The respirator now shook violently, but there was no look of fear in Malcolm’s eyes. For the first time in his life he was doing something positive, and his mind was in overdrive, leaving behind any weak thoughts. He was pumped full of adrenaline, punching the air, shouting, ‘Yeah, let’s do it!’
I was wondering exactly what kind of psychopath we’d let out of the stationery cupboard.
A creaking door and a muffled cough at the rear of the room interrupted the tense, businesslike briefing. ‘From Crocker. The Colonel’s main briefing in five minutes.’ It was Rusty. He was now thirdin-command of the operation. With a final request for any questions, and an extremely efficient ‘Synchronize your watches,’ Malcolm’s assault pre-brief was complete and he was now fully operational.
The large main briefing room in the holding area was buzzing with rumour and gossip as Malcolm, Del and I took our seats. The Colonel launched into his badged-personnel-only briefing, which covered such gory details as the removal of the dead bodies from the Embassy. Malcolm avoided his hawkish gaze by staring intently at the eyepiece of the respirator resting on his knees, as though he were looking for signs of weakness and fear in the reflected image of his face in the small glass lenses. As the Colonel continued, Malcolm shifted uncomfortably in his seat. By the time the Colonel had finished his brief and left the room, Malcolm had developed severe facial flushes. His head sagged forward as if he was carrying some huge invisible burden on his shoulders, and his fingers twitched feverishly as he worried and fussed over the tightness of the filtering canister on his respirator.
I was just about to suggest that Malcolm should take part in a daylight raid on the Embassy via the skylight entry point, when out of the corner of my eye I noticed the Jester, one of the team leaders, making a rapid cutting motion with the tips of his fingers across his neck. ‘Malcolm,’ I said quietly, ‘you’re on Candid Camera.’
For a moment, nothing registered on Malcolm’s flushed face. He was on his feet, clumsily readjusting the equipment that hung on his slight frame. His hands jerked uncontrollably as his fingers travelled like a spider over belt, holster and pistol grip.
‘You’re on Candid Camera,’ I repeated.
As the situation began to register, Malcolm shook his head and slowly straightened his sagging shoulders. A look of total bewilderment spread across his face and his eyes began to blink violently. ‘You mean it was a stitch?’
‘Yes, Malcolm, it was a stitch, a rubber dick.’ For just a split second a look of disappointment seemed to hang heavily on his face, then his eyes stopped blinking. The taut muscles in his neck and jaw seemed to relax and his mouth broke into a huge grin. For Malcolm it was the end of a great adventure.
6.30am, Monday 5 May. Just when things seemed to be going well, the situation worsened.
In the cold light of dawn, Oan and the rest of the gunmen seemed to be nervous and jittery as they woke the hostages in Room 9. Oan complained to Trevor Lock that during the night he had heard strange noises, and he was convinced that the police had gained access to the Embassy. He ordered Lock to search the building while he woke the rest of the hostages. The strangeness of this order was a reflection of Oan’s agitated state of mind.
Sim Harris and Ron Morris wiped the sleep from their eyes, struggled to their feet and set about the usual early-morning chores. They washed the cups from the previous evening and prepared the Spartan breakfast of biscuits and tea. As Morris passed round the biscuit tin to the women in Room 9A, Trevor Lock returned from the recce of the building. He could be overheard telling Oan that he must be mistaken and that apart from themselves the Embassy was empty.
10.00am. A telegram arrived from Iran’s Foreign Minister, Sadegh Ghotzbadeh. It was addressed to the hostages, and it declared that Iran was proud of their steadfastness and forbearance over the situation and that tens of thousands of Iranians were just ready to enter the Embassy with cries of ‘Allah Akbar,’ bringing final judgement to the mercenaries of Ba’athist Iraq. The final line reduced the hostages to a shocked silence: ‘We feel certain that you are all ready for martyrdom alongside your nation.’
11.00am. Oan, enraged and extremely suspicious, called for Trevor Lock to join him on the first-floor landing. ‘What is this? Are your British police trying to break in?’ he shouted, pointing to the unmistakable bulge in the wall separating the Iranian Embassy from the Ethiopian Embassy next door.
‘Of course not,’ replied Lock.
‘I do not believe you. Your police are up to some trickery.’
‘Don’t worry, Oan, the police won’t break in here.’
‘What do you mean, the police won’t break in here? Where will they break in?’
‘What I meant was, if the police were planning an attack, it would not be imminent,’ replied Lock, trying to retrieve the situation.
‘Your police, they are up to something, I am convinced. I’m going to make new arrangements for the hostages.’ And with that, Oan stormed off upstairs to the second floor to organize the movement of the hostages.
The gunmen now looked alert and extremely agitated. Their weapons at the ready, chequered shamags pulled tight about their heads, they moved the male hostages from their room along the corridor to Room 10, the telex room. Oan and his comrades could sense that something was happening. The whole situation was as taut as a piano wire. They were all tired, tired of this psychological game. The operation had been planned to last only forty-eight hours at the most. They couldn’t go on forever sheltering under this political umbrella. They had to break out. They had to play the final scene.
12.00 noon. Lock, tired, resigned, his face haggard with exhaustion, continued his efforts to pacify the terrorists. ‘Oan, we must talk to the police.’ ‘Why should I?’ ‘The situation is serious. We must have a chance to talk to them.’ ‘OK. I give you five minutes with them.’ Lock and Harris made their way to the first-floor front balcony and made contact with the police negotiator. ‘Now listen to me,’ said Harris urgently. ‘Lives are at risk, time is running out.’
‘We are doing all we can,’ replied the police negotiator, his voice sounding calm amidst the rising drama.
‘Something has got to be done,’ urged Harris. ‘The Foreign Office is not moving.’
‘It all takes time,’ said the negotiator.
‘I told you, time is running out. Where is the Arab ambassador who is going to mediate? We’ve got to have answers.’
‘Things are moving along as quickly as possible. The Foreign Office is still in discussion with the ambassadors, and if you listen to the BBC World Service you will get your confirmation,’ said the negotiator finally.
1.00pm. The news bulletin provoked a response that effectively drove the final nail into Oan’s coffin. He was infuriated by the fact that the meeting between Cobra and the Arab ambassadors was still continuing and that a final decision as to who would mediate had not been taken. Incensed and expressionless, his mind clouded with frustration and loathing, he put the telephone receiver to his ear. His lips formed the words that would seal his destiny: ‘You have run out of time. There will be no more talking. Bring the ambassador to the phone or I will kill a hostage in forty-five minutes.’
1.40pm. The duty negotiator seated by the field telephone in Alpha Control drummed his fingers on the table serving as a desk and glanced nervously at the clock on the wall. The minutes since the last conversation with Oan had flown by, and there was still no news from Cobra, still nothing positive to bargain with. Intuition based on years of experience of dealing with criminals told him something was wrong, something had changed. It was as if he had been sitting dozing by a fire and had suddenly awakened to see the last flickering flames die away, just as a chill wind outside began to rattle the window panes.