This 70-year-old fraudster has been ripping off huge companies for three decades 

In 1998, José Trinidad Márquez appeared for the first time in EL PAÍS. The news story was about a fake oil executive who had been arrested for attempting to swindle millions of dollars from one of Spain’s largest companies, the shipbuilder Astilleros Españoles.

Almost 30 years later, Márquez is still keeping up his farce.

At 70 years old, this Venezuelan citizen dresses like a gentleman: suit, tie, handkerchief, trench coat and wide-brimmed hat. He meets his victims in posh restaurants, or in the lobbies of five-star hotels in Madrid. When he introduces himself to someone, he hands them his business card: General Director and CEO of PEMEX — the Mexican oil giant — in Europe. In November and December of last year alone, he reached out to almost 30 companies, including multinationals such as Samsung, Siemens, Mitsubishi, Rolls Royce and Morgan Stanley. He asked each of them for commissions to participate in irresistible (but false) tenders. In 2024, at least one company fell into his trap.

EL PAÍS looked at how a Hollywood-style scammer operates. We accessed emails, photos and WhatsApp messages from 2024 and from January of this year, which reveal that Márquez is still using his modus operandi from the 1990s. On a Venezuelan digital news website – Armando.info – he’s been dubbed El Camaleón criollo, the criollo chameleon.

On Sunday, October 27, 2024, Márquez wrote a WhatsApp message to a self-employed worker based in Murcia, Spain. This man, Eliezer José Marín, specializes in transcribing audios and videos so that they can be presented as evidence in court. The scammer introduced himself as “an emissary of Dr. Víctor Manuel Navarro Cervantes,” president of PMI Holdings Petróleos España SL, a subsidiary of PEMEX. He explained that they were going to be putting out dozens of tenders and that they needed an assistant to draft the invitations to bid and contact potentially interested companies. He promised Marín a contract with Pemex for €4,000 a month ($4,160) as a “senior executive.” The transcriber — an immigrant from Nicaragua with five children to support — immediately accepted. He quit his regular job to devote himself entirely to Márquez, believing that he had been offered a unique opportunity. The great con man told José Marín: “You’ll thank me for this for the rest of your life.”

The transcriber worked remotely. He dialed into meetings via video call from his home in Murcia and would see Márquez on the screen, in a suit and tie. The purported oilman also connected from his home, in a large and elegant apartment in Madrid. He never spoke to him from the PMI office on Velázquez Street, in the expensive Salamanca district. This surprised the transcriber. Márquez explained that, because of the Covid pandemic, the company managers realized that the firm’s employees were more productive when they worked remotely.

Márquez informed him that PMI planned to put out seven tenders, including some related to components such as turbines or engines, and also for complete cargo ships. Marín had to draft the specifications and, for this, Márquez supplied him with real Pemex tenders and gave him instructions on how to fill them out, a job that took from dawn to dusk. He also gave him a list of companies and ordered him to call them. Márquez wanted to meet with the sales managers of those companies at all costs.

The emails seen by EL PAÍS show that the companies sometimes sent employees from other countries to meet with Márquez. On the PMI/Pemex side, several executives appear CC’d, including José Márquez. But there are also others, such as the head of the Spanish subsidiary, Víctor Manuel Navarro. Over time, the transcriber realized that these were fake email accounts.

The signs that something was fishy were multiplying. The transcriber was ordered to reply to the companies’ representatives and tell them that the PMI headquarters in Madrid wasn’t available for meetings. “Our offices are designed exclusively for administrative management,” he wrote to Elekta and Human Corporis, two companies that sent delegates from Mexico to a meeting set to be held on November 21, 2024. “For this reason, as is customary for us, we suggest that the meeting take place at your convenience, either at your hotel or at the InterContinental Hotel in Madrid.”

On another occasion, Márquez had a 2:00 p.m appointment on December 19, 2024, at the Siemens headquarters in Tres Cantos, north of the capital. Siemens indicated that, in order to enter the facilities, he would have to send them his ID card in advance, according to the security protocol of the German technology company. This outraged Márquez, who sensed that he could be found out. “What’s all this about asking us for our documentation?” he growled at the transcriber.

Five hours before the meeting, Márquez called his employee to inform him that the PMI president was in critical condition in the hospital. “Víctor Manuel has had a heart attack,” he said, distraught. “Inform Siemens that the meeting needs to be suspended.”

The emails reflect condolences for that fanciful misfortune. “We regret to inform you that, early this morning, our president suffered a health mishap,” the transcriber wrote. A Siemens executive extended his “most sincere wishes for a speedy recovery.” He added: “We fully support the need to prioritize the health of your president.”

Marín also told Márquez that he was sorry about the heart attack. The con artist then passed the phone to a person, who spoke to the transcriber for just under 30 seconds. “They’ve told me to rest, I cannot talk much. Thank you for your call.” By this point in time, the contractor was almost certain that he was being taken for a fool.

Another day, as usual, he was talking to Márquez via video conference when the doorbell rang at the latter’s home.

“I’ll call you later,” Márquez said. He accidentally let the call continue.

“National Police,” Marín heard in the background.

“Well, let them summon me,” the fake executive replied. “I’m not hiding. You have to give me the warrant so I can show up [in court].”

The transcriber was amazed. When the agents left, he hung up so that the fraudster would think he hadn’t heard what had just happened.

The companies targeted by Márquez reacted in very different ways. Fernando Marcos, commercial director of the German engine manufacturer MAN Energy, says that he didn’t buy it when Márquez called him. “He had me on a roll for half-an-hour,” he recalls. “But then, I thought: what’s a guy doing in Spain asking to buy engines to send to Asia? Normally, Mexico deals with Mexico, Spain with Spain and Asia with Asia.”

However, at least one company took the bait. It was a real estate company that paid €12,000 ($12,480) as a deposit to compete in a bid. Márquez said that PEMEX was looking for a company that would channel investments from oil executives into luxury villas. “He’s a scam artist” this businessman tells EL PAÍS, asking to remain anonymous. The victim hasn’t filed a complaint. “It’s a lot of money, but I’m not going to die over it.”

The transcriber finally confirmed his suspicions when he received an email from PEMEX just before Christmas. Weeks earlier, he had written to them to find out if Márquez was indeed the head of their European operations. The legal department confirmed that he was not: “This constitutes an attempted crime and identity theft related to fictitious operations.”

On Google, the transcriber found more information. He discovered the Venezuelan’s long history of troubles with the law. In 1998, Márquez tried to scam Astilleros Españoles. In 2009, he swindled €247,000 ($256,000) from the oil infrastructure company Técnicas Reunidas and was convicted three years later. In 2014, he extorted €4.5 million ($4.7 million) from the largest Portuguese bank, Espírito Santo. In 2015, he allegedly deceived Gustavo Eustache, a legislator for the conservative Popular Party in the regional assembly of Madrid. And in 2017, he was also accused of defrauding companies belonging to the former vice-president of Real Madrid, Fernando Fernández-Tapias.

Judicial and prosecutorial sources haven’t been able to clarify his legal situation, but it’s known that, years ago, he spent time in the Madrid prison of Estremera. And, for part of the last decade, he presented himself to the world as Domingo Galán, the name of a humble Spanish citizen whose documents he stole.

After Christmas, the relationship between Márquez and the transcriber became strained. The transcriber only wanted to get paid: he hadn’t seen a single euro, despite spending entire days working on the computer. On December 27, he wrote to his employer on WhatsApp:

“José, I wasn’t able to call you because I was looking for a job (for a few days now) so I could have some money to buy food. I’m going to sleep because tomorrow, I have to get up at 5 a.m. I’m going to work with a man in the fields. I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon. According to what he says, we finish around 7 p.m.”

“Be careful with that. God protect you, see you tomorrow.”

“Thank you... I will see how it goes. I’ve never worked [on a farm] before, but they say that, when in need… Good night, José.”

“That’s really tough,” replied the man in the suit and tie.

In mid-January, Marín reported the fraudster to the police. The case is being investigated by the Economic and Financial Crimes Unit. The swindler hasn’t responded to this newspaper’s attempts to contact him.

Márquez hasn’t responded to his former transcriber, either. José Marín believes that he’s still out there, conning people: “He must be looking for someone to help him continue his tricks.” Considering his almost 30 years of deceit, he’s probably right.

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