It is a dubious distinction: the largest alleged fraud ever committed against the federal government by a single bureaucrat ― and it belongs to the aptly named Paul Champagne, an Ottawa-based public servant who is alleged to have done more than your average Canadian bureaucrat to improve his beer budget.

From about 1994 to 2003, Champagne, a gawky-looking, mid-level contracts officer at the National Defence department, allegedly defrauded the government of about $160 million through what federal officials now politely describe in court documents as "an elaborate fraudulent scheme which involved creating false invoices."

For almost a decade, Mr. Champagne earned no more than $58,000 at National Defence's Ottawa headquarters.

During the same time, my investigation found, he amassed more than $20 million worth of investments and residential real estate in Canada, Florida and the Caribbean, including a $2-million beach-front mansion in the Turks and Caicos, a second $1.4-million gated mansion in Ottawa and a third, three-car garage home in Hudson, Fla., nestled on a lush golf course, not to mention stock market holdings.

When federal officials detected the fraud in late 2003, after ignoring a growing pile of auditors' red flags for years, Champagne was fired, the RCMP were called in and forensic auditors were hired to determine what happened.

Heck, the government didn't even know how much was missing at first. Best keep the entire affair very quiet.

By the spring of 2004, officialdom in Ottawa, already in the throes of the sponsorship affair, began to hum with rumours of yet another $100-million scandal.

Word reached my ear from a confidential source. I admit I was skeptical. Who wouldn't be? Could one man defraud the Canadian federal government for a decade of close to $100-million, as I was told initially? Probably not, I thought, but I've heard other crackpot stories that checked out.

(I never forget the Igor Gouzenko affair, which involved a Russian spy who walked into a newsroom to blow the lid off Soviet espionage in Ottawa. He was turned away by a reporter who didn't believe him.)

Though it seemed possible, I didn't believe the story or my source. Who could afford to until I had lots of documents and more documents to prove it?

My initial breaking-news report revealing the extent of the loss pinned the fraud at "up to $90 million." By the time my reporting was done, I had the impression that everyone in Ottawa knew about it, except for the taxpayers and opposition MPs, showing once again how secrecy serves only political establishments.

The Auditor-General was aware of the loss and was "monitoring the situation." Ditto, for the Liberal government, which would neither confirm nor deny my $90-million loss figure, but promised it would get all the money back.

It turned out that was because they didn't know how much was lost yet, sources later told me.

Champagne had allegedly used phony invoices on a computer services contract to pocket his ill-gotten gains. To this day, he denies any wrongdoing. The contracts involved Hewlett-Packard Canada, an affiliate of the U.S.-based Fortune 500 computing giant.

As a trained business reporter, I bet that the U.S. company would have to disclose to its shareholders and investors if it were involved in something that big.

It turned out to be a good bet. Buried deep inside the company's financial reports filed with the U.S. Securities Exchange Commission in Washington, I found the proof I needed to push the story forward. The company disclosed in one terse, cryptic sentence that the Canadian government had threatened legal action and had frozen contract payments after an audit disclosed that the Canadian government may not have received "value" for certain items it was billed for.

Bling Bling! If it was "material" or important enough to have any effect on a giant company's finances that it had to be disclosed, I knew I was really dealing with a double-digit, multi-million dollar fraud.

I used that jewel to squeeze more details out of officials in Ottawa and Hewlett-Packard. Even as I was putting the story to bed, a concerned official in the Prime Minister's Office tracked me down at home to make sure (read: beg) that I would include a paragraph promising that the Liberals would get the $90-million back.

The National Post's story shed sunshine where neither the government nor Hewlett-Packard wanted any, triggering a political uproar in the House of Commons and a written demand by Canada for a total $158-million refund within two days. I was gratified that both CBC News and The Globe and Mail jumped on the story, turning up the heat.

HP quickly repaid $146 million, an equally staggering gesture launched to avoid legal action. My head still spins when I think about it.

Still, the refund brought no further explanations from federal Liberals or Hewlett‑Packard: How could this happen, undetected, for a decade?

After the refund, Liberals began to bury the scandal.

"The RCMP is looking into this matter. A lot of details here will be forthcoming," then defence minister David Pratt told reporters.

From the Turks and Caicos, Mr. Champagne denied wrongdoing, insisting he became a multi-millionaire thanks to sound stock market investments and even luck at Las Vegas gaming tables, not phony invoices.

Over a year has passed. I've moved to The Sacramento Bee and I'm still waiting for details. No information about Champagne or his actions has ever been publicly disclosed. No criminal charges have been laid.

I decided that I wouldn't let the matter drop. Heck, it was one of the more interesting tales in town.

After a few weeks of digging, I hit paydirt ― one mortified businessman who agreed to talk through his lawyer about how he was duped by Champagne.

A few interviews later, I had more documents, such as cancelled cheques and invoices, that resulted in a 2,000-word piece about just how easily money flowed out of National Defence headquarters into Champagne's family bank accounts in Kanata, Ottawa’s west end.

Officially, Defence officials say they fired Champagne for engaging in "serious billing irregularities" involving military computer subcontracts awarded through Compaq Canada and, later, its new owner Hewlett-Packard.

My story revealed how Ottawa-area businessman Michael Roots told federal officials that he and his tiny systems company were allegedly duped by Champagne into unknowingly participating in the phony invoice scheme.

Roots said Champagne approached him a decade ago, posing as a well-connected computer consultant.

Champagne said he needed the help of Roots' firm, RMC Systems, to handle billing and collection services for lucrative military subcontracts. RMC would handle those jobs and get a 15 per cent cut. Champagne would bill RMC, which would mark up its price and bill the computer companies, which would mark up their invoices and send them to National Defence.

When Roots pressed Champagne for details about the sub-contracts, Champagne allegedly told them they involved a secret military project. He declined to provide details, citing Roots' lack of a security clearance.

Roots insists neither he nor RMC employees knew Mr. Champagne was a bureaucrat until the scheme unraveled.

Unlike RMC, Compaq-HP employees knew Champagne worked for National Defence. When they questioned him about subcontracts, Champagne also gave the "top secret project" line.

I obtained invoices and a cheque for $95,000 from RMC (endorsed and cashed by Champagne) that illustrated how simple the scheme had been. I revealed that hundreds more like it were in the hands of federal investigators.

Hewlett-Packard and the government are now suing Champagne and his wife, alleging they pocketed $107 million of the $160 million missing in the fraud.

You can read the articles by clicking on the link (Andrew McIntosh)National Post pieces.

Andrew McIntosh was formerly an investigative reporter in the parliamentary Bureau of The National Post. He left The Post and Canada in March and became a senior writer at The Sacramento Bee in Northern California.