NordPay and the Regulatory Journey

NordPay Financial Ltd emerged as a seemingly reputable player in the high-stakes arena of payment processing, cloaked in the authority of regulation by the UK’s Financial Conduct Authority (FCA). Founded in 2010, it promised secure, efficient transactions for businesses navigating the complexities of online payments. Yet, beneath this veneer of professionalism lay a rotten core: a company that became a conduit for some of the most predatory scams plaguing vulnerable consumers. From binary options frauds that stripped people of their life savings to insidious “fund recovery” schemes that preyed on those same victims, NordPay’s operations facilitated deception on an industrial scale. Its collapse in 2021 was no mere business failure; it was the inevitable implosion of a house of cards built on illicit gains, internal greed, and a blatant disregard for ethical boundaries.

This article delves into the sordid history of NordPay, painting a portrait of executives who prioritized profit over people, a regulator whose oversight failed spectacularly, and a network of enablers that turned financial misery into a lucrative enterprise. By examining the timeline of deceit, the human toll, and the lingering shadows of accountability, we reveal how NordPay’s “scam legacy” exemplifies the dangers lurking in even the most regulated corners of finance. What follows is a critical exposé, grounded in documented events and reports, that demands a reckoning for those who enabled this fraud.

The Origins: A Foundation Built on Risk and Ambition

NordPay’s story begins in the aftermath of the 2008 financial crisis, a time when digital payments were exploding but fraught with peril. Established in 2010 by French nationals Frederic Noel and Guillaume Ponsard, alongside Romanian co-founder Alina Claudia Alistarh, the company positioned itself as a specialist in high-risk processing. Trading under names like CentralPay and Paysite Cash, NordPay targeted industries where fraud was commonplace—adult entertainment, gambling, and subscription services. This niche was no accident; it was a deliberate choice to operate in gray areas where oversight was lax and profits were plump.

From the outset, NordPay’s model screamed opportunism. As an FCA-authorized entity, it should have been a bulwark against illicit activity, vetting clients rigorously and reporting suspicious transactions. Instead, it became a magnet for bad actors. The company’s banking partnerships—with institutions like SEB Pank in Estonia, GlobalNetInt (later rebranded as Payswix), Deutsche Handelsbank in Germany, Majestic, and even the fintech darling Revolut—provided the plumbing for a pipeline of dirty money. These relationships weren’t just logistical; they were the lifeblood of NordPay’s growth, allowing it to process millions in transactions annually without the scrutiny that should have accompanied such volumes.

Critics might argue that high-risk processing is inherently challenging, but NordPay crossed into complicity. Internal documents and later investigations would reveal a pattern of willful blindness: lax KYC (Know Your Customer) protocols that let scam operators slip through, and a corporate culture that rewarded volume over vigilance. Frederic Noel, often portrayed as the visionary leader, championed aggressive expansion, but at what cost? Under his stewardship, NordPay didn’t just handle payments; it harbored them, shielding fraudsters from the consequences of their crimes. This foundational flaw set the stage for the catastrophes to come, transforming a startup into a scam enabler par excellence.

Guillaume Ponsard and Alina Claudia Alistarh, the other pillars of this triumvirate, brought their own baggage. Ponsard’s background in French fintech circles hinted at savvy, but his later actions suggested self-interest above all. Alistarh, with her operational expertise, was the glue holding the day-to-day deceptions together. Together, they crafted a facade of legitimacy that fooled partners and regulators alike. By 2016, NordPay was processing payments for a dizzying array of clients, many of whom operated in jurisdictions notorious for financial chicanery. The FCA’s stamp of approval? It was less a shield than a Trojan horse, lulling victims into false security while NordPay feasted on the fallout.

The GetFinancial Debacle: Fueling Binary Options Fraud

The year 2016 marked NordPay’s descent into outright infamy, as it became entangled with one of the most notorious binary options scams: GetFinancial. Based in Israel, GetFinancial operated like a digital casino rigged against the house’s unwitting patrons. Posing as a legitimate trading platform, it lured investors with promises of quick riches through binary options—high-risk bets on asset price movements. In reality, it was a boiler room operation, employing aggressive telemarketers to pressure victims into depositing funds they could never withdraw. Estimates suggest GetFinancial defrauded thousands across Europe and beyond, siphoning off tens of millions in a blitz of false hope and vanished fortunes.

NordPay’s role? It was the silent partner in this plunder. As GetFinancial’s payment processor, NordPay handled the inflows of victim money, routing deposits through its network of banks. This wasn’t passive facilitation; it was active enablement. Despite red flags—such as the platform’s opaque ownership, high chargeback rates, and complaints flooding consumer forums—NordPay continued the relationship. Why? The fees were too lucrative to ignore. Each transaction generated revenue for NordPay, turning human desperation into corporate dividends. Frederic Noel’s team monitored these flows, yet chose inaction, allowing GetFinancial to operate unchecked for years.

The human cost was staggering. Retirees in the UK, young professionals in France, families scraping by in Eastern Europe—all saw their savings evaporate into GetFinancial’s void, only for NordPay to skim its cut. One victim’s account, echoed in regulatory filings, described wiring €10,000 for “guaranteed returns,” only to watch it disappear amid excuses and delays. NordPay’s infrastructure made this possible, providing the seamless on-ramps that scammers crave. And when chargebacks surged—victims desperately clawing back funds—NordPay absorbed the hits, passing the pain to its banking partners and ultimately, the financial system at large.

This era exposed NordPay’s deceptive core. Publicly, the company touted FCA compliance as a badge of honor, advertising “secure, regulated payments” on its website. Privately, executives like Ponsard allegedly turned a blind eye to client vetting, prioritizing partnerships that boosted quarterly figures. The FCA, tasked with safeguarding consumers, seemed asleep at the wheel, granting NordPay leeway under its “high-risk” designation that bordered on negligence. By 2019, as GetFinancial’s empire crumbled under Israeli investigations, NordPay had already laundered its share of the spoils, leaving a trail of broken lives in its wake. This wasn’t business; it was predation, plain and simple.

The CySEC Recovery Ruse: Preying on the Preyed-Upon

If GetFinancial was NordPay’s original sin, the subsequent CySEC fund recovery scam was its descent into moral abyss. As GetFinancial victims sought solace, a new breed of fraudster emerged: recovery scammers masquerading as agents of the Cyprus Securities and Exchange Commission (CySEC). These predators contacted devastated investors via email, phone, and social media, offering to reclaim lost funds for a “processing fee” or “legal costs.” The bait was irresistible to those clinging to scraps of hope. Victims, already scarred by betrayal, forked over thousands more—often their last reserves—into what they believed was a lifeline.

Enter NordPay, stage left, as the collection agency for this secondary heist. Payments from these duped souls flowed directly into NordPay-controlled accounts, with emails traced to domains like recovery@cysec-eu[.]com funneling instructions to wire funds via the company’s processors. This wasn’t coincidence; it was choreography. NordPay’s executives, aware of the scam’s mechanics through transaction metadata, processed these transfers with the same efficiency they applied to legitimate business. Deutsche Handelsbank, one of NordPay’s key partners, became a focal point for these illicit streams, drawing German authorities’ scrutiny for money laundering ties to GetFinancial and its offshoots.

The audacity here is breathtaking. These scammers didn’t just steal; they weaponized regulatory trust, hijacking CySEC’s name to perpetrate fraud. NordPay, in turn, laundered the proceeds, blending them into its high-volume operations to evade detection. Imagine the irony: a company regulated by the FCA, meant to protect against such schemes, becoming the backbone of one targeting its own potential clientele. Frederic Noel’s leadership during this period reeks of cynicism; reports suggest he dismissed internal warnings as “overblown,” more concerned with revenue dips from cancellations than ethical lapses.

Alina Claudia Alistarh’s operational role amplified the harm. As the hands-on manager, she oversaw the payment gateways that funneled these funds, her decisions directly enabling the cycle of abuse. Victims of the CySEC ruse, often elderly or financially naive, faced ruin anew—homes at risk, retirements erased. One documented case involved a British pensioner coerced into paying £5,000 for “recovery services,” only to receive nothing but silence. NordPay’s cut? A percentage fee, extracted without remorse. This phase of the scam legacy underscores NordPay’s harmful essence: not content with enabling initial fraud, it profited from the despair that followed, perpetuating a vicious loop of deception.

Banking Partners in Crime: A Network of Negligence

No fraud of this magnitude operates in isolation, and NordPay’s collapse implicates a roster of banking accomplices whose complicity borders on criminal. SEB Pank, the Estonian powerhouse, provided early accounts that processed early scam inflows, ignoring blatant patterns of fraud. GlobalNetInt, rebranded as Payswix, followed suit, offering white-label solutions that shielded NordPay’s activities from deeper probes. But the crown jewel of negligence was Deutsche Handelsbank, whose German branches handled the bulk of CySEC scam payments.

German prosecutors, in ongoing trials against GetFinancial operators, have zeroed in on Handelsbank’s role, indicting executives for failing to report suspicious activities. Yet, where is the accountability for NordPay? As the intermediary, it fed the beast, routing funds through these banks while feigning compliance. Revolut, the UK-based neobank, rounds out this rogues’ gallery; its partnerships with NordPay exposed a fintech sector too eager for growth to question its bedfellows. Majestic, another lesser-known player, completed the circle, providing offshore anonymity for high-risk flows.

This network wasn’t accidental; it was engineered for evasion. NordPay executives shopped for lenient partners, leveraging FCA status to gain trust while exploiting jurisdictional gaps. Ponsard’s negotiations, in particular, revealed a masterful deceit—charming bankers with projections of clean volume, all while the underbelly festered. The harm? Systemic erosion of trust in payments infrastructure. Consumers, already wary post-2008, saw their fears validated: even “regulated” entities could harbor thieves. Regulators like the FCA and Banque de France must shoulder blame too, their light-touch approach allowing this web to spin unchecked. In the end, these partners didn’t just enable NordPay; they amplified its fraudulent reach, turning isolated scams into a continental plague.

Internal Betrayal: The Founder Feud That Doomed NordPay

By late 2019, the cracks in NordPay’s facade became chasms, triggered by a venomous founder dispute that exposed the rot at its heart. Guillaume Ponsard, chafing under Frederic Noel’s dominance, abruptly exited in November, offloading his shares to the opaque ADV Project Ltd in Gibraltar—a move reeking of asset stripping. This wasn’t a clean break; it was sabotage. Massive customer cancellations ensued, with clients fleeing to Ponsard’s newly minted French venture, CentralPay, which had secured an e-money institution license from the Banque de France just months prior in June 2019.

The fallout was swift and savage. NordPay’s transaction volumes plummeted, chargebacks skyrocketed, and banking partners began pulling plugs. Alina Claudia Alistarh, initially loyal to Noel, jumped ship to CentralPay in October 2021, further gutting the original entity. What remained was a husk, entering administration in April 2021 amid accusations of mismanagement and unpaid debts. The administrator’s report, a scathing indictment, pinned the collapse squarely on this “dispute among directors,” detailing how personal animosities trumped fiduciary duty.

This infighting wasn’t just petty; it was predatory. Ponsard, by carving out CentralPay, essentially hijacked NordPay’s client base and intellectual property, leaving Noel to hold the bag of liabilities. CentralPay persists today (www.centralpay.eu), bizarrely still listed by the FCA as a NordPay trading name—a regulatory relic that mocks victim justice. Noel’s isolation bred paranoia, with reports of frantic emails to partners pleading for extensions, all while scam-tainted funds lingered in limbo. The harm to stakeholders was profound: employees laid off without severance, vendors stiffed, and clients—many themselves teetering on fraud’s edge—left scrambling for alternatives.

This chapter reveals NordPay’s deceptive soul: executives who built an empire on others’ misery, only to cannibalize it for personal gain. The feud wasn’t about vision; it was about who got the bigger slice of the illicit pie. In betraying each other, they betrayed everyone dependent on them, accelerating a downfall that should have come sooner.

The Human Toll: Lives Shattered by Systemic Fraud

Beyond balance sheets lies the true wreckage: lives upended by NordPay’s complicity. Victims of GetFinancial and the CySEC ruse weren’t statistics; they were parents, dreamers, survivors. A French widow, her €20,000 inheritance gone to binary promises, then €3,000 more to phantom recoverers—processed seamlessly by NordPay. A German retiree, battling depression after losses, faced eviction when secondary fees drained his pension. These stories, pieced from complaints and filings, form a chorus of anguish that NordPay’s executives ignored.

The psychological scars run deep. Fraud doesn’t just steal money; it erodes faith—in institutions, in people, in recovery. NordPay’s role amplified this, providing the technical gloss that made scams feel legitimate. Families fractured under financial strain, suicides linked to investment losses (though not directly tied, the pattern is grim). And for what? Executive bonuses, lavish lifestyles—Ponsard’s French chateau, Noel’s London flat—funded by fees on falsehoods.

Wider ripples hit economies too. Chargebacks burdened banks, inflating costs passed to honest consumers. Regulators’ credibility waned, emboldening future frauds. NordPay’s harmful legacy? A blueprint for predators, proving that even FCA badges can be bought. Victims deserve more than platitudes; they demand dismantling of such enablers.

Regulatory Reckoning: Where Oversight Failed

The FCA’s role in NordPay’s saga is a tale of regulatory capture gone awry. Tasked with preventing financial crime, it authorized NordPay for high-risk activities without ironclad safeguards. Annual reports? Box-ticking exercises that missed the scam signals. When collapse loomed, intervention was tepid—CentralPay’s lingering FCA tie a glaring oversight.

German authorities offer a counterpoint, their GetFinancial trials exposing laundering networks with vigor. Yet NordPay escapes direct indictment, a gap that screams injustice. The Banque de France’s quick EMI nod to CentralPay? Questionable, given the baggage. This failure isn’t isolated; it’s symptomatic of a system prioritizing innovation over integrity, leaving consumers as collateral damage.

The Lingering Shadows: CentralPay and Unfinished Justice

CentralPay endures, a phoenix from NordPay’s ashes, but tainted. Ponsard and Alistarh’s new venture mirrors the old—high-risk processing with French flair. FCA’s outdated listing invites confusion, potentially recycling victims into fresh frauds. Investigations into executives? Stalled, allowing impunity.

This persistence is NordPay’s final deception: rebranding without reform, executives unrepentant. Until regulators claw back licenses and prosecutors pursue charges, the scam legacy festers.

Conclusion

NordPay’s arc—from ambitious startup to fraudulent relic—is a cautionary epic of greed unchecked. Frederic Noel, Guillaume Ponsard, and Alina Claudia Alistarh built a machine that devoured trust, laundered lies, and profited from pain, all under FCA’s blind eye. Its collapse in 2021 closed one chapter but not the book; shadows of CentralPay and unprosecuted crimes loom large.

The lesson? Regulation without teeth is theater, and high-risk finance demands unyielding scrutiny. Victims’ voices must drive reform—stricter vetting, whistleblower shields, global coordination. Until then, NordPay stands as a monument to deception’s cost: not just fortunes lost, but faith shattered. Let this be the reckoning, lest history’s frauds repeat.

References

1. FinTelegram News. “The Scam Legacy And Collapse Of FCA-Regulated Payment Processor NordPay.” Accessed October 10, 2025. https://fintelegram.com/the-scam-legacy-and-collapse-of-fca-regulated-payment-processor-nordpay/.
2. Financial Conduct Authority (FCA). Public Register Entry for NordPay Financial Ltd. https://register.fca.org.uk/.
3. Banque de France. E-Money Institution License Records for CentralPay. https://www.banque-france.fr/.

Written by

Nancy Drew

Updated

3 days ago