11.44am. At the precise moment that the first blob of sticky white glue slicked into contact with the smooth black leather gloves, a telephone rang in the Kremlin. Dusty, ex-D Squadron and now serving with the Metropolitan Police, was ringing the Head Shed to warn them about the developing drama. His information was sketchy: a group of armed men had taken over the Iranian Embassy in Princes Gate, and a police constable from the Diplomatic Protection Group was being held at gunpoint. More disturbingly, a burst of submachine-gun fire had been heard. That was all the information he could offer.
11.48am. ‘Be-be-be-be-bee-beep’. I had just finished patching up my second double tap when the whole building was filled with the sound of a dozen electronic bleepers.
‘The scalybacks have pressed the wrong button again,’ shouted my number two.
‘Or it’s another lemon,’ I added sarcastically. My thoughts went back to the last lemon, a couple of years before, when we had roared down to Stansted Airport to stop Idi Amin getting access to the UK. He had allegedly been circling the airfield in his private plane asking for permission to land.
Suddenly Rusty’s harsh voice, calm with certainty, pierced sharp and clear through the high-pitched electronic bleeps echoing round the rooms and corridors of the Killing House. ‘From Crocker. This is the real thing. Pack your gear, then move into the hangar for a brief.’
As I dashed for the door, I watched with satisfaction as the cheap Woolworth’s paste-brush arced through the air and hit the paste-bucket with a watery splosh.
11.55am. ‘We are members of a democratic revolutionary front for the liberation of Arabistan. We are the Martyrs.’ Oan’s cold, chilling voice penetrated the tense atmosphere of Room 9 on the second floor. Before him were gathered twenty-six frightened hostages: seventeen Embassy staff; eight visitors, including Harris and Cramer, two BBC men who had been visiting the Embassy to secure visas, and Ron Morris, the chauffeur; and Embassy security policeman Trevor Lock. Oan viewed his captives with satisfaction, his dark eyes beneath the frizzy Afro hairstyle darting from one figure to another. He felt well pleased with himself. He had struck the first blow for the freedom of his beloved Arabistan.
The terrorists’ demands were now issued. ‘One: we demand our human and legitimate rights. Two: we demand freedom, autonomy and recognition of the Arabistan people. Three: we demand the release of ninety-one Arab prisoners in Arabistan. If all three demands are not met by noon on Thursday 1 May, the Embassy and all the hostages will be blown up.’
11.30pm. ‘Toad, how are we doing for time?’
‘We’re doing just fine. Keep the speed down,’ replied Toad, an assault-team leader, the bowl of his meerschaum pipe sparking and glowing in the darkness.
I eased my foot off the accelerator and watched the needle of the speedo drop to a comfortable seventy miles per hour. I was experiencing the usual tight feeling, the strange tingling alertness I always got when I was heading into a situation where a real enemy might be waiting. As my right foot pumped fuel to power the engine, my heart pounded adrenaline to fire my body to peak alertness.
As we reached the outskirts of the capital, Toad suddenly sat upright and reached for the London A to Z. We had come off the M40 and hit the Marylebone Road. The meerschaum pipe had disappeared and the flexi map-reading light had been switched on. ‘Once we’re past Madame Tussaud’s, take the next main road on your left. That will lead us to the barracks.’
The signpost for the A4201 appeared and I swung the Range Rover left into Albany Street. We motored along for 300 metres and then turned right in through the main gate of Regent’s Park Barracks, the holding area. The guard checked our IDs, the barrier went up and I eased the vehicle into the parking zone. We unpacked the assault kit in the sparse surroundings of the holding area. The weapon bundles were laid out, boxes of live ammunition broken open and magazines charged. By now it was the early hours of Thursday morning. We had arrived.
8.00am, Thursday 1 May. ‘Oan is beginning to experience a growing feeling of irritability. He has shown good faith by releasing a sick woman, Frieda Mazaffarian. The police have not reciprocated to his request for a doctor to come to the Embassy and examine one of the male hostages. He is becoming increasingly frustrated at the negative response to his demands. He has managed to put an international telephone call through to the Foreign Ministry in Tehran, only to be told by Iran’s Foreign Minister, Sadegh Ghotzbadeh, that his group are the agents of President Carter and the CIA and that the hostages would consider it an honour and a privilege to die as martyrs for the Iranian Revolution.’
The holding area at Regent’s Park Barracks was like any other holding area: large, derelict and draughty. The toilets were blocked and there was only cold running water. Grey powdery dust clung to the floors, window ledges and washbasins, turning the whole building into a health hazard. I was lying on an Army camp bed, going over in my mind the details of the early-morning green-slime brief we had just received. I was wearing my black overalls, belt kit and Northern Ireland lightweight boots. The rest of my assault kit was close at hand. My MP5, body armour and assault waistcoat loaded with stun grenades were on a chair next to me. My respirator was in its olive-green container. The waiting had begun.
11.00am. Inside No. 16 Oan was wrestling with his first problem – the sick British hostage. Chris Cramer, the BBC sound organizer, was lying on the floor, doubled up with severe stomach pains. The sweat ran down his face in rivulets as he rocked back and forth, imploring Oan, ‘Get me a doctor. For God’s sake, get me a doctor.’
‘But your British police have refused permission,’ replied Oan.
‘How do we know this?’ interrupted Sim Harris, the BBC sound recordist.
‘Come, I show you,’ said Oan.
Harris was led downstairs to a green radiophone that the police had passed through a ground-floor window in a shoebox secured to a long pole. Harris talked to the police negotiator, pleading for a doctor for Cramer. The negotiator replied that his request was being considered. As the negotiations became more heated, with the negotiator telling Harris to persuade Oan to release Cramer, and Harris once again pleading with the police for a doctor, the now seriously ill Cramer was helped downstairs and laid on the floor of the Embassy foyer.
At the sight of the sick BBC man writhing about on the carpet, Oan thought that his most productive course of action would be to release him. So finally, at 11.15am, the Embassy front door opened, and Cramer, still doubled up in pain, stumbled to a waiting ambulance. It was Oan’s first mistake. The thorough debriefing to which Cramer was subjected after his release was to prove crucial to the planning of the coming operation.
7.30pm. I readjusted my position on the floor of the Avis hire van to ease the cramp in my left leg. The rear stowage compartment of the van was packed to the roof with personal kit, assault equipment and team members. In the restricted space it was impossible to get comfortable. We were travelling through central London on our way to the new holding area, a location in the heart of South Kensington. Owing to the events of the day, the Head Shed had decided that it would make sound tactical sense for us to be in the vicinity of No. 16, in case of the imminent slaughter of the hostages. It would cut our reaction time down to almost zero.
The situation was deteriorating. Oan was becoming increasingly tense and unpredictable. He had allowed the deadline – and a new one of 2.00pm – to pass without incident. But his demands were changed. He now wanted three Arab ambassadors to act as mediators and negotiate a plane to take him and his group out of Britain.