Conflict of Interest
She shook her head. ‘It’s not about money.’
For a moment he regarded her with narrow-eyed disdain before telling her, ‘Everything’s about money.’
Then he was rushing down the steps to the waiting cab.
An hour later he was sitting in the First Class lounge at Heathrow Airport, waiting for the midnight flight to Zurich. The lounge was surprisingly full for that time of the night. So he found himself a corner and propped the FT up in front of his face, keeping an eye on the door.
He didn’t give a second glance to the tall, balding man in the Burberry who stepped into the lounge five minutes after him – he seemed like any other businessman. A short while later, though, he was disturbed by a clearing of the throat. ‘Excuse me, Mr Strauss, are you travelling to Zurich ?’
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Strauss folded down the paper with a look of irritation. ‘Yes.’
Confirming his target, George Blake of Scotland Yard introduced himself, flashing his ID.
‘What d’you want?’ Strauss glanced around – Blake seemed unaccompanied.
‘The stock exchange authorities are very anxious to speak to you, sir.’
‘Well they can speak to me when I get back from Zurich,’ Strauss retorted angrily.
Blake’s expression was withering. ‘You have no intention of coming back from Zurich. You only bought a one-way ticket.’
Strauss stood up, his fury rising. Who was this imbecilic paper-pusher to order him about?
‘Are you saying I don’t have a choice?’ he smouldered.
‘You do, actually.’ Blake didn’t even try to hide his contempt. ‘You can come away quietly, or make your life even more difficult than it already is.’
That was too much for Strauss. ‘Don’t you tell me what to do, you fucking idiot!’
He lashed out at Blake, catching him full in the chest, sending the detective flying back on to the sofa behind him, currently occupied by two Japanese businessmen, before rushing for the exit. But he wasn’t halfway across the room before five uniformed policemen were running towards him from all sides. Simultaneously seized by three of them, he heard a fourth begin reading him his rights in a loud voice while everyone in the First Class lounge stared.
‘You can’t do this!’ he screamed, as Detective Inspector Blake approached him. His hands were now behind his back, and cuffed. ‘You can’t arrest me for stock exchange irregularities! There’s a whole process—’
‘You’re quite right, Mr Strauss,’ Blake grimaced. ‘And I couldn’t have forced you to stay. But, you see, we rather counted on your behaving foolishly. Assaulting a police officer is a detainable offence.’
Then, as the policemen began leading Strauss to the door, he added, ‘Though I daresay you’ll have visitors from the stock exchange during your spell on remand.’
At ten-fifty p.m., ten minutes before the appointed hour, Elliott North watched the car appear around the corner of Berkeley Square and pull over outside the building. From behind the wheel, a man stepped out and, briefcase in hand, made his way to the entrance of the building. He was there for less than twenty seconds before North walked over to him.
‘Elliott?’ the man confirmed, as North approached him.
He nodded.
‘Frank Williams.’
They shook hands briefly before Williams gestured. ‘In the car.’
North glanced at the briefcase. Half a million pounds cash. Williams opened the passenger door for him, and he stepped inside. Then when Williams joined him he said, ‘I want to see it.’
‘Sure.’
He handed the briefcase over to North, who clicked open the two catches simultaneously. And there it was. Neat piles of crisp, £50 notes.
They were driving off now, heading out of Berkeley Square towards Piccadilly.
‘We’re going somewhere a little more private.’ Williams’s round, florid face was creased into a grin. ‘Do the deed, like.’