The smell was cordite and wet brick. The sound was not gunfire at first, but the shattering of skylights, the percussive thump of stun grenades, and then the shouted commands. On the afternoon of May 5, 1980, the quiet of Princes Gate was torn apart. For six days, the world had watched the siege through the removed lens of newsreaders. Now, the screens showed black shapes abseiling down the building’s front, boots kicking in windows, the surreal domesticity of a balcony pot plant trembling with the concussions.
Inside, it was dark and close. The carpets muffled some sounds and amplified others—the scuff of boots on stairs, the ragged breathing of hostages. The SAS operators moved in a language of gestures, their faces obscured. They were clearing rooms, identifying targets in split seconds. The heat from a small fire on the ground floor mixed with the chill of the spring air rushing through broken windows.
Viewers at home saw a edited, chaotic version. On the ground, it was a series of terrible, intimate decisions. A terrorist was shot at point-blank range, another thrown from a balcony. The operation lasted seventeen minutes. When it was over, five of the six gunmen were dead, but nineteen of the twenty hostages were alive. The street was littered with glass and spent brass. The silence that returned was different, heavy with the echo of what had just been done, and the knowledge that it had been witnessed by all.