The adrenaline was making me feel confident, elated. My mind was crystal-clear as we swept on through the library and headed for our first objective. I reached the head of the cellar stairs first, and was quickly joined by Tak and two of the call signs. The entry to the stairs was blocked by two sets of stepladders. I searched desperately with my eyes for any signs of booby-traps. There wasn’t time for a thorough check. We had to risk it. We braced ourselves and wrenched the ladders out of the way.
Mercifully there was no explosion. The stairs were now cleared and we disappeared into the gloom of the basement. I fished a stun grenade out of my waistcoat and pulled the pin. Audio Armageddon, I thought as I tossed the grenade down into the darkness. We descended the stairs, squinting into the blinding flashes for any unexpected movement, any sign of the enemy, and then we were into the corridor at the bottom. We had no sledge, no Remington with us so we had to drill the locks with 9-milly, booting the doors in, clearing the rooms methodically as we went along. Minutes turned into seconds; it was the fastest room clearance I’d ever done.
It was when I entered the last room that I saw the dark shape crouched in the corner. Christ! This is it, I thought. We’ve hit the jackpot. We’ve found a terrorist. I jabbed my MP5 into the fire position and let off a burst of twenty rounds. There was a clang as the crouched figure crumpled and rolled over. It was a dustbin! Nothing, not a thing. The cellars were clear. I was now conscious of the sweat. It was stinging my eyes, and the rubber on the inside of the respirator was slimy. My mouth was dry and I could feel the blood pulsing through my temples. And then we were off again, no time to stop now, up the cellar stairs and into the Embassy reception area. As we advanced across the hallway, there was smoke, confusion, a tremendous clamour of noise coming from above us. The rest of the lads, having stormed over the balcony at the front and blasted their way into the first floor of the building with a well-placed explosive charge, were now systematically clearing the upper rooms, assisted by a winning combination of the stunning effect of the initial explosion, the choking fumes of CS gas, the chilling execution of well-practised manoeuvres and the sheer terror induced by their sinister, black-hooded appearance. We were intoxicated by the situation. Nothing could stop us now.
In the telex room the terrorist Makki had begun the executions with the words, ‘Now I have a chance to get you, Afrouz!’ He opened fire at the chargé d’affaires in the centre of the room, shooting in a psychopathic rage. The wild hail of gunfire hit Dr Afrouz in both legs.
Sitting next to Afrouz was the assistant press attaché, Ali Akhbar Samadzadeh. He received multiple gunshot wounds to the chest and died instantly. Ahmed Dadgar, the medical aide, was sitting on the other side of Afrouz and was also shot in the chest. The Embassy doorman, Abbas Fallahi, was also hit by Makki’s hail of fire. But miraculously, a 50p piece in his pocket deflected a lethal bullet and saved his life.
For Red Team, who had just abseiled down onto the second-floor balcony, there was no time to lose. They had to get to the telex room. Tommy Palmer and the rest of the team swarmed through the windows and raced to the telex room. The team included Tom the Fijian, whose legs had suffered serious burns as he dangled helplessly above the window, his rope jammed, with flames taking hold below him. Despite his injuries, he raced into the Embassy with his team.
The terrorist Shai, standing in the doorway of the room, surveying the carnage, fished a grenade from his pocket and reached for the pin. He didn’t get a chance to pull it. Tommy shot him in the back of the head.
Makki now tried to hide among the hostages. He lay face-down on the floor. But when confronted by another member of Red Team, he made a suspicious movement and was instantly shot dead. When he was turned over he was found to be holding a Russian fragmentation grenade.
Back on the ground floor, I stared through the swirling smoke and gloom in reception. I could see the masked and black-clad figures of the other team members forming a line on the main staircase. My radio earpiece crackled into life. ‘The hostages are coming. Feed them out through the back. I repeat, out through the back.’
I joined a line with Tak. We were six or seven steps up from the hallway. There were more explosions. The hysterical voices of the women swept over us. Then the first hostages were passed down the line. I had my MP5 on a sling around my neck. My pistol was in its holster. My hands were free to help the hostages, to steady them, to reassure them, to point them in the right direction. They looked shocked and disorientated. Their eyes were streaming with CS gas. They stumbled down the stairs looking frightened and dishevelled. One woman had her blouse ripped and her breasts exposed. I lost count at fifteen and still they were coming, stumbling, confused, heading towards the library and freedom.
‘This one’s a terrorist!’ The high-pitched yell cut through the atmosphere on the stairs like a screaming jet, adding to the confusion of the moment. A dark face ringed by an Afro-style haircut came into view; then the body, clothed in a green combat jacket, bent double, crouched in an unnatural pose, running the gauntlet of the blackhooded figures. He was punched and kicked as he made his descent of the stairs. He was running afraid. He knew he was close to death.
He drew level with me. Then I saw it – a fragmentation grenade. I could see the detonator cap protruding from his hand. I moved my hands to the MP5 and slipped the safety-catch to ‘automatic’. Through the smoke and gloom I could see call signs at the bottom of the stairs in the hallway. Shit! I can’t fire. They are in my line of sight, the bullets will go straight through the terrorist and into my mates. I’ve got to immobilize the bastard. I’ve got to do something. Instinctively, I raised the MP5 above my head and in one swift, sharp movement brought the stock of the weapon down on the back of his neck. I hit him as hard as I could. His head snapped backwards and for one fleeting second I caught sight of his tortured, hate-filled face. He collapsed forward and rolled down the remaining few stairs, hitting the carpet in the hallway, a sagging, crumpled heap. The sound of two magazines being emptied into him was deafening. As he twitched and vomited his life away, his hand opened and the grenade rolled out. In that split second my mind was so crystal-clear with adrenaline it zoomed straight in on the grenade pin and lever. I stared at the mechanism for what seemed like an eternity, and what I saw flooded the very core of me with relief and elation. The pin was still located in the lever. It was all over, everything was going to be OK.
But this was no time to rest, this was one of the most vulnerable periods of the operation, the closing stages. This was where inexperienced troops would drop their guard. The radio crackled into life. ‘You must abandon the building. The other floors are ablaze. Make your way out through the library entrance at the rear. The Embassy is clear. I repeat, the Embassy is clear.’
I joined Tak and we filed out through the library, through the smoke and the debris. We turned left and headed back for No. 14, past the hostages, who were laid out and trussed up on the lawn ready for documentation, past the unexploded explosive charge, past the discarded sledgehammer and other pieces of assault equipment – all the trappings of battle in the middle of South Kensington. It was 8.07pm.