‘I give you two.’
The bargain was struck.
Two hostages were chosen for release. First, Ali-Gholi Ghazan-Far, a Pakistani educationalist, the man who snored loudly at night and kept everyone awake. That was why he was chosen. They wanted to get rid of him. And second, Haideh Kanji, an Embassy worker who was pregnant. Oan demanded that his statement be broadcast accurately before the release of the two hostages. The police demanded the hostages be released first. Result: stalemate.
On receipt of the police demand, Oan threw the phone to the floor in anger and frustration, threatening to kill a hostage at 9.00pm if nothing was heard on the Nine O’Clock News. At this latest threat, Karkouti went completely to pieces and sank to his knees, pleading with Oan not to carry out the execution. Karkouti’s pleading must have struck a humanitarian chord in Oan’s fanatical brain, or perhaps it was just a psychopath’s cunning that led to the terrorist leader’s change of heart. No one will ever know. In the event, Oan decided to meet the police halfway and release the pregnant woman before the 9.00pm deadline.
‘We swear to God and to the British people and government that no danger whatsoever…’ The voice of Scotland Yard’s Head of Information drifted over the airwaves of the BBC at exactly 9.00pm that evening, relaying Oan’s statement of demands word-for-word to an anxious, waiting world. It was precise and word-perfect. The hostages and the gunmen were jubilant, kissing and hugging each other, tears of joy running freely down their flushed cheeks. Only one man was absent from the celebrations. Oan. He stood to one side, nursing his machine pistol in the crook of his arm, alone, poker-faced.
A short while later, Ali-Gholi Ghazan-Far was led downstairs to the ground floor. He stepped through the main door of the Embassy and walked across the road to freedom and a waiting ambulance.
11.00pm. It was a fine, starry night. The sun had vanished, abandoning London to the evening’s dark embrace. The air was exquisitely clear as we carefully picked our way across the rooftops towards No. 16 Princes Gate. An eerie silence had descended on Knightsbridge and South Kensington. No noisy rush of traffic, no late-night revellers lost in search of Chelsea. The rustle of clothing, the leather creak of belt kit, the scuffing noise of a running shoe on a bit of loose guttering were the only sounds that stirred the hush of that tranquil May evening.
Suddenly – crack! The sound of a pistol going off. We froze for a few seconds. One of the lads was pointing to his foot; he’d broken a slate as he’d stepped on it. We gave the thumbs-up to the D11 sniper in his concealed position on No. 14 and moved on.
I looked out across the rooftops in front of us. It was a veritable aerial farm, with a jungle of telescopic poles, wires and satellite dishes. About five metres ahead of me was the dim, shadowy figure of Roy, the recceparty leader. He was pointing at something by his feet. As I drew level with him, I caught a glint of moonlight on glass. It was the Embassy skylight. ‘This is it. The skylight of No. 16,’ whispered Roy, looking down at the glass frame. ‘Let’s see if it will open.’ He knelt down and gripped the wooden surround and attempted to lift it, but it seemed to be locked solid. He swore under his breath and stood up.
We were staring blankly at the wooden frame when Pete, the third team member, whispered quietly, ‘Let’s peel the lead back,’ and with that he knelt down and began picking at the strip of lead waterproofing around the edge of the glass. After fifteen minutes’ careful work he had removed most of the lead and was able to lift one of the glass panes clear of the frame. He reached through the hole and after a few seconds stood up with a lock in his hand. ‘It wasn’t even locked, just pushed through the clasp,’ he whispered triumphantly, having once more gripped the skylight and slowly eased it open.
Moonlight immediately flooded the small room beneath us. We found ourselves looking down into a cramped bathroom. Directly below us was a large white enamel bath. In the left-hand corner was a grimy washbasin, and opposite it was the door that could lead us to the top landing of the Embassy and eventually to the terrorist stronghold. I felt a sudden rush of excitement, a surge of adrenaline, at the thought of the options this new development offered. I had to stifle an urge to become the first SAS man into the Embassy. It would have been quite easy to grip the wooden surround of the skylight base and lower myself down onto the edge of the bath. But thoughts of immortality were interrupted by a hand on my shoulder and by Roy’s voice whispering, ‘Come on. Let’s get back to the holding area. We can tell the boss we’ve got a guaranteed entry point.’ A small team carrying silenced MP5s and using night vision equipment could easily have entered in pitch darkness, ghosting along the upper corridors until encountering the terrorists. The idea was discounted, however, because there was muttering about the use of silenced weapons seeming too much like an assassination and so it was back to the drawing board for us.
8.00pm, Sunday 4 May. The next day, things seemed to go much better. Oan’s hardened resolve appeared to be softening. The news bulletins were full of optimism. The Arab ambassadors had agreed to attend a meeting of the Cobra committee in their basement in Whitehall. Oan, in return, had agreed to reduce his demands. He now wanted only one Arab ambassador to negotiate the safe passage of the gunmen. He also agreed to release Mustapha Karkouti, who was suffering from some kind of fever. At about eight o’clock on Sunday evening, Karkouti stepped through the main door of the Embassy, took a deep gulp of fresh air and walked to freedom.
9.00pm. Malcolm was a nervous, white-faced RAOC clerk, the squadron scribe. He was not deep-chested or strong in the arm, and with his pale, thin face and sympathetic eyes he could have been any mother’s favourite son. Being involved in the Embassy siege was a definite event in his life, a step forward, he felt, towards the most coveted badge of rank: the Chief Clerk’s crown and laurel leaves. Like some of the damned in legend, he dwelt in a middle void, hung between the elite of the SAS on the one side and the crap-hats on the other. Now as he stood in full assault kit before the plywood scale model of the Iranian Embassy, waiting for room combat brief, he must have felt that he finally belonged.
Earlier in the evening, as, feeling remote and out of touch, he sweated and fussed over the squadron ration indent, Del, one of the assault-team leaders, and I had approached him. ‘Malcolm, one of the lads is in a bad way. The doc has diagnosed lepto. He must have caught it in Belize earlier in the year. That leaves us a man short in one of the assault teams. We’re on standby. We haven’t time to get a replacement down and brief him. Do you think you can stand in?’
The cheap stationery-office pen came to an abrupt halt on the ration-roll, and for a split second Malcolm looked as though he had been asked to partake in a bank robbery. A strange, tortured look flashed across his boyish features, then vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He had led a tedious and mediocre life and had been resigned to his daily mountain of paperwork. Now, with this unusual offer, he had a chance to achieve something out of the ordinary, a chance to be above average, a chance to dare and to win. His decision was made.
He concentrated his attention on the plywood section of the Embassy’s second floor. His hands, resting across the front of his body, held his S6 respirator and his fingers shook visibly as he attempted to adjust the securing straps.
‘You will be my number two.’ Del’s voice was precise and to the point as he gave Malcolm his assault pre-brief. ‘Once I’ve gained entry, you will take out targets to my left and right. Remember, if you get hit I will have to leave you. The medics should find you within half an hour.’ Del’s voice tailed off as he withdrew the hand-held pointer from the plywood corridors and returned it to the briefing pack.