‘One is Mustafa Karkouti, the European correspondent for As-Afir, the leading Beirut newspaper. Thirty-seven years old, he’s Syrian by birth, but educated in Damascus and Beirut. He was known to be pursuing the story of the hostages held by Iranian students at the American Embassy in Tehran. We also know that a month ago he attended an Islamic conference in London, to hear a speech by the Iranian Embassy’s cultural attaché, Dr Abul Fazi Ezzatti. He then fixed up a meeting with Dr Ezzatti at the Embassy for Wednesday, 30 April, at eleven a.m. He was there when the terrorists seized the building.’
‘Any use to us?’ the Secretary asked.
‘Could be. He speaks fluent English and Arabic, as well as a fair bit of Farsi.’
‘That could come in handy.’
‘Exactly. Also useful is the fact that Karkouti works out of Fleet Street and lives with his wife and child in Ealing. He therefore knows the English mentality, as well as the Iranian, which could be helpful to my negotiators.’
‘Who else?’
‘Ron Morris, a forty-seven-year-old Englishman, born in Battersea, London. Son of the station-master at Waterloo. Left school at fourteen, spent six months in a factory in Battersea, then obtained a job as an office boy for the Iranian Embassy. That was in 1947 and, apart from his two years’ National Service, he’s worked for the Iranians ever since – first as an office boy, then as a chauffeur, and finally as caretaker and general maintenance man. In 1970, when he’d been with them for twenty-five years, he was given a long-service bonus of a ten-day trip to Iran.’
‘Is he political?’
‘No, Mr Secretary. He’s a regular, down-to-earth type, not easily ruffled. Reportedly, he views himself as being above politics. Lives with an Italian wife and a cat in a basement flat in Chester Street, Belgravia. Collects replica guns. His work for the Iranians is certainly not political.’
‘So he could be useful.’
‘Yes and no. As the maintenance man, he knows every nook and cranny in the building. That knowledge could encourage him to try to escape.’
‘And the others?’
‘The Diplomatic Protection Group’s Police Constable Trevor Lock. Known as a good man. He had a standard police-issue .38 Smith and Wesson revolver holstered on the thigh and so far there’s no report that the terrorists have found it. According to a recent report, however, Lock was slightly hurt and is bleeding from the face.’
‘Have the hostages made contact yet?’
‘Yes, Mr Secretary. Ninety minutes after the seizure of the Embassy, the terrorists asked for a woman doctor to be sent in. At first we assumed this was for PC Lock, but in fact it was for the Embassy Press Officer, Mrs Frieda Mozafarian, who’s had a series of fainting fits combined with muscular spasms. Lock is apparently OK – just a little bruised and bloody.’
‘So how do we handle this?’ the Secretary asked.
The Commissioner coughed into his fist. ‘First, the police will negotiate with the terrorists. Undoubtedly the terrorists will want media coverage of their demands, so we’ll use this as a bargaining chip. As their demands won’t be directed at the British Government, but at the Iranians, we can afford to cede this to them.’
He paused, waiting for their reaction.
‘Go on,’ the Secretary said, clasping his hands under his chin and looking disingenuously benign.
‘Having met them halfway with media exposure for their demands,’ the Commissioner continued, ‘we try to talk them out, letting the affair stretch on for as long as necessary. During that period, we’ll attempt to soften them up with food, medical attention, communications, more access to the media, and the involvement of their own ambassadors and those of other friendly Middle Eastern states. We’ll also ask for the release of certain hostages, particularly those ill or wounded. This will not only reduce the number of hostages to be dealt with, but encourage the terrorists to feel that they’re contributing to a real, on-going dialogue. In fact, what we’ll be doing is buying enough time for the police and MI5 to plant miniature listening devices inside the building and also scan it with parabolic directional microphones and thermal imagers. Between these, they should at least show us just where the hostages are being held.’
‘And what happens when the terrorists’ patience runs out?’
‘Should negotiations fail and, particularly, if the terrorists kill a hostage, or hostages, clearance will be given for the SAS to attack the building.’
The Home Secretary turned his attention to the Controller, who looked handsome in his beret with winged-dagger badge. ‘Are you prepared for this?’
‘Yes, sir. The operation will be codenamed “Pagoda”. We’ll use the entire counter-terrorist squadron: a command group of four officers plus a fully equipped support team consisting of one officer and twenty-five other ranks, ready to move at thirty minutes’ notice. A second team, replicating the first, will remain on a three-hour stand-by until the first team has left the base. A third team, if required, can be composed from experienced SAS soldiers. The close-quarters support teams are backed up by sniper groups who will pick off targets from outside the Embassy and specially trained medical teams to rescue and resuscitate the hostages.’
‘You are, of course, aware of the importance of police primacy in this matter?’
The Controller nodded. ‘Yes, Mr Secretary. Coincidentally, we’ve just been preparing for a joint exercise with the Northumbria Police Force, so the men and equipment are all in place at Hereford. That’s only 150 miles, or less than three hours’ drive, away. We’re ready to roll, sir.’
‘Excellent.’ The Secretary turned to the Metropolitan Police Commissioner. ‘Do you have any problems with this scenario?’
‘No,’ the Commissioner replied. ‘My views today are those of Sir Robert Mark regarding the Spaghetti House siege of 1975. Those terrorists will either come out to enter a prison cell or end up in a mortuary. They’ll have no other option.’
Some of the men smiled. The Home Secretary, looking satisfied, spread his hands out on the table. ‘To summarize, gentlemen…There will be no surrender to the terrorists. No safe conduct for the terrorists out of the country. Either this affair ends peacefully, with the surrender of the terrorists, or the SAS go in and bring them out, dead or alive. Agreed?’
The men of COBR were in total agreement.
As the team on the Pen-y-Fan were contending with the arduous return hike to the four-ton Bedford lorry that would take them back to Bradbury Lines, the SAS base in Hereford, another team, consisting of Staff-Sergeant ‘Jock’ Thompson, Corporal George ‘GG’ Gerrard, Lance-Corporal Dan ‘Danny Boy’ Reynolds and Trooper Robert ‘Bobs-boy’ Quayle were dressing up in heavy CRW Bristol body armour with high-velocity ceramic plates, S6 respirator masks to protect them from CS gas, black ballistic helmets and skin-tight aviator’s gloves in the ‘spider’, their eight-legged dormitory area, in the same base in Hereford. They did not take too much pleasure in doing so.
‘I hate this fucking gear,’ Corporal ‘GG’ Gerrard complained, slipping on his black flying gloves. ‘I feel like a bloody deep-sea diver, but I’m walking on dry land.’
‘I agree,’ Lance-Corporal ‘Danny Boy’ Reynolds said, adjusting the ballistic helmet on his head and reluctantly picking up his respirator. ‘This shit makes me feel seasick.’
‘I hate the sea,’ the relatively new man, Trooper ‘Bobs-boy’ Quayle, said grimly, ‘so these suits give me nightmares.’
‘Excuse me?’