” McCrum

    The following year, having raised capital from the investing public, Braun arranged for Wirecard to buy a small German bank, for about eighteen
    million euros. To observers, it seemed as if Braun had overpaid; the
    company could have applied for its own banking license for as little as a million euros. But Braun’s acquisition procedure—as with the stock
    listing—let the company achieve the desired outcome while avoiding
    regulatory scrutiny, which would have likely ended in rejection. By owning
    a bank, the investor report explained, Braun “created a bridge between
    online and offline cash.” For Wirecard, eighteen million euros wasn’t the
    price of doing business; it was the price of being able to do business at

    In October, 2006, the United States passed a law that made it illegal to
    take bets online. The act was an existential threat to Wirecard’s
    business. Most major payment processors cut off their American clients
    from gambling. Wirecard, however, exploited a loophole: the law allowed
    “games of skill,” which theoretically included poker. In 2007, the company acquired another payments entity, an Irish firm that specialized in online poker, and fired its auditor. That year, Wirecard reported a surge in
    revenue of sixty-two per cent. Bauer-Schlichtegroll gradually sold his
    entire stake in the company.

    Wirecard had carved out a profitable, if tenuous, operation. But the major poker companies began to ditch Wirecard and its affiliates, to work with better-run businesses; pornography, meanwhile, was now ubiquitous and
    free. In 2009, although the business was struggling, Braun prepared for investors an unrealistic set of projections that showed a forty-five-
    degree line of profits and growth, and soon afterward the chief operating officer quit.

    Braun appointed Marsalek, who was then twenty-nine, as the new C.O.O.
    Marsalek sought out new, scammy business partners in the unregulated world
    of nutraceuticals—açai-berry powder, weight-loss tea. The scheme, McCrum
    later wrote, “was to get hold of a credit or debit card number by offering ‘risk-free’ trials, then sting the customer with charges buried in small
    print that were nigh impossible to cancel.” Visa was aggressively shutting
    down accounts that were associated with fraud, so, according to McCrum, Marsalek spread the payments “over many different Merchant IDs, to keep
    the number of complaints below the threshold which drew attention.” But it wasn’t enough: Visa froze Wirecard’s accounts, and issued more than twelve million dollars in penalties—facts that Braun withheld from shareholders.

    By now, a German investor named Tobias Bosler had discovered
    irregularities on Wirecard’s balance sheet. He eventually suspected that
    the company was also miscoding illegal gambling transactions as legal
    ones, so he asked a friend in America to transfer money to a Wirecard- affiliated poker site. “The money went to the poker Web site, but on the monthly statement it showed a French online store for mobile phones,”
    Bosler told me.

    In 2010, the U.S. government charged a German man living in Florida, who
    was linked to Wirecard, with money laundering. (He pleaded guilty to a
    lesser charge, of conducting an unlicensed money-transfer operation, and
    has claimed not to know who paid his legal fees.) Wirecard had apparently laundered at least a billion and a half dollars’ worth of gambling
    proceeds, through deliberate miscoding alone, and the German man had transferred to American gamblers some seventy million dollars, with funds originating from Wirecard Bank. When news of the indictment was made
    public, Wirecard’s share price dropped more than thirty per cent. Braun announced a pivot to Asia.

    In the fall of 2014, Dan McCrum noticed that Wirecard had bought many
    small companies in Asia that no one had ever heard of. The official
    explanation was that the acquisitions had “local strengths,” which
    Wirecard helped to grow on a “synergistic basis.” No one seemed to care
    any longer about the accusations of money laundering in Florida. The
    company had simply denied any connection, and the investing public had
    slowly bought into the idea that Wirecard had a wildly profitable Asia division; the firm’s stock valuation surged past four billion euros.

    Over coffee in London, a hedge-fund manager named Leo Perry shared with
    McCrum his theory: Wirecard’s primary business model was to lie to the
    public, claiming huge profits, so that investors would push up its share
    price. However, “faking profits, you end up with a problem of fake cash,”
    Perry said. “At the end of the year, the auditor will expect to see a
    healthy bank balance—it’s the first thing they check. So what you have to
    do is spend that fake cash on fake assets”—dormant shell companies in
    Asia, reported as profitable investments.

    A week later, McCrum headed to Manama, the capital of Bahrain, where a
    company called Ashazi Services was supposedly licensing Wirecard’s payment-processing software for a fee of four million euros a year. McCrum spent his first day in the country hunting for the Ashazi office. But
    there was no trace of it at its listed address. The next day, he set out
    to find Ashazi’s corporate lawyer, Kumail al-Alawi, at an office down a trash-strewn alley behind a fried-chicken joint. A man waved him in, and
    told him that Alawi no longer worked there. But he had Alawi’s number,
    and, after a quick phone call, McCrum was given directions to an empty
    parking lot. Alawi arrived in a dust-covered car. “They’re still working
    on the building, nobody can ever find it,” he said. He and McCrum
    approached a construction site and walked into what appeared to be the
    only occupied office—white walls, cheap furniture, and a couple of ferns.

    “Ashazi, Ashazi,” Alawi muttered, as if he were hearing the name for the
    first time. He produced a folder, containing a few registration papers,
    and suggested to McCrum that he call the woman who was listed as Ashazi’s founder, a local actress and TV presenter. McCrum reached her by phone,
    but she had no recollection of the Ashazi contract, and suggested that he
    ask her business partner in the Philippines. The business partner had
    heard of Ashazi, but said that he was involved only in marketing—he
    thought that the actress was running the company.

    McCrum concluded that Ashazi’s online presence was “stacked with lies,” as
    he later put it. (Alawi claims to have no memory of McCrum.) And, as far
    as McCrum could discern from the documents, the licensing fee had never
    been paid to Wirecard. Back in London, he brought his findings to the
    F.T.’s features editor. But that editor “didn’t really know what to do
    with it,” Paul Murphy, who had launched Alphaville, a blog at the paper,
    told me. “The F.T. doesn’t have an investigative tradition—it’s not like
    the Guardian or the New York Times.” A story in print “has to be
    understandable to the whole breadth of readers,” he went on, whereas “Alphaville had ditched that idea. Alphaville was doing hard-core, hard-
    core finance.”

    Murphy brought McCrum onto his team. “I needed someone who had the kind of hard-core technical ability to take balance sheets apart,” Murphy told me. Although McCrum didn’t yet have enough evidence to use the word “fraud” in print, Murphy, as he recalled, encouraged McCrum, “Just use Alphaville as
    a platform, to get out your suspicions.”

    The resulting series, “House of Wirecard,” ran in the spring of 2015. But
    even Alphaville’s finance-savvy readership struggled to make sense of the material. “This article could do with a paragraph that states, in plain english, what the author’s point is,” one reader commented. “There are a
    lot of facts presented, but their significance is lost on me.”

    Wirecard’s response was less ambivalent. It spent much of the next few
    years seeking to create the impression that it was the victim of a
    criminal conspiracy between short sellers—who make money when a stock craters—and journalists, whom they paid off.

    In 2016, a pair of short sellers in London released an anonymous, hundred-
    page inquiry called the Zatarra Report, alleging a litany of criminal
    activity at Wirecard. The report occasionally veered into conspiracy
    theories that were unsubstantiated or simply untrue. In the ensuing
    months, the company spent almost four hundred thousand euros on private investigators, to unmask and humiliate the authors of the report. Before
    long, their e-mail inboxes were spammed with phishing links and gay porn.
    Their correspondences were hacked. After McCrum wrote about the Zatarra
    Report, he was targeted, too, and soon he was driven to the edge of
    paranoia: he started logging license-plate numbers, checking hedgerows for cameras, and sleeping with a hammer under his bed.

    It was not the first time Wirecard had pursued its detractors; in 2008,
    the company threatened Tobias Bosler, the investor in Munich. He had bet against Wirecard’s share price, telling no one about his position, but a Wirecard lawyer managed to track him down anyway. “I got a call from this lawyer, and he said, ‘You are short Wirecard,’ ” Bosler recalled. “He
    started reading my trades. He said the date, the time stamp, the number of shares—he had all the details of my transactions.” A few days later, the
    lawyer and two Turkish boxers arrived at Bosler’s office. The boxers
    backed him into a corner. One of them punched the wall next to his head;
    the other threatened his life. Terrified, Bosler closed his short
    positions. (He provided the German authorities with information about Wirecard’s money-laundering activities, but nothing ever came of it.) “No
    one else looked closely into Wirecard, until Dan McCrum,” he said.

    “People have this view of finance—that it is, you know, all suited and
    booted,” Murphy told me. But, in his experience, the appearance of respectability usually ends at the façade of the banks. In the United
    Kingdom, gambling winnings aren’t subject to any taxes, so speculators
    have created a parallel market, to trade on tips and inside information;
    using a strategy known as “spread betting,” they are technically gambling
    on the directions of stock prices without taking possession of any company shares. They trade on margin, and routinely blow up their accounts. “These
    guys can be worth twenty million one day and nothing the next,” Murphy
    told me. It is here, among the “bandits,” as he affectionately calls them,
    that he finds many of his best sources. “A lot of them are really kind of rough,” he said, over a lunch of champagne and fish sandwiches at the restaurant Sweetings, his favorite haunt. “But they have mathematical
    brains, you know? They can do numbers, and they can do odds.”

    Murphy, who is sixty, has been covering the London finance scene for so
    long that he still answers his phone by announcing his surname, as if on a landline with no caller I.D. In 2016, he got a call from one of his
    bandits, a businessman, spread-betting speculator, and night-club owner
    from Essex named Gary Kilbey. “What’s this stuff you lot are writing about Wirecard?” Kilbey asked. “Are you sure it’s right?”

    “Yeah, it’s fucking right,” Murphy replied.

    “I’ve got a guy who says it’s all wrong,” Kilbey said. “He doesn’t like
    Dan. He wants to talk to you.” That guy was Jan Marsalek; he had got
    another spread-betting speculator (who had previously pleaded guilty to securities fraud) to employ Kilbey as an intermediate.

    “Tell him to fuck off,” Murphy said.

    Almost two years passed before Marsalek made another overture. Again, the approach was indirect; another of Murphy’s sources casually mentioned to
    him over a lunch of lobster linguini that Marsalek would pay him “good
    money” to stop publishing reports about Wirecard. “I’m serious,” the man
    said. “I’ve heard ten million thrown about.”

    Marsalek wanted to meet Murphy for lunch, and would fly in from Munich for
    the occasion, with Kilbey and his son, Tom, a former reality-TV star, in attendance. (Marsalek paid the Kilbeys more than a hundred thousand pounds
    each to broker the meal.) A few weeks later, Murphy walked into a steak
    house near Hyde Park, wired with a microphone, hoping to catch Marsalek dangling a bribe. He was without backup: three of Murphy’s colleagues were supposed to film the interaction with a hidden camera, sewn into a
    handbag, but Marsalek had changed the venue at the last minute.

    Marsalek was at the table, dressed in a blue suit. He greeted Murphy
    warmly. Wagyu steak, sparkling water, fine wine. Marsalek wanted Murphy to
    know that, in his experience, journalists could easily be bought. But he
    spoke carefully; there was no explicit offer. At one point, Marsalek
    insinuated that Murphy and McCrum were under surveillance, noting that “friends” of his had reported to him that the two men lived “very normal lives.” Murphy suspected that another diner—a man, sitting alone—was
    running countersurveillance. When the bill came, according to Murphy,
    Marsalek paid with a credit card made of gold.

    “He was obviously interesting—he knew people, and he was throwing a lot of money around,” Murphy told me. “So I started developing Marsalek as a
    potential source.”

    At another lunch, Murphy promised that the F.T. wouldn’t publish more
    stories based on Wirecard’s past indiscretions, and Marsalek swore to
    Murphy that there was nothing new to find. They shook hands. After Murphy walked out of the restaurant, Gary Kilbey told Marsalek, “Look, if you are lying, Paul will find out. He will find out, and you’ll be buried.”

    To Murphy, it seemed significant that many of Marsalek’s extracurricular activities had some tie to the Russian state. Wirecard had no business
    presence there, no subsidiaries. But Marsalek travelled to Russia constantly—often on private jets, sometimes landing after midnight and
    leaving before dawn. According to the investigative outlet Bellingcat, his international travel was closely monitored by the F.S.B., Russia’s primary security service. “His immigration dossier numbers 597 pages, much more
    than any foreigner’s file we have come across in over five years of investigations,” Bellingcat’s lead Russia investigator reported, years
    later. In Munich, Marsalek decorated his office with a collection of
    Russian ushanka military hats and a set of matryoshka dolls depicting the
    past century of Russian leaders, from a tiny Lenin to a bloated Putin. He
    also hosted secret gatherings at a mansion across the street from the
    Russian consulate in Munich, which he rented for six hundred and eighty thousand euros a year.

    In Vienna, Marsalek and Braun mingled with far-right politicians who held openly pro-Russia views. Both men became paying members of an organization called the Austrian-Russian Friendship Society, and set up business deals
    with its general secretary, Florian Stermann. In late 2015, Stermann asked Wirecard to donate twenty thousand euros to the Society, to help pay for
    its fifteenth-anniversary gala, titled From Russia with Love, a lavish, all-night affair featuring trapeze artists and a Putin impersonator.
    Marsalek agreed, but asked that Wirecard’s name be omitted from the corporate-sponsorship list.

    In 2016, Marsalek helped facilitate a deployment of Russian mercenaries
    into Libya. An American businessman—who had partnered with Wirecard on an electronic-payments startup—had invested in a cement plant near Benghazi,
    and he needed the facility cleared of unexploded remnants of war. Marsalek suggested one of his Russian friends, Stanislav Petlinsky, an executive at
    a security company.

    Petlinsky’s company—which is known as the R.S.B. Group—cleared the cement
    plant of more than four hundred explosives. But the arrangement later
    haunted the American businessman: it is the first known instance, in the
    chaos following Muammar Qaddafi’s death, of an armed Russian deployment on Libyan ground. The R.S.B. mercenaries posed for photographs in front of
    the cement plant with a banner that read “We are not angels but we are
    here.” According to an essay by Sergey Sukhankin, a senior fellow at the Jamestown Foundation, who has studied Russian mercenary operations, the
    R.S.B. Group’s activities in Libya “should be viewed as a combination of economic interests and, arguably, intelligence gathering/surveillance,
    which could have been used for preparing the ground for more ‘serious’ players.” In the years that followed, Russia strengthened its relationship
    with the Libyan commander in the area, and deployed some twelve hundred soldiers from the Wagner Group. They seized oil fields, expanded Russia’s security footprint, and influenced economic and political affairs in

    At the time, Russian military and intelligence operations were
    increasingly active in Europe. There were a number of assassinations and suspicious deaths—state targets who fell from windows or were shot in
    broad daylight. Then, on March 4, 2018, two Russian military-intelligence officers travelled to the small English city of Salisbury, carrying a vial disguised as perfume. They sprayed its contents on the front-door handle
    at the home of Sergei Skripal, a former senior Russian intelligence
    officer who had defected to the U.K.; later that afternoon, Skripal and
    his daughter, Yulia, were found unconscious on a park bench, seizing uncontrollably and foaming at the mouth.

    British chemical-weapons analysts determined that the substance was
    Novichok, a deadly nerve agent devised decades earlier by Soviet military intelligence. In response, the U.K. expelled twenty-three Russian
    diplomats, who were suspected of being intelligence officers, and launched
    an inquiry into fourteen other deaths of Russian exiles and businessmen in
    the U.K.

    That fall, Marsalek summoned Murphy to Germany for another lunch, in a
    private dining room, and handed him a stack of documents. They contained official Russian government talking points, addressed to the U.N.’s chemical-weapons body, casting doubt on the British investigation of the Skripal poisoning. The files—marked classified—also contained the chemical formula for Novichok. “Where did you get these?” Murphy asked. Marsalek
    smiled and said, “Friends.”

    In August, 2018, Wirecard had a market capitalization of twenty-eight
    billion dollars. The company displaced Commerzbank from the dax 30,
    Germany’s most prestigious stock index.

    Markus Braun—who owned eight per cent of the company and was now a
    billionaire, on paper—had taken out a personal loan of a hundred and fifty million euros from Deutsche Bank, using his Wirecard shares as collateral. Marsalek, for his part, appears to have defrauded the company out of tens
    of millions of euros, if not hundreds of millions, according to a whistle- blower.

    Wirecard reportedly had five thousand employees and was processing
    payments for a quarter of a million merchants, including major airlines
    and grocery chains. Braun told investors that he expected sales and
    profits to double in the next two years. At tech conferences, where he was lauded as a “Steve Jobs of the Alps,” as one German journalist later put
    it, he said that Wirecard’s business edge resulted from its proprietary artificial intelligence. “It’s not about owning data, but it’s about the algorithms that deliver a value out of data,” Braun, who had a background
    in computer science, said. But there was no A.I.; most Wirecard accounts
    were cobbled together manually, on spreadsheets. As a bank with no
    branches, Wirecard kept cash in a safe at the office, and sometimes
    distributed it to business partners, in sums in the hundreds of thousands
    of euros, by hiding it in grocery bags.

    While Murphy puzzled over Marsalek’s Russian security connections, McCrum
    had a new investigative thread to follow. Pav Gill, the head lawyer at Wirecard’s Asia division, in Singapore, had quit, taking seventy gigabytes
    of e-mails with him. As he agonized over what to do with the materials, he learned that his mother had written to McCrum. “Oh, my God, Mum,” Gill
    said, when he found out. “What have you done?”

    Soon afterward, McCrum flew to Singapore to collect the data leak. The two
    men met near a public fountain, to shield against audio-surveillance
    equipment. McCrum copied the files and returned to London. For the next
    six weeks, he worked in a windowless room at the F.T.’s headquarters,
    trying to trace individual acts of fraud amid hundreds of thousands of e-
    mails and calendar appointments. “What drove me on was Jan Marsalek,”
    McCrum later wrote in his book. They had never spoken or met, but McCrum
    could see in the documents that “he was always at the edges, sometimes
    dishing out orders but more often his instructions were relayed second-
    hand, or a mystery would be explained simply by his involvement; that it
    was one of ‘Jan’s companies.’ ” Each evening, his head spinning with new
    data, names, and organizational charts, McCrum locked his laptop in a safe before leaving the office.

    Earlier that year, a woman on Wirecard’s Asia finance team had nervously approached Gill, to report that her boss, Edo Kurniawan—who answered to Marsalek—had given a presentation in which he taught his staff how to
    commit serious financial crimes. (Kurniawan has since been charged with financial crimes in Singapore; he is the subject of an Interpol Red
    Notice, and his whereabouts are unknown.) Using a whiteboard and a marker, Kurniawan sketched out the practice of “round-tripping,” in which an
    amount of money is moved among several locations, as needed, to fool
    auditors in different jurisdictions into thinking that each supposedly unrelated account is well funded. (Wirecard’s auditor, Ernst & Young, reportedly relied on documents and screenshots of accounts, supplied by
    the company, without checking with the constituent banks.)

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