A moment later the shrill tone of the telephone buzzer cut through the silence. The negotiator lifted the phone off the cradle and in a voice filled with a calm he did not feel spoke into the receiver. ‘Hello, it’s Stuart here.’
‘Stuart, they have a hostage and they are going to kill him.’ It was Trevor Lock. ‘They have him at the bottom of the stairs. Something terrible is going to happen. They are tying his hands behind his back. They are tying him to the banister.’ Lock’s voice still sounded calm, he still seemed in control; only his rapid breathing betrayed him.
‘If you don’t accept my demand, I will shoot him.’ The voice had changed; it was more urgent, more threatening. It was Oan.
‘Oan, this is Stuart. Don’t do anything that could be counterproductive.’
‘I told you, I have waited long enough. You have deceived me. Someone will die.’
A whole minute passed.
‘I am one of the hostages.’ The voice came in short, rapid gasps. It was inarticulate, as though the owner was fighting for control. ‘I am one of the hostages. My name is Lavasani.’
Another pause, another tortured moment.
The voice that cut in next was high-pitched, immediate and threatening. ‘No names. No names.’
At that moment, the whole tense atmosphere dissolved into the distinct, unmistakable sound of three low-velocity shots. It was precisely 1.45pm.
1.46pm. After four days of restless inactivity, the holding area was becoming decidedly claustrophobic. Even the monotonous routines of the Killing House began to seem appealing: at least back at base there was noise, movement and action – and the chance of decent food and a few pints afterwards. I was lounging on my camp bed, bored, uninterested, aware of a cynical resignation creeping in. All this effort. All this activity. All this waiting. All for nothing. I could see that we would soon be packing our bags and heading back to Hereford.
Suddenly there was a shout. The news of the hostage’s death hurricaned through the room. I reach for my MP5, removed the magazine, cocked the action and caught the ejected 9-milly round. I then stripped the weapon and began to clean the working parts meticulously. This is it, I thought as I lightly oiled the breechblock. There could be no going back now. A hostage had been murdered. Direct action would have to be taken. As I threaded the metal beads of the Heckler & Koch pull-through down the barrel of the machine pistol, I let my mind wander through the problems of attacking a building with over fifty rooms. We would need speed, we would need surprise, we would need aggression. I thought of the words of advice from Paddy Mayne, one of the founders of the SAS: ‘When you enter a room full of armed men, shoot the first person who makes a move, hostile or otherwise. He has started to think and is therefore dangerous…’
With one final smooth tug on the pull-through, I finished cleaning the MP5. I reassembled the weapon and replaced the magazine of thirty rounds. There was the usual reassuring metallic click as I snapped home the cocking handle. I applied the safety-catch and returned the MP5 to the chair next to my assault waistcoat, then cast a quick glance over the rest of my kit. Satisfied with its condition, I picked up the copy of Colonel Paddy, the biography of the late Lieutenant-Colonel R. Blair Mayne DSO (3 Bars), that I had been reading earlier, and settled down to wait for the final orders before movement into assault positions. I knew from experience they would not be long in coming.
7.00pm. ‘We put the body on the doorstep. You come and collect it. You have forty-five minutes. Then I give you another one.’ Oan’s chilling message rippled over the airwaves in Alpha Control. The atmosphere was electric. A short while before, a second burst of shots had been heard, and now all eyes were glued to the television screens relaying the growing drama to a worldwide audience. The main Embassy door swung open and the police watched as a lifeless bundle was dumped on the steps.
Twenty minutes later, the field telephone rang on the first-floor landing. Oan picked up the receiver. ‘Yes, what do you want? The time is running out.’
‘Yes, we know that,’ replied the duty negotiator. ‘That’s why we want to discuss the arrangements.’
‘What arrangements? What are you talking about?’ snapped Oan.
‘The arrangements for the coach to take you to the airport. How big do you want the coach? How many hostages will be going to the airport? What sort of guarantee do you require?’
There was a brief pause. The negotiator could almost sense the questions running through Oan’s mind.
‘I require a coach big enough for twenty-five people, and Mr Trevor will drive it.’ Oan’s voice was still cautious, but it had a more confident tone.
‘Shall we park the coach at the front of the Embassy?’
‘That will be fine. But I want a guarantee this is no trick.’
‘Oan, this is not a trick.’
‘I want the guarantee from your police chief.’
‘Oan, I repeat, this is not…’
Booooooom!
7.23pm. The deafening explosion of the diversion charge was like a thousand wind-slammed doors. It rocked the Iranian Embassy and shattered the eerie silence. Two call signs from Zero Delta located behind the high wall at the front of the building began pumping CS gas through the broken windows. Orange-yellow flames burst through the windows and licked into the mellowing gold of the early-evening sun which layered the Roman columns and ornate balustrades with a soft coat of creamy light.
My troop was waiting, counting the microseconds, in the Royal College of General Practitioners next door to the Embassy. Shortly before, I had stared in disbelief as John Mac – ex-Royal Engineers and as tough a Jock as they come – had been making his way to his final assault position on the front balcony when he held up a novelty cardboard frog suspended on two pieces of string. As the black-clad figure pulled on the ends of the string, the frog’s green-coloured legs made a ridiculous leaping motion. This act of pure pantomime cut through the tension like a hot knife.
Now, the voice in my earpiece screamed, ‘Go. Go. Go.’ There was no turning back. We were on our way. I was number one in the crocodile. The rest of the call signs were strung out behind me. Hell, I thought, what am I doing at number one? The new boys should be at number one. I’ve done my time under fire. I should be at the rear with Tak, my Mirbat mate with whom I have a sixth-sense intuitive understanding in the operational field. Damn the RTU! Damn the demotion! I was pushing open the French windows at the rear of No. 14. As I led the crocodile out of No. 14 towards the rear of No. 16, I glanced up at the block of flats to our left. It was bristling with snipers.
We took up a position behind a low wall as the demolition call sign ran forward and placed the explosive charge on the Embassy’s French windows. It was then that I saw the abseiler swinging in the flames coming from the second-floor balcony window. It was all noise, confusion, bursts of submachine-gun fire. I could hear women screaming. Christ! It’s all going wrong, I thought. There’s no way we can blow that charge without injuring the abseiler. Instant change of plans. The sledge-man ran forward and lifted the sledgehammer. One blow, just above the lock, was sufficient to open the door. They say luck shines on the brave. We were certainly lucky. If that door had been bolted or barricaded, we would have had big problems.
‘Go. Go. Go. Get in at the rear.’ The voice was screaming in my ear. The eight call signs rose to their feet as one and then we were sweeping in through the splintered door. All feelings of doubt and fear had now disappeared. I was blasted. The adrenaline was bursting through my bloodstream. Fearsome! I got a fearsome rush, the best one of my life. I had the heavy body armour on, with high-velocity plates front and back. During training it weighs a ton. Now it felt like a T-shirt. Search and destroy! We were in the library. There were thousands of books. As I adjusted my eyes to the eyepieces, the thought occurred to me that if we had blown that explosive charge we might have set fire to the books. Then we would really have had big problems: the whole Embassy would have been ablaze in seconds.