for something to happen, especially when creature comforts are somewhat limited. There was nowhere to sit except inside the cars, and nowhere
to go apart from a handful of cafés in the nearby streets.
They’d already been waiting for over four hours before the first message arrived:
‘ Standby all units. Players Five and Six returning direction Tango One .’
The mood changed now that it looked as if the endgame was near. There were few cars and fewer pedestrians around as the armed officers – which was most of them – checked their
weapons.
Richter pulled out the Glock, extracted the magazine and inspected it carefully. Then he reloaded the pistol and pulled back the slide to chamber a round.
Fifteen minutes later, GT sent a further message:
‘ Players Five and Six now inside Tango One. All units move to FUP and report readiness. ’
Immediately the car park was filled with the sound of engines starting, and within seconds all six vehicles were mobile. Minutes later, they pulled to a halt in Bridge Road, their designated
forming-up point.
Now speed was important. Vehicle doors opened and officers piled out, donning Kevlar quick-release vests and equipment belts. As they checked their weapons again, a group of teenage boys
standing on a nearby street corner stared at them wide-eyed, then retreated a cautious fifty yards, several of them pulling out mobile phones and taking pictures. Shoppers and pedestrians paused to
look at the increasingly familiar sight of armed police on the streets of London, then philosophically continued about their business.
Once all the final inspections were complete, the group leaders used their standard-issue 75 radios to check in with the baseman at GT. Then it was just a matter of waiting.
‘All units stand by Go signal. Estimate minutes zero four.’
And three minutes later they were mobile. No sirens, screeching tyres or flashing lights, just a gentle and steady drive for the two hundred yards that still separated them from their
destination.
The target flat – Tango One – was situated on the third floor. Four CO19 officers took the lift, the rest climbed the stairs. Three armed police stayed in the lobby to cover the
building’s main entrance. On the landing, one burly officer produced an enforcer – the steel battering ram that has become a trademark of CO19 operations – and waited beside the
apartment door. The rest made a final check of their weapons, because professionals check everything repeatedly, and waited.
Up to that point, they’d tried to keep as quiet as possible, but when the enforcer smashed into the apartment door, just above the lock, everything changed. The door crashed open, and
suddenly the building resounded with bellowed shouts of ‘Armed police, armed police!’ as the CO19 officers surged inside the apartment.
Richter was right behind the first group, making him the sixth man to enter. The hallway was long and narrow, three bedrooms and a bathroom opening off it, with a combined lounge and dining room
at the far end, next to a tiny kitchen.
Two men were in one of the bedrooms – they’d apparently been using a laptop computer that sat on a wooden desk against one wall – and they stared in shocked bewilderment as a
couple of officers raced into the room, weapons aimed straight at them. A third was taking a shower, the bathroom door closed but not locked, his terrified face peering at the arresting officer
from behind the shower curtain.
The other three were in the lounge, with a television set blaring. The CO19 men ran down the corridor so fast that two of them were still sitting down when the lounge door burst open.
The Glock ready in his hand, Richter ran into the lounge directly behind two of the police officers. More shouts of ‘Armed police! Don’t move,’ echoed around the apartment.
Richter had already checked the suspects in the bedroom and bathroom as he stormed down the corridor. None of those had been Salah
to go apart from a handful of cafés in the nearby streets.
They’d already been waiting for over four hours before the first message arrived:
‘ Standby all units. Players Five and Six returning direction Tango One .’
The mood changed now that it looked as if the endgame was near. There were few cars and fewer pedestrians around as the armed officers – which was most of them – checked their
weapons.
Richter pulled out the Glock, extracted the magazine and inspected it carefully. Then he reloaded the pistol and pulled back the slide to chamber a round.
Fifteen minutes later, GT sent a further message:
‘ Players Five and Six now inside Tango One. All units move to FUP and report readiness. ’
Immediately the car park was filled with the sound of engines starting, and within seconds all six vehicles were mobile. Minutes later, they pulled to a halt in Bridge Road, their designated
forming-up point.
Now speed was important. Vehicle doors opened and officers piled out, donning Kevlar quick-release vests and equipment belts. As they checked their weapons again, a group of teenage boys
standing on a nearby street corner stared at them wide-eyed, then retreated a cautious fifty yards, several of them pulling out mobile phones and taking pictures. Shoppers and pedestrians paused to
look at the increasingly familiar sight of armed police on the streets of London, then philosophically continued about their business.
Once all the final inspections were complete, the group leaders used their standard-issue 75 radios to check in with the baseman at GT. Then it was just a matter of waiting.
‘All units stand by Go signal. Estimate minutes zero four.’
And three minutes later they were mobile. No sirens, screeching tyres or flashing lights, just a gentle and steady drive for the two hundred yards that still separated them from their
destination.
The target flat – Tango One – was situated on the third floor. Four CO19 officers took the lift, the rest climbed the stairs. Three armed police stayed in the lobby to cover the
building’s main entrance. On the landing, one burly officer produced an enforcer – the steel battering ram that has become a trademark of CO19 operations – and waited beside the
apartment door. The rest made a final check of their weapons, because professionals check everything repeatedly, and waited.
Up to that point, they’d tried to keep as quiet as possible, but when the enforcer smashed into the apartment door, just above the lock, everything changed. The door crashed open, and
suddenly the building resounded with bellowed shouts of ‘Armed police, armed police!’ as the CO19 officers surged inside the apartment.
Richter was right behind the first group, making him the sixth man to enter. The hallway was long and narrow, three bedrooms and a bathroom opening off it, with a combined lounge and dining room
at the far end, next to a tiny kitchen.
Two men were in one of the bedrooms – they’d apparently been using a laptop computer that sat on a wooden desk against one wall – and they stared in shocked bewilderment as a
couple of officers raced into the room, weapons aimed straight at them. A third was taking a shower, the bathroom door closed but not locked, his terrified face peering at the arresting officer
from behind the shower curtain.
The other three were in the lounge, with a television set blaring. The CO19 men ran down the corridor so fast that two of them were still sitting down when the lounge door burst open.
The Glock ready in his hand, Richter ran into the lounge directly behind two of the police officers. More shouts of ‘Armed police! Don’t move,’ echoed around the apartment.
Richter had already checked the suspects in the bedroom and bathroom as he stormed down the corridor. None of those had been Salah
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