Embassy Siege

All four men – Lance-Corporal Philip McArthur and Troopers Danny ‘Baby Face’ Porter, Alan Pyle and Ken Passmore – had been shipped in civilian clothing to Belfast immediately after being ‘badged’ in 1976. There they had specialized in intelligence gathering and ambush operations, working both in unmarked ‘Q’ cars in the streets and in OPs on the green hills of Armagh. By the end of their tour of duty in Northern Ireland, they were widely experienced in intelligence operations and therefore ideal material for special training in the ‘killing house’ in Hereford and subsequent transfer from their individual squadrons – B and D – to the Counter Revolutionary Warfare Wing.

Once in the CRW Wing, they were given more Close Quarters Battle (CQB) training in the ‘killing house’, then sent for various periods to train even more intensively with West Germany’s CSG-9 border police and France’s Groupement d’Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale (GIGN) paramilitary counter-terrorist units, the Bizondere Bystand Eenheid (BBE) counter-terrorist arm of the Royal Netherlands Marine Corps, Italy’s Nucleo Operativo di Sicurezza (NOCS), Spain’s Grupo Especial de Operaciones (GEO), and the US 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment, created specially for CRW operations.

The overseas postings had been designed to place a special emphasis on physical training and marksmanship. These included advanced, highly dangerous practice at indoor firing with live ammunition in other kinds of ‘killing houses’, such as mock-up aircraft, ships and public streets; abseiling and parachuting onto rooftops, parked aircraft and boats; hostage rescue in a variety of circumstances (which had the cross-over element of training in skiing, mountaineering and scuba diving); and the handling of CS gas canisters, and stun, fire and smoke grenades. Finally, they were taught how to deal with the hostages, physically and psychologically, once they had been rescued.

So, Harrison thought, those four hiking up the last yards to the summit of this mountain are going to be bitterly surprised at having lost – but they’re still good men.

By now the four men were only about 20 yards below him, fifty from the summit, and obviously thinking they had managed to make it to the top without being caught. Wearing their all-black CRW overalls, respirator masks and NBC hoods, they looked frightening, but that did not deter Harrison. Smiling grimly, he raised his Ingram 9mm sub-machine-gun with its thirty-two-round magazine, pressed the extended stock into his shoulder, aimed at the marching men through his sight, then fired a short burst.

The noise broke the silence brutally. Harrison moved the gun steadily from left to right, tearing up soil and stones in an arc that curved mere inches in front of the marching men. Knowing that the bullets were real, they scuttled off the track in opposite directions, hurling themselves to the ground behind the shelter of rocks and screaming for Harrison to stop firing. Grinning more broadly, the staff-sergeant lowered his Ingram, put the safety-catch back on, then used the PRC 319 radio to call the leader of the four-man team, Lance-Corporal Philip McArthur.

‘You dumb bastards. You’re all dead meat,’ the message said.

Lying behind the rocks lower down the windswept slope, the four men received the message with incredulity, then, almost instinctively, turned their surprised gaze to the exploded soil that had cut an arc just a short distance in front of where they had been walking, practically up to their feet.

‘I don’t believe it!’ Trooper Alan Pyle exclaimed, removing his respirator mask from his face as the others did the same, all relieved to be breathing pure, freezing air. ‘That daft bastard was using live ammo and nearly shot our fucking toes off.’

‘He’s too good for that,’ Trooper Danny ‘Baby Face’ Porter said. ‘If he’d wanted to shoot your toes off, you can be sure he’d have done it.’

‘Just like you, eh?’ said the third trooper, Ken Passmore, grinning admiringly. ‘A real crack shot.’

‘Yeah,’ Baby Face replied with modest pride. ‘I suppose you could say that.’

‘All right, all right,’ snapped Lance-Corporal Phil McArthur. ‘Stop the backslapping. We’ve nothing to be proud of. After all, we were as good as dead. Now let’s pick up our gear and go and face the great man.’

Breathing more easily without the masks, but crushed by being ‘killed’ by Harrison, the men picked up their weapons and other kit and advanced up the hill until they reached the staff-sergeant. Squatting behind the rock with a big grin on his face, Harrison was strapping the PRC 319 to his shoulders and picking up his Ingram.

‘Nice try, men,’ he said, ‘but if this had been a real operation you’d all be belly up by now. Are you SAS men or not?’

‘Fucking ’ell, Sarge,’ Phil McArthur protested as he glanced back down the mountain at the broad sweep of the Brecon Beacons far below. ‘We could hardly breathe in these bloody masks. And that hike was a killer.’

‘Piece of piss,’ Harrison replied. ‘I got this far without taking a deep breath. I think you need some more exercise.’

The men stared warily at him. All of them were breathing heavily and still bathed in sweat, even though the wind was howling across the mountain, slapping icily at them.

‘No more exercise, please,’ Ken Passmore said, already drained. ‘I can’t move another inch.’

Harrison grinned with sly malice. ‘What were your instructions, Trooper?’

‘To get to the summit of the mountain,’ Ken replied, ‘without being shot or captured by you.’

‘Which you were.’

‘Right.’

‘Which doesn’t mean it’s over, you daft prat. You’ve still got to get to the summit, so get up and go, all of you.’

In disbelief the breathless men glanced up to the summit, which was 50 yards higher up, though the distance seemed far greater and the steepness of the climb was horrendous.

‘Jesus, Sarge,’ Alan complained. ‘After the climb we’ve just made, that last leg is going to be impossible.’

‘Right,’ Ken said. ‘That slope is a killer.’

‘Either you make that climb,’ Harrison told them, ‘or I have you RTU’d and standing by dusk on Platform 4, Hereford Station, outward bound. Get the message?’

‘Yes, Sarge.’

‘Come on,’ Baby Face shouted. ‘Let’s get up and go.’

Though still trying to get their breath back, the weary men covered their heads and faces again with the respirator masks and ballistic helmets, humped their bergens onto their backs, picked up their Ingrams and reluctantly began the steep climb to the summit.

Within a few yards they were already gasping for breath, their feet slipping on smooth rocks, bodies tensed against the wind, the sweat soon dripping from their foreheads into their eyes. Twenty yards on, where the wind was even more fierce, the slope rose at an angle so steep it was almost vertical. Holding their sub-machine-guns in one hand and clinging to rocks with the other, they laboriously hauled themselves up until, about 20 yards from the summit, all of them except Baby Face decided to give in. Falling behind, they just leaned against high rocks, fighting to regain their breath, about to call it a day.

Harrison’s Ingram roared into life as he fired a short burst in an arc that tore up earth and pieces of splintered rock mere inches from the feet of the men who had given up. Shocked, they lurched away from the spitting soil and scrambled with a strength they had felt had been drained out of them up the last, cruel section of the slope. Each time they fell back, another roar from the Ingram, ripping up the soil and rocks just behind the men, forced them to move hastily higher, finally following Baby Face off the sheer slope and onto the more even summit.

When the last of them had clambered onto the highest point, gasping but still surprised at their hitherto untapped stamina, Harrison followed them up and told them to remove the masks and breathe proper air. When the men had done so, they were able to look down on the fabulous panorama of the Brecon Beacons, spread out all around them, wreathed in mist, streaked with sunshine, thousands of feet below. Lying there, now completely exhausted, they gulped the fresh, freezing air, grateful that they would at last be able to take a good break.

Just as they were about to have a brew-up, a message came through on the radio. Harrison listened intently, then said: ‘Got it, boss. Over and out.’ Replacing the microphone on its hook, he turned to his weary men. ‘Sorry, lads, no brew-up yet. We’ve got to return straightaway. The Iranian Embassy in London has been seized and we’re being put on stand-by. This isn’t a mock exercise. It’s the real thing. So pack your kit and let’s hike back to the RV.’

Recharged by the prospect of real action, the men hurriedly packed up and began the hazardous descent.

2

By three p.m. on the first day, in a basement office in Whitehall a top-level crisis management team known as COBR, representing the Cabinet Office Briefing Room, was having a tense discussion about the raid on the Iranian Embassy. Presiding over the meeting was a man of some eminence, addressed as the ‘Secretary’, Junior Defence and Foreign Affairs ministers, representatives of MI5 and the Metropolitan Police, including the Police Commissioner, and the overall commander of the SAS CBQ team, addressed as the ‘Controller’, though in fact he was much more than that when it came to issues involving international politics and the defence of the realm.

‘The function of this meeting,’ the surprisingly genial and unruffled Secretary said, ‘is to lay down guidelines for the police and, if necessary, the Army. First, however, the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police will fill us in on the general situation.’

The Commissioner cleared his throat and sized up his audience before speaking. ‘The Embassy is being held by a six-man team of Iranians who were trained in Iraq, issued with Iraqi passports, and supplied with weapons brought in by diplomatic bag from Baghdad. We now know that they all visited the British Embassy in Baghdad last February to pick up individual visas to visit the UK. When asked how they would live in the UK, they each produced the same amount of cash: £275. In each case the purpose of the visit was recorded as being for medical treatment. Once in London, they were placed under the command of an Iraqi army officer, Sami Muhammad Ali, who flew home the day the siege began.’

‘Who’s leading them now?’ the Secretary asked.

The Commissioner showed them a picture of a well-built Arab with frizzy hair, a bushy beard and long sideburns. ‘The ringleader, Oan-Ali,’ he said. ‘Real name Salim Towfigh. Twenty-seven years old. Records show that he comes from Al Muhammara in the Khuzistan province of Iran, just across the Shatt-al-Arab river border with Iraq. Studied languages and law at Tehran University, where he became politically active and eventually militant. Fluent in four languages: Farsi, Arabic, German and English. He’s believed to be one of those who took part in the riots that occurred there on 29 May last year, when 220 men and women in the crowd were reported killed and approximately 600 wounded. Certainly he was imprisoned and tortured by SAVAK, which only made him more militant. On 31 March this year he turned up with four other Arabs in Earls Court Road, where they took two flats at 20 Nevern Place. One of the flats was on the second floor, the other in the basement. Only three of the men signed the register: Oan-Ali, Makki Hounoun Ali, and Shakir Abdullah Fadhil. The caretaker was an Iraqi student studying computer engineering. He says he didn’t examine their passports thoroughly, though he noted that they were issued in Iraq. The men told him they had just flown in from Baghdad. Apart from that, the caretaker learnt little about them. They claimed to have met each other by chance on the plane to London. One said he was a farmer, the other a student, the third a mechanic. The group is particularly remembered by the caretaker and other members of the household because, though Muslims, they came in late at night, invariably drunk and often with local prostitutes. Eventually, when they became embroiled in an argument over prices with one of the ladies in the basement flat, the caretaker, a devout Muslim, threw them out of the house.’

‘Sounds like they weren’t particularly sophisticated,’ the Secretary said. ‘Muslims seduced instantly by Western ways: alcohol and sex. Certainly not very disciplined.’

‘That’s worth bearing in mind,’ the Controller said. ‘A lack of discipline in a siege situation could go either way: either helping us to succeed or leading to mayhem and slaughter.’

Deliberately pausing to let the Controller’s words sink in, the Commissioner then continued reading from his notes: ‘After being thrown out of the house in Nevern Place, the terrorists dropped into the Tehar Service Agency, an accommodation agency run by a Jordanian named David Arafat and specializing in Arab clients with plenty of money and often dubious intentions. Arafat rarely asked questions of his clients, but claims that Oan-Ali told him he had left his previous accommodation because his group had been joined by two other friends and they needed larger accommodation. Subsequently, Arafat fixed them up with Flat 3, 105 Lexham Gardens, just a few hundred yards north of his Earls Court Road office.’

‘And were there more men at this point?’ the Controller asked.

‘No,’ the Commissioner replied. ‘It was the same five who had been in Nevern Place who took over the flat in Lexham Gardens. However, the flat has three bedrooms, two sitting-rooms, two bathrooms and a kitchen, and according to the Egyptian caretaker, the five-man group grew to seven over the next few days. After that, there were times when as many as a dozen men would be there at the same time.’

‘Do we know who the others were?’ the Controller asked.

‘No. We do know, however, that some of the others in his group are former members of the Democratic Revolutionary Front for the Liberation of Arabistan and that one of them, Fa’ad, broadcasts for the Arabic and Farsi sections of Radio Baghdad, exhorting the people of Iran to rise up against the regime of the Ayatollahs.’

As the Controller nodded and wrote in his notebook, the Commissioner concentrated once more on the file opened on the table before him. ‘Intelligence has reason to believe that though Oan-Ali led the raid, he didn’t actually plan it himself. One of those who moved into 105 Lexham Gardens was Sami Muhammad Ali, an Iraqi army officer described in his passport as an official of the Iraqi Ministry of Industry. Other meetings which Ali was known to have attended took place at 55 and 24 Queens Gate, the latter only two doors up from the office of the Iraqi military attaché.’

‘How ironic!’ the Secretary purred, smiling like a Cheshire cat.

‘Finally,’ the Commissioner continued reading, ‘on 29 April, the day before the seizure of the Embassy, it was Oan-Ali who visited David Arafat, the property agent, to tell him that his friends were leaving Lexham Gardens – supposedly going to Bristol for a week, then returning to Iraq. He asked Arafat to crate their baggage and air-freight it back to Baghdad. The address he gave was a post-box number. By the following morning, when the rest of the group seized the Embassy, Oan-Ali had disappeared.’

‘How many hostages?’ the Controller asked.

‘Twenty-two in all. Fifteen Iranians, the British caretaker, one Diplomatic Protection Group police constable, and five visitors, four of whom are journalists. The DPG constable, PC Lock, had a pistol concealed on his person and may still possess it.’

‘That could be helpful,’ the Secretary said with a hopeful smile.

‘Or dangerous,’ the Controller reminded him, then turned back to the Commissioner. ‘Do we know more about the hostages?’

‘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.

3

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?’ Staff-Sergeant ‘Jock’ Thompson asked.

‘What, Sarge?’ Bobs-boy replied.

‘Did I hear you say that suit gives you nightmares?’

‘That’s right, Sarge, you heard me right.’

‘So what the fuck are you doing in this CT team?’ Thompson asked.

Bobs-boy shrugged. ‘I’m pretty good with the Ingram,’ he explained, ‘close quarters battle.’

‘But you suffer from nightmares.’

The trooper started to look uncomfortable. ‘Well…I didn’t mean it literally. I just meant…’

Danny Boy laughed. ‘Literally? What kind of word is that? Is that some kind of new SAS jargon?’