One of them was so high he wouldn’t have noticed if a spaceship had landed. The second was deep in conversation with a girl who was offering him sex in return for a joint. The third had been overpowered before he realized what was happening, but the fourth saw them coming, and had time to contact Pete Donoghue, who was sitting by the lift listening to Pink Floyd on his radio.
‘Raid, raid, raid!’ came crackling over his intercom, and Donoghue was suddenly back in the real world. He was reaching for the FOP button when the sprinter dived head first as if reaching for the try line. He hit him squarely in the stomach, knocking the radio out of his hand. Donoghue fell backwards, but quickly recovered and caught the sprinter with a well-aimed knee under the chin that sent him into touch.
The two front row forwards were only yards away when the sprinter came tumbling back out of the lift, clutching onto the radio. Donoghue staggered to his feet and quickly jabbed at the top button. The doors slowly closed, clamping shut with the two props only a yard away. Their sole task that night had ended in failure. One of them punched the closed doors in frustration, but could only watch helplessly as the lift indicator passed the second and third floors. The other knelt down beside the sprinter, who was writhing in pain. ‘Officer down!’ he shouted into his radio. ‘I need an ambulance immediately! Repeat, officer down!’
The last of the eight counter-terrorism officers landed on the roof moments later, as the twelve armed officers on the stairway reached the sixth floor.
By the time the lift passed the seventh, Donoghue could hear the sound of heavy footsteps thundering up the stairs. He looked around for his radio, but it was nowhere to be seen. He cursed, but he was still convinced he could reach the slaughter and raise the alarm long before the Old Bill got there.
As the lift was passing the twenty-first floor, the counter-terrorism unit began abseiling down the side of the building, confident that no one in the slaughter would have thought it possible an intruder could appear from above, not least because every window on the top three floors was covered with tightly fitted black mesh blinds to make sure even a passing pigeon couldn’t see what they were up to.
When the lift reached the twenty-third floor and the doors began to slowly open, Donoghue ripped them apart, leapt out and banged frantically on the small metal grille in the front door with a clenched fist. The gatekeeper peered through the grille, and when he saw the sweat pouring off Donoghue’s face, he quickly undid the three locks and wrenched open the heavy door.
‘We’re being raided!’ Donoghue screamed at the top of his voice as he barged past the gatekeeper and began looking for the one person he was responsible for, just as the Specialist Firearms Command reached the fourteenth floor.
Rashidi was stacking piles of cash into wads of a thousand pounds, before placing them into a sports bag, when the door of his private office was flung open. The moment he saw Donoghue’s face, he didn’t need to be told a raid was in progress. He’d rehearsed for this moment several times, knowing that one day they must surely come.
Rashidi followed Donoghue into the boiler room, where he was confronted by something he hadn’t been able to prepare for: pandemonium. While his workers streamed in panic towards the front door, he moved swiftly in the opposite direction, accompanied by Donoghue and two armed guards, as the SFC passed the nineteenth floor.
Rashidi quickly reached the door that led to the walkway and the safety of his flat in Block B, but it soon became clear that, despite the three heavies’ best efforts, their escape route had been blocked. There was now only one way out. While those around him continued to panic, Rashidi remained calm and headed quickly back towards the front door in the hope that he could reach the lift and be on his way down to the ground floor before his nemesis appeared. His lawyer had told him that although it was the less desirable alternative, once he was in the lift it could be argued in court that he was simply an innocent resident caught up in the cross-fire, and that he’d never taken a drug in his life. The last part of the prepared statement had the virtue of being true.
Back in the boiler room, Rashidi found his progress blocked by workers all struggling like lemmings to desperately cram through the same narrow doorway as they attempted to reach the stairwell or the lift. His bodyguards and Donoghue began hurling them aside to make a gangway for their master, and he was within a few feet of the door when the first of the counter-terrorism officers came crashing through the window, knocking Donoghue off his feet. Moments later a second intruder crashed the party and threw a stun grenade into the middle of the room, shouting, ‘On your knees!’
Rashidi had just reached the front door when a third paratrooper took out one of his armed guards. He could only watch helplessly as the lift doors began to close. His last remaining protector thrust an arm into the gap in a vain attempt to hold up a lift which was built to accommodate no more than eight passengers but already had at least a dozen desperate escapees crammed inside, jabbering away in several different tongues. Rashidi spotted the first of the armed officers emerging from the stairwell below, and immediately fell back on the ‘plan of last resort’. He made his way back into the boiler room, where he threw off his jacket, put on a discarded face mask and a pair of rubber gloves
