by Shaun Clarke
When the negotiator had taken out his notebook and pen and was ready to take down what Salim said, the latter, standing behind Mustafa Karkouti and aiming a pistol at his head, relayed his statement through the Syrian. Talking from the shadows behind Karkouti, he repeated his personal details, then made his statement, which the police officer carefully wrote down, word for word.
‘One: We swear to God and to the British people and Government that no danger whatsoever will be inflicted on the British and non-Iranian hostages if the British Government and the British police don’t kid the group and don’t subject the life of the hostages and the group to any danger, and if things work to the contradictory direction everyone in the building will be harmed.
‘Two: We demand the three ambassadors Algerian, Jordanian and Iraqi – and a representative of the Red Cross to start their jobs in negotiating between us and the British Government to secure the safety of the hostages as well as the group’s members and to terminate the whole operation peacefully. If any of the three ambassadors is not available he could be substituted by first the Libyan, or the Syrian or the Kuwait ambassador.
‘Three: The reason for us to come to Britain to carry out this operation is because of the pressure and oppression which is being practised by the Iranian Government in Arabistan and to convey our voice to the outside world through your country. Once again, we apologize to the people and the Government for this inconvenience.’
Salim stepped out of the shadows to peer over Karkouti’s shoulder and check that the negotiator was writing everything down. When the officer stopped writing and glanced up from his notebook, Salim added, through Karkouti: ‘And I demand a guarantee that this time my statement will be broadcast accurately and as soon as possible.’
‘OK,’ the negotiator replied. ‘But what do we get in return?’
Salim thought about this for a moment, then replied: ‘What do you want?’
‘The release of some hostages.’
‘One,’ Salim said.
‘More than one,’ the negotiator said. ‘How about three?’
‘Two,’ Salim said.
The police officer nodded. ‘Agreed.’ There was silence for a long time, then the negotiator asked: ‘Who will be released.’
‘One moment. We must decide,’ Salim said, then both men disappeared from the window. A considerable period of time passed before the two men returned, with Salim still aiming his pistol at Karkouti’s head.
‘Two,’ he said. ‘Haideh Kanji and Ali-Ghola Ghanzanfar.’
Another police officer, who had come up to stand beside the negotiator, now flipped through his notebook, studied a list of names, then said: ‘Kanji’s the twenty-three-year-old secretary to the Embassy’s two accountants. Being three months pregnant, she’s an obvious choice.’
‘And Ghanzanfar?’
‘A Pakistani educationalist. According to the statement of a previously released hostage, he snores dreadfully at night – so loud that he even annoyed the terrorists. They’re probably glad to get rid of him.’
The negotiator grinned. ‘I suppose so. Well, it’s better than nothing.’ Again using the radio phone, he asked Salim if the hostages were to be released before or after the promised BBC broadcast.
‘After,’ Salim said.
‘We want them before.’
‘No. They are my safeguard that the broadcast will be made and done correctly – on the nine o’clock news.’
‘Release one before and one after,’ the negotiator suggested patiently.
‘No. Both hostages will be released immediately after the broadcast.’
‘Then we have no guarantee. We could make the broadcast and you could then break your word and keep the hostages.’
Salim exploded with fury behind Karkouti. ‘I do not break my word!’ he screamed.
‘What if we refuse to make the broadcast unless the two hostages are released first?’ the negotiator asked calmly when Salim had calmed down.
‘If my statement is not read at nine tonight,’ Salim replied, ‘I’ll kill a hostage and send out the body.’
Hearing that statement, Karkouti sank to his knees in full view of everyone, obviously pleading with Salim not to do anything rash. PC Lock appeared just behind him, framed by the window, to lean down and whisper comforting words to him.
Surprisingly, Salim then screamed in frustration at PC Lock, his words carrying clearly to the police officers in the middle of the road. ‘What can we do? We treat you well, we like you, we agree with what you say, but the police do not keep their word!’ He then grabbed Karkouti by the shoulder, jerked him upright, and pushed him and PC Lock out of sight.
‘Well, do we make the broadcast or not?’ Crabb, the BBC news desk deputy editor, asked the police officers. The one standing beside the negotiator nodded. ‘Yes.’ He held his hand out to the negotiator. The latter tore Salim’s statement from his notebook and passed it over. ‘Let’s go back to my trailer,’ the senior police officer said, ‘and I’ll give you a photocopy of this statement. Then you can take yourself off to Broadcasting House and arrange for it to be read out on the nine o’clock news, unless you receive a message stating otherwise. You stay here,’ he said to the negotiator, ‘and keep him engaged.’
‘Will do,’ the negotiator said, glancing up at the window as the other two departed. There was no one at the window. Indeed, no one returned for a long time, which enabled the negotiator to leave for lunch. When he returned, there was still no one at the window. He kept leaving and returning until, when he was in one of the police trailers, sharing a cup of tea with some fellow officers, another message came through on the field telephone, informing him that Salim wished to speak to him. Hurrying to the front of the Embassy, the negotiator waited patiently and eventually, at just before six p.m., Salim appeared at the window, standing as usual behind the now frightened Karkouti.
‘On the advice of my friends,’ Salim said through the Syrian, ‘I have decided to show good faith by releasing the woman hostage before the broadcast is made tonight. She is coming out now.’
While Salim was speaking, the front door of the Embassy opened and the face of a terrorist wearing a keffia peered around it. Satisfied that no one was attempting to charge the building, he opened the door and stepped aside to let the pregnant woman, Haideh Kanji, leave the building. She did so slowly, carefully, as if not quite believing what was happening, then walked more quickly once she had stepped off the pavement and was on the road. The terrorist slammed the door shut just before the hostage reached the negotiator. The woman was weeping for joy. Up on the scaffolding of the press enclosure, photographers with telephoto lenses were frantically taking pictures.
The negotiator took Haideh Kanji by the arm and started leading her towards the police barricades, but before they had reached them two medics hurried from the throng to help her the rest of the way. When all three had disappeared back into the crowd packed along the barricade, the negotiator turned back to face the Embassy window. Using his field telephone, he thanked Salim for releasing the woman and assured him that his statement would be broadcast that evening.
Three hours later, on the nine o’clock news, Deputy Assistant Commissioner Peter Neivens, the head of information at Scotland Yard, meticulously read out Salim’s statement.
Within minutes of that broadcast, the second hostage, Ali-Ghola Ghanzanfar, was released from the Embassy.
10
‘According to the released hostage, Ali-Ghola,’ the Controller of the SAS CQB team said to the other members of COBR at a meeting in the evening of Day Five, ‘everyone in the Embassy, including the hostages, was overjoyed at hearing Salim’s statement broadcast. They cried, hugged and kissed each other. Even the terrorists cried – at least, all except Salim. They were also jubilant when the two hostages were released. Indeed, as Ghanzanfar was being led away from the other hostages, to leave the building for good, the remaining terrorists joined the hostages in their room, sitting with them, their guns in their laps, all laug
hing and joking together. By way of celebration, and as a conciliatory gesture, the police then sent in a dinner ordered from Pars, a nearby Persian restaurant. So a good time, as best we know, was had by terrorists and hostages alike.’
‘I think the celebratory meal was a touch of genius,’ the Secretary said. ‘It must have lowered the temperature considerably and brought the terrorists and hostages closer together, at least temporarily.’
‘Naturally, I agree,’ the Police Commissioner said.
‘You would,’ the Controller said with a grin, before glancing down at his notes and growing serious again. ‘Anyway, to get back to the real business, we have a problem with this demand linking the release of hostages to some sort of intervention by the ambassadors. In my view, there’s no serious hope that the negotiators can deliver a deal on that hypothesis.’
‘You’re correct in that assessment,’ the genial Secretary said. ‘The Foreign Office has already been on the phone to the Kuwaiti Ambassador, Sheik Saud Nasir Al-Sabah, and the Jordanian chargé d’affaires, Kasim Ghazzawi. So far, while both men expressed their willingness to discuss the matter at a later date, neither has showed willingness to help or involve themselves in the matter unless we offer safe conduct for the terrorists. As that’s something we simply cannot do, the talks ended in deadlock.’
‘What about the International Committee of the Red Cross?’ the Commissioner asked.
‘Earlier this afternoon they announced that, provided all parties were agreeable, they would send their delegates into the Embassy to give first-aid treatment, if necessary, and to assist communications between all parties concerned. While their motives are no doubt humane, their mention of first-aid treatment and material and moral comfort has merely added to the increasingly doom-laden atmosphere.’
‘Does Salim know about this?’
‘Not exactly – though he must surely suspect it. Certainly, just before this meeting convened, he reduced his demands again. Now he wants only one ambassador to mediate, and a guarantee of safe passage for him and his comrades.’
‘He is, however, close to the edge,’ the Controller reminded them. ‘Which means he’s unpredictable.’
‘Nevertheless,’ the Commissioner insisted, ‘we have to keep talking at all costs in the hope of averting an attack on the Embassy in which the hostages might be killed along with the terrorists.’
‘I’m not trying to push for my men,’ the Controller said. ‘I’m just not sure that all this talking is getting us anywhere.’
‘I should point out to you,’ the Commissioner countered, ‘that our record for handling siege situations has so far been impeccable. There have been two similar sieges in recent times. The first was at the Spaghetti House restaurant in Knightsbridge in October 1975, when three gunmen barricaded themselves in a basement with six waiters. In the second, two months later, four IRA terrorists seized a married couple in their council flat in Balcombe Street, Marylebone, holding them hostage for six days and nights. Both situations presented the Metropolitan Police with highly sensitive issues on the ground, as well as possible international repercussions depending upon the outcome. In both cases our tactics brought the siege to a successful conclusion, with the hostages released unharmed and the gunmen surrendering.’
‘I’m not arguing with your tactics,’ insisted the Controller. ‘I’m only worried that the constant talking and general indecision is placing a strain on my men – as, indeed, it’s already doing with the police.’
‘If you’re referring to the fact that the strain has led to one of my men being replaced, I should point out that so far he’s the only one, which is really not that high a price to pay.’
‘It’s not its effect on our own men,’ the Controller said. ‘We also have to take into account the effect it may be having on the terrorists. It is my belief, for instance, that their leader, Salim, is getting close to the edge. As we all know, thanks to the audio-surveillance devices implanted in the walls of the building, the tension did explode earlier this morning over something quite trivial. That row led to yet another false alert for my two assault teams.’
The SAS man was referring to a row that erupted when some of the terrorists sprayed subversive slogans on the walls of a room where the hostages were kept. The chargé d’affaires, Dr Afrouz, had been incensed by the slogans and strongly voiced his opinion to the terrorists involved. Even more incensed, however, was another hostage, Abbas Lavasani. Being the most devout member of the Embassy staff, Lavasani was furious at the written insults against Ayatollah Khomeini and engaged in an argument with those responsible. One of the terrorists angrily pulled out his gun and was only prevented from shooting Lavasani by the diplomatic intervention of the Muslim journalist Muhammad Farughi. PC Lock and Karkouti then hurried Lavasani out of the room where, out of earshot of the angry terrorists, Karkouti reprimanded him for letting his temper spoil all the gains of the past two days. When the Syrian also told Lavasani that he, as a man of God, should not let himself be responsible for the deaths of the other hostages, Lavasani burst into tears.
‘That row,’ the Controller said, ‘was an indication that both terrorists and hostages are becoming more volatile. A lot could develop out of that – and none of it good.’
‘Nevertheless,’ the Commissioner said, ‘I insist that we keep playing for time. The longer the siege can be maintained, the greater the chances of getting the hostages out alive. A lengthy siege also presents the distinct possibility of psychological transference, in which the individuals, terrorist and hostage alike, develop sympathy for one another and even, in certain cases, become friends. If such a situation develops – and it certainly has in the past – the terrorists will be more likely to release their hostages. Failing that, we can at least reach a situation where we can convince the terrorists that they cannot get away and it would be in their own interests to come out peacefully. It is my belief that as Salim has already decided against blowing up the building, and has since reduced his demands, there is a chance that he will indeed decide that he has gained what he most wanted – publicity for his cause – and therefore needs to take it no further. In other words, he might yet come out without a fight.’
‘He won’t come out peacefully if we deny him safe passage out of the country – and we all know that’s something we cannot agree to. Sooner or later that knowledge will sink in … then what will he do?’
Mercifully the ensuing silence was broken by the shrill ringing of the red telephone on the Secretary’s desk. Picking it up, he listened thoughtfully. Then he smiled and put the receiver down again.
‘Some good news at last,’ he said. ‘Apparently the Syrian journalist, Mustafa Kàrkouti, has been suffering from severe diarrhoea and fever. For that reason Salim has just released him. He’s presently being debriefed in a Metropolitan Police HQ trailer outside the Embassy, so I suggest you both take yourselves over there and hear what he has to say.’
‘Damned right,’ the Controller said.
Leaving the basement room, they took the lift up to the ground floor and left the building by the guarded front doors. A chauffeur-driven limousine was waiting for them outside in the lamplit darkness of Whitehall. Once in the car, they were driven quickly to Kensington, making small talk about the siege until they arrived at the police barricades in Princes Gate. As he clambered out of the limousine, the Controller glanced up to see the great canvas marquee of the press enclosure in Hyde Park. There, high up on the floodlit scaffolding, dozens of photographers were perched like black birds, cameras at the ready. ‘At least they’ve got a head for heights,’ the Controller said as he hurried beside the Commissioner to the trailer being used as the police HQ, pushing his way through milling ambulance men. Identified by the constable on guard outside the trailer, he let the Commissioner enter first, then followed him up the three steps and through the open door.
Inside, an exhausted, ill-looking Mustafa Karkouti was sitting in a hard wooden chair, virtually surrounded by men from the
Metropolitan Police intelligence department, as well as one white-smocked medic. The latter had just removed a thermometer from Karkouti’s mouth and was thoughtfully studying it. As the Police Commissioner introduced the SAS Controller to those who did not know him, the medic grinned at Karkouti and said: ‘Those tablets are working. Your temperature’s dropped to normal already and your blood pressure’s OK. When these men have finished with you, we’ll take you to the hospital for no more than a good rest and observation. After that, you’ll be all right.’
Thank you,’ Karkouti said with a slight smile of relief, as the medic packed up his little bag and left the long, packed trailer.
‘Has he given you much so far?’ the Commissioner whispered to one of his senior police officers.
‘A windfall,’ came the whispered reply. ‘We know everything that’s going on inside: the names, the weapons, the whereabouts of the hostages, the psychological state of the terrorists. He sent out the wrong hostage.’
‘Wrong for him, right for us,’ the Commissioner noted.
‘Correct.’
‘Has he finished talking?’
‘No. He’s just about to tell us what’s happened since Ghanzanfar was released. He believes that Salim’s authority over the rest of the team – uneducated men in their twenties – is fading because the siege is going on too long. They were told it would last no longer than twenty-four hours, so now they’re pretty unhappy.’
The Commissioner nodded and glanced at the Controller, then both of them sat at the back of the trailer, in the shadows well away from Karkouti and those talking to him.
‘So the last time you saw them in good mood was when Ali-Ghola Ghanzanfar was released?’ the police interrogator asked.
‘Yes,’ the journalist replied. ‘We all had such a good time together when Ghanzanfar was released, sharing that Persian meal sent in by the police – rice, kebabs and Bandit biscuits, washed down with Tango orange and Pepsi. Ron Morris used an orange crate as a table. He even put paper napkins on it. PC Lock and Morris had a cheerful conversation, the latter swearing that once released, he would never go back to working in the Embassy, the former insisting that he would return because he liked the work so much.’