by Matt Johnson
‘What happened to change that decision?’ I asked.
‘It’s come from the highest levels, apparently. Not only are we to make sure the attack is a success, we are to make sure the world gets to see it.’
I felt my temper rise. ‘That’s bollocks and you know it. Without smoke the whole world will know our entry methods.’
‘Not our decision,’ Tom replied and, as he did, the CO appeared in the doorway.
‘Right Major Crayston,’ he said, gruffly. ‘We have fifteen minutes to get the lads into position.’
A senior police officer appeared in the hallway. I recognised him immediately. It was the Met Commissioner. As Tom and the CO headed out the back door of the nursery school, I heard his final words to them: ‘And don’t forget that PC Lock is in there in uniform.’
Chapter 10
When the attack went in, I watched it live on BBC television in the police control room at the rear of the nursery school.
At the same time, I listened as best I could to the radio communication on the military network. As the first assaulters started to abseil down from the embassy roof, I could actually feel the rope running through my hands as if I was taking part myself. I felt my grip tighten as if holding onto an imaginary locking brake that would bring my tumbling figure to a halt on one of the balconies, ready to put the frame charge in place.
It wasn’t a question of envy, as I knew that even if I had been fit I wouldn’t have been on the assault team. That privilege was the reserve of the men who practised such skills day in, day out. Blades, we called them. Men who fought at the sharp end.
Officers were trained in the necessary skills but, with all the other responsibilities we had, we could never match the expertise of the blades. It was what they trained for and lived in hope of doing.
That said, I did experience an incredible surge of pride. As the first frame charges exploded, the nursery school building shook and people around me reached for hand holds to try and maintain their balance. Even the Police Commissioner was nearly thrown off his feet. I was glued to the television. I saw black-clad figures; I must have known them all, but their gas masks prevented me from picking them out.
There was only one fleeting moment where my confidence in their ability suffered a lapse: one assaulter appeared to be trapped on a rope and was caught by flames emerging from a smashed window. I held my breath for a second as the soldier broke free, dropped to the balcony and entered through the window to join in the attack.
Less than twenty minutes later, Operation Nimrod was over.
Only one of the twenty hostages for whom Mike had feared the worst was killed during the attack. And there was not a single SAS fatality; no soldier was even badly wounded.
However, all the terrorists bar one were killed. That sole survivor managed to sneak out the back door with the evacuating hostages. He was arrested when they identified him to the police.
At seven-fifty, just as the CO was handing responsibility for the embassy building back to the police, I headed back to Regent’s Park barracks.
Later that evening, I stood watching something I would never have dreamed possible.
We had laid on a few cans of beer for the lads to enjoy as they returned from Prince’s Gate. A large television in the corner of the main hall was tuned to the news channel. Highlights of the attack were being played and re-played as TV experts analysed and commented on the assault as seen from in front and behind the embassy. Nearly all the lads were sat around, picking each other out from the television footage and there was a lot of high-spirited banter about entry skills, or the lack of, and who had been the best or the quickest to enter the building. The air smelt of the cordite and CS gas that had permeated the assaulter’s overalls.
At the front of the group stood two civilians who were enjoying the moment, seemingly totally relaxed with the men that surrounded them.
One of the lads at the back shouted out to the civilians: ‘Sit down, Maggie. I can’t see myself on the telly.’
Margaret Thatcher turned around, smiled and did as she was asked. A black-clad soldier stood up from another chair so that her husband, Denis, could also be seated.
Next to me, Tom Crayston was supping on one of the luke-warm cans of lager as we watched the surreal scene of our prime minister at ease with soldiers who had just a couple of hours before been involved in a fight to the death.
‘You do realise that things will never be the same for us, don’t you?’ he said.
‘Why do you say that?’ I asked.
‘Because up until today, most people in this country had never heard of the SAS, let alone had any idea what we are capable of. The politicians may have wanted to send out a message, but the knock-on effect could be disastrous.’
‘Did they think of that when they decided not to use the smoke machines?’
‘I doubt it very much. So far as they are concerned, today wasn’t just about saving lives, it was about winning votes.’
‘You sound cynical,’ I said.
‘If I do, it’s because I am. I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. See those men in front of you?’
‘Of course.’
As we chatted a roar of laughter burst out from the front of the group watching television. It sounded like Denis Thatcher was living up to his reputation as a teller of jokes.
‘Every one of them is a hero,’ said Tom. ‘You know that, I know that. But until today nobody had any idea who they were. From now on they will be lauded like gods. Every newspaper and TV reporter in the country will want to talk to them, every publisher will be courting them for memoires and stories. They are the James Bonds of the 1980s.’
‘Is that an entirely bad thing?’ I asked.
‘Would you want all your friends and neighbours knowing that you shot and killed three IRA members a few short months ago? Would you want friends of the terrorists that were killed today learning your identity and where to find you?’
‘I wouldn’t … not at all,’ I said. ‘That’s why we’re given anonymity in court proceedings and the like, isn’t it?’
‘It is … it is. But money talks and the media will pay well. I’ll wager that inside of a year, one of the lads in front of you will have a book deal. I’ll even bet that the book will be called Nimrod.’
‘So how do we stop it?’
‘We can’t. We can only look after ourselves.’
‘And how do we do that?’ I asked. Tom had raised a subject I had never considered: what happened after the regiment and whether I kept it a secret or not.
‘If you want my advice don’t talk about it or even tell those closest to you. There’s even a department in MI5 that will take care of you, keep you anonymous.’
‘How do they do that?’
‘They doctor your army file so it shows you were never away from your original regiment or corps. So long as you don’t talk about it, no future employer will ever know.’
At that moment Maggie Thatcher stood up to leave. It was time for Tom to step in, rescue her from the attentions of the lads and ensure that she and Denis got back to their car, which was to take them back to Downing Street.
But as she left, my mind was caught up by the thought that Tom’s suggestion was an arrangement that would suit me very well.
Chapter 11
August 2001
The underground journey from the shooting range to my base at the Royalty and Diplomatic Protection Group offices at Buckingham Gate took just under an hour. It gave me plenty of time to mull over my decision to leave Royalty Protection and go back to everyday police work.
After the Iranian Embassy siege, circumstances had conspired to keep me in the SAS for another four years. First, one of the B-squadron troop commanders was shot during a raid on a Belfast IRA hideout. Then, two years later, another officer was killed on West Falkland. The shortage of troop commanders meant I was granted a full second tour. I spent the next four years travelling the world with the regiment before my posting e
nded in late 1984.
I returned to the artillery, expecting a promotion to major, only to discover that, due to my time away, I had slipped well down the seniority rankings. I walked out of the barracks at Woolwich, caught a train to Paddington and completed a police application form.
Looking back, I suppose it was something of a knee-jerk reaction to being passed over for promotion. But choosing the Met had been easy. I liked the cops I had met at the embassy siege and, being from London, it seemed a natural thing to do.
So that was my life for the next twelve years. By 1997 I was in a good position: I was a police Sergeant at Barnet in North London and had just passed the inspector promotion exam. It was then that the opportunity to join Royalty Protection presented itself.
A colleague who belonged to a pistol club based at the police range beneath Old Street Police Station invited me along for an evening. It was a social shoot, a meeting of friends who shared a hobby. I accepted the invitation with mixed feelings – curiosity and some trepidation. After twelve years, I’ll admit I was curious to find out if my old skills had deserted me or whether I could still hit a target.
Using a borrowed Smith and Wesson, I managed to outshoot all the attending members, with the exception of a lad from the specialist firearms team, SO19, who was the current Met champion. My ability with a pistol didn’t go unnoticed. In the pub afterwards, an off-duty member of the Royalty Squad told me about a vacancy that had come up for an inspector on their back-up team.
And there was an immediate incentive. The post was a promotion and came with a good payrise.
I thought about it for a couple of days before making an application. At the time, I was single with no family commitments. I decided to apply and, after an interview held near Horse Guards Parade and a psychological profile test, I was appointed to the job. Just three weeks later I put my uniform away in the wardrobe and paraded at Old Street Police Station to be trained as an authorised firearms officer.
The next four years passed all too quickly. A lot had happened in that time to cause me to reflect on the future. Greatest amongst the changes was my marriage and the birth of my daughter. My priorities were now radically different. And I was looking forward to getting back into uniform.
Arriving at Buckingham Gate, I headed for the canteen and was alone at a table when I was joined by another of the protection officers, Steve Reid.
‘The old man’s been looking for you,’ Reid said, as he put two mugs of tea on the table.
‘Does he know where I’ve been?’ I smiled. I had a lot of time for young Steve. The son of an old army friend, he reminded me of myself when I was younger.
‘Yes, he does. How did you get on? It’ll be the last one you do for some time I suppose?’
‘I passed: good enough mark even with that Chief Inspector’s strict rules.’
‘He doesn’t know your pedigree I suppose?’
Steve was one of the few who knew my true history. His father, Rupert, was a decorated bomb disposal officer who, like me, had gone on to join the Met.
‘No, he doesn’t and, as you know, I would prefer it stayed that way.’ I did my level best to sound patient. ‘Just resist the temptation even to mention it,’ I went on. ‘People like your father and me have enemies in the most unlikely of places and those enemies don’t play games. You do understand?’
Steve nodded and raised his hand in apology. He understood fully. His father had made it quite clear to him the lengths that the IRA would go to in order to identify and locate former members of the Security Services, especially ex-SAS officers. Our safety lay in anonymity.
I sipped at the tea. ‘Wonder what the old man wants?’
‘Word is he’s going to offer you a prestige principal as a carrot to persuade you to stay in the department.’
I smiled. ‘You’ve been offered the Duke of Gloucester, I hear?’
‘Yeah … bit of a shock, that one. I thought I’d never get off the back-up team.’
‘You deserve it. When old “pop” Larkin retired you were the natural choice.’
‘Apart from you, of course.’
‘Maybe, but then I’m off back to division,’ I said.
I drained the tea and stood up. ‘I should see what he wants.’
Heading for the Chief Superintendent’s office, I had to admit I was interested to find out what he was going to offer me. But it would make no difference. I’d made up my mind and, as I saw it, I had good reasons. The old man would just have to accept them.
The boss’s office was behind a heavy, oak-panelled door. I paused, and knocked hard. The familiar Scots accent reached my ears as clearly as if the door had been open. ‘Enter,’ he called.
Even from just that one word I sensed an angry edge. This is going to be interesting, I thought. I opened the door.
The imposing sight of Chief Superintendent Hugh Kinnoch looking up from his desk had caused many a pair of knees to weaken. He didn’t waste any time before laying into me.
‘Sit down, Finlay’, he barked.
I did as I was asked.
‘What’s this crap?’ A quivering finger pointed to where my application sat on the desk in front of him.
I bit my tongue. Kinnoch was clearly not happy.
‘A new start,’ I said. ‘It’s all explained on the form. Family, my age … that kind of thing. This is a job for younger men.’
I squared my shoulders and prepared myself. This wasn’t going to be easy.
The old man’s chat lasted over an hour and in that time he tried every persuasion technique in the book. He was friendly one minute, angry the next. He even tried flattery. Apparently, I was just the kind of protection officer that the Royal Family liked. It was classic good cop, bad cop stuff. I resisted, politely but firmly.
After a quick lecture on loyalty, Kinnoch suggested a solution.
It was, he clearly thought, a trump card. And it was just as Steve Reid had predicted: He offered me the job of personal protection to the Princess Royal. I was impressed, but unmoved. My decision had been made.
The simple fact was that I was at an age and stage in life when I wanted something different. Looking after the Royals ruined family and social life. The hours involved were lengthy and absences from home frequent. I was now married and had a little girl, Becky. I tried to explain this to Kinnoch but, well, let’s just say that his priorities in life were different. That’s how you get to be a Chief Superintendent, I guess.
The chat came abruptly to an end. Kinnoch threw his glasses on the desk in exasperation. He was defeated and he knew it.
‘OK, Finlay,’ he said. ‘You win. I’ll contact personnel today. You’ll have some news by this afternoon.’
Later that day I was supervising a Special Escort Group planning meeting for the visit of a Cuban diplomat. When the phone call came through, I ran up the stairs to the admin offices.
‘You’re going to Stoke Newington, Inspector,’ the Chief Super’s clerk hardly looked up from her papers. ‘Seems they have a vacancy and the old man thought it would be a challenge for you. You are to report to the local Chief Superintendent at ten a.m. Monday week.’
Chapter 12
Declan Costello heaved himself up into the rear of the small lorry and began counting the plastic bags. There were twenty, each weighing about fifty pounds.
The two McGlinty brothers, Dominic and Seamus, had spent an entire day mixing up the chemicals in the right proportions. With the correct type of detonators, the combined explosive effect would be colossal; anyone standing within a hundred yards would be toast.
But that wasn’t the plan.
Costello had decided that the bags would be split up and stored at the three lock-ups Dominic had acquired the previous week. They were safe and anonymous. According to Dominic the owner had asked few questions and had been grateful to be paid in cash. When the time was right, the bags could be transferred into vehicles for delivery to their respective targets. In the unfortunate event that one of th
e explosive caches was discovered, the remaining two would still contain enough material to get the job done.
Costello had spent his day in less energetic but no less important work. Two of the lock-up garages were in Hackney, the third in Stoke Newington, the adjacent London borough. At each of the hides, he had checked the surrounding area thoroughly, looking for any sign of police activity, any indication that the intended repositories were being watched.
Finally, content that the area around the first hide was secure, he had given the order to bring in the lorry.
It was nearly midnight when the brothers had arrived. Darkness gave them good cover and there was less traffic on the road. But, ever cautious, Costello knew the prospect of bumping into a nosy copper was slightly increased at night. And although there was a lot of goods-vehicle traffic from the markets, lorries tended to stick out. For that reason Costello had told them to wait until they saw a passing market lorry and then follow it along the main roads as if they were in convoy.
‘You have to be fast to keep up,’ Costello had told the brothers. ‘Tradesmen at the early London markets drive at breakneck speed. They all want to get their goods on the market stalls first.’
Costello knew that was the market driver’s motivation. Anonymity was his.
The lorry was now parked at the first lock-up and ready to be unloaded. Dominic’s younger brother, Seamus, jumped into the rear beside Costello, and began moving the bags. He was young and fit so made light work of it. Costello was pleased with his choice. Both the brothers were experienced operators. Neither had ever been caught, despite the number of operations in which they had been involved. Their kind of professionalism was what he needed on this job. Working in London was very different from the familiar streets of Northern Ireland. Here, there was no support network; if something went wrong, they were on their own.
