That single bombing ended any doubts that I had experienced over my intelligence work and re-doubled my resolve to do everything possible to end the sectarian violence and save innocent people’s lives. It also removed, at a stroke, any fear I had felt for my own safety.
CHAPTER FIVE
THREE DAYS AFTER THE ENNISKILLEN BOMBING, I met Dean and Coco as usual by appointment in Belfast, but on this occasion they drove me to a Special Branch safe house in the north of the city.
While fixing the meeting on the phone earlier, Dean had said, ‘What do you like to eat?’
‘What do you mean?’ I replied. ‘Why do you want to know that?’
‘Because we’re going for a bite to eat,’ he replied.
‘Steak and chips, if you really want to know,’ I said.
‘And what do you drink?’ he asked.
‘Diet Coke.’
‘Alright.’
‘And make sure it’s Coca-Cola.’ I said. ‘I hate Pepsi.’
‘Fuck off,’ he said, laughing. ‘I’ll get what I can.’
After driving for 20 minutes or more in a blacked-out van, we stopped and the side door was opened. ‘We’re here,’ Dean said as I walked the two steps from the van into the house.
‘Sorry about the cloak and dagger business,’ Dean said when we finally walked into a room down the corridor. The carpeted room was sparsely furnished with an old brown sofa, two easy chairs and a couple of wooden upright dining chairs. The heavy curtains were drawn shut.
‘This is one of our safe houses,’ he explained, ‘where we can sit and chat in comfort and safety. Don’t worry while you’re here, it’s well guarded by our lads.’
Within minutes Coco walked into the room with two plates and handed one to me, the other to Dean. I looked in surprise at the steak and chips on the plate as I had forgotten about the earlier phone conversation.
As Coco left the room to bring in his meal, Dean shouted, ‘Don’t forget the Diet Coke,’ emphasising the word ‘Coke’. He had remembered. It was Coca-Cola.
I was amazed at the speed Dean ate. I had only taken a few chips when I realised that he had eaten his entire meal and put down his knife and fork.
‘Do you always eat that quickly?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I ate slowly today to keep pace with you.’ And he laughed.
‘We thought it about time that we regularised everything, Marty,’ Dean began. ‘Everyone is really impressed with the work you’ve been doing and we hope you want to continue.’
‘I do,’ I replied, ‘and I’ll tell you why.’
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Enniskillen,’ I said. ‘I can’t be putting up with that.’
‘Good,’ he replied. ‘I feel the same way.’
‘Are you happy with the way things are going?’ Dean asked.
‘Yes, I think so,’ I replied. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because we want to use you more than we have up till now,’ he said. ‘So far, everything has gone like clockwork and we believe that you are a valuable addition to our intelligence network.’
‘Aye, thanks,’ I said.
‘But I’ve really asked you here today to explain a few things to you.’
‘Like what?’ I asked.
‘Well,’ he began, coughing a couple of times before starting his speech, ‘You do realise that working as an undercover agent like this can be dangerous.’
‘To me?’ I asked, which must have seemed naïve.
‘Yes, to you,’ he answered, laughing.
‘Aye,’ I said.
‘Do you realise what would happen if the IRA ever discovered you were working for us?’
‘Aye,’ I said again.
‘Listen, Marty,’ he said. ‘If they ever catch you, if the IRA ever discover that you are working for us, they’ll kill you. They’ll take you away for weeks if they need to and they will interrogate you. They’ll beat you, torture you and do anything to try and get you to confess.
‘There have been some poor bastards that have never had anything to do with Special Branch, the police or the security forces, who have been found dead with marks on their bodies showing they have been tortured, burned and beaten before being killed. It always ends up the same way. The bodies are found shot dead with one or two high-velocity bullets in the back of the head.’
Dean looked at me wondering what my reaction to such gruesome detail would be. He may have noticed that I had stopped eating my steak and chips, though my meal was only half finished.
I respected Dean for telling me the truth, for pulling no punches about my fate if I should ever be taken prisoner by the IRA.
‘I understand,’ I replied. But I felt nervous at the thought of what could happen to me.
I pushed away the plate, my appetite gone. I felt like concentrating on the conversation rather than eating. I told him of various reports I had read when the IRA had issued statements claiming they had executed people for allegedly ‘informing or collaborating’ with the RUC.
‘So, are you happy to continue?’ he asked.
‘Aye,’ I replied.
‘Good,’ Dean said. ‘We will do all we can to protect you. You can rest assured that we will never put you in jeopardy and, if we hear anything about you from any IRA source we will take you out immediately. I can promise you we will never put you in any danger.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, and laughed, but the sound of my laughter was hollow.
Only months before, I had read in the newspapers that the Special Branch’s most senior IRA double agent, a high-ranking member of the IRA’s Brigade Staff, had been pulled out of Northern Ireland. It was claimed that his information had been responsible for half a dozen IRA deaths and more than 20 arrests. He was given a new identity and settled in England. The very fact that the Special Branch had managed to rescue one of their top men when he came under suspicion gave me some confidence. But not much.
‘I’m glad you understand the score,’ Dean said, ‘because I don’t want you to think this job is just a picnic, a little bit of fun to earn a few pounds. This is deadly serious. I want you to know that a number of my close friends have been killed by the IRA since the troubles began. And some of those were true professionals.’
Dean always showed respect for the IRA. He would never bad-mouth them, insult their intelligence or, more importantly, never underestimate their capabilities to bomb targets, murder people and, when necessary, terrorise the community.
He told me that he wanted me to concentrate more and more on identifying known suspects whose photographs he would continue to show me on a weekly basis.
Before leaving, Dean said, ‘You are becoming more important than you realise, Marty. Keep up the good work and remember, above all, take care.’
A few weeks after my tete-a-tete in the Special Branch safe house, Dean asked me to keep a look-out for a dangerous IRA bomber who was setting off massive 5001b and 1,0001b bombs in Belfast City Centre.
‘What’s his name?’ I asked.
‘Harry Fitzsimmons,’ Dean replied.
‘Do you have a photo of him?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ Dean replied, ‘here it is.’
‘What!’ I exclaimed. ‘Bullshit. He’s been a mate of mine for years. We were at the same school. He’s never IRA.’
I must have sounded convincing for Dean simply shook his head and waited for me to quieten down before continuing.
‘Listen to me, Marty,’ Dean said. ‘I can tell you that this young man is working for a highly active bombing team. And let me tell you the head of the bombing team is a very well-known IRA member.’
‘Shit!’ I exclaimed. ‘Are you really sure?’
‘Yes, we’re positive.’
I had known Harry Fitzsimmons since childhood. We had grown up on the same street, spent time in each other’s homes and had gone out roaming the Black Mountain together during summer holidays. I knew that Harry had become involved in petty crime, as I was, but I never imagined t
hat he had become an active member of an IRA bomb squad.
I told Dean that I would keep a close eye on Harry and report back, but I was still not convinced that he was an IRA member. Harry had married his teenage sweetheart Charlene and they lived together in a new house round the corner from me. I would often see them going out together in the evening.
From then on I would sometimes stop Harry and Charlene as they were walking down the street and chat to them about nothing in particular. Over a period of a few weeks, I noticed that Harry was always wearing different baseball caps, with the peak concealing his face as much as possible. This made me suspicious. After some time I noticed three or four men would occasionally call at Harry’s home, park their new Nissan car and go inside for an hour or more. I reported all this to Dean who told me later that the four men were all part of the same IRA bombing team.
I felt awkward telling Dean about Harry, identifying him every month or so. Harry, despite being three years older than me, had been a good friend and I wished that Dean had never asked me to target him. I kept having to tell myself that if Dean was certain that Harry was an IRA member, then the probability was that he was correct. Nevertheless, it still troubled me.
Years later, Dean informed me that Harry’s team was behind the bombing of the law courts in Chichester Street on Saturday, 9 January 1988, causing extensive damage. They had planted the bomb which ripped apart Belfast City Centre on Tuesday, 23 August 1988. And they had taken part in one of the IRA’s biggest explosions on Monday, 31 July 1989, when a laundry van, packed with a 1,0001b bomb, was triggered after being allowed entry into the precincts of the High Court in Belfast.
Together, all three bombs had caused millions of pounds’ worth of damage.
The successful bombing of the High Court happened by chance. For months, the IRA had been trying to find a way of bombing the building, seen as a symbol of British authority in the province. One day, one of the IRA bomb team was surveying the courts when he noticed a laundry van driving through the tight security cordon and into the courts. More importantly, the man recognised the driver as a lad who lived on the Ballymurphy Estate. The lad was then visited by the gang and forced to drive the vehicle, packed with explosives, into the courts.
Harry Fitzsimmon’s successful career as a member of the gang continued for at least two years until the IRA decided, in late 1989, that the squad should be split up.
Throughout the time that I was watching Harry, Dean encouraged me to become friendlier with my old mate and, if possible, meet the friends who continued to visit his house from time to time.
‘Why do you want me to do that?’
I asked him.
‘It could be very useful, very useful indeed,’ he said.
I had not the slightest idea at that time how close I would become to senior members of the IRA. At the height of my career as a British agent, I would be in daily contact with the men who organised and controlled the bombings and shootings throughout Northern Ireland.
I had also struck up a relationship with a middle-aged man named Danny, a down-and-out who spent his time hanging around pubs and betting shops in Belfast and for whom I felt some compassion. I had noticed him hanging around, running errands for anybody and everybody, and in return he would be handed a few cigarettes or a couple of quid. Few people bothered to speak to him and most treated him like dirt. I felt sorry for him and began to stop and chat whenever I saw him in the street. Poor Danny had terrible dermatitis on his hands and face and children would run away from him as though he was a leper.
Danny was dirty, unshaven and always smelt of alcohol and I would never see him, even on the hottest summer’s day, without his big, black overcoat wrapped around him. He would tell me that he had never had a job and survived on hand-outs from people. I would usually buy him food, sandwiches and burgers, and give him the odd £5, though I knew he would spend it on drink or the horses. I even lent him money from time to time and, to my surprise, he always repaid it on the dot. He would tell me, ‘Marty, you’ve no need to worry in life because I’ll look out for you. I’ll watch your back.’
I always wondered if, by taking some time to talk to him and buying him the odd snack, it would bring me luck, but I didn’t care for him for that reason. I simply felt sorry for someone who seemed unable to care for himself.
All of a sudden, however, I began giving less thought to both Dean and poor Danny for I had become far more interested in someone else – a beautiful, dark-haired, 17-year-old girl by the name of Angela Crane.
I met the lovely Angela one afternoon when I went with a friend to the YTP (Youth Training Programme) in Kennedy Way where she was training to become a hairdresser. I saw two girls walking along the street and the one that attracted my attention was only 5ft 5in tall with shoulder-length, curly hair, a pretty smile and engaging eyes.
As she walked towards us, however, I could hardly take my eyes off her beautiful, slim legs for the mini-skirt she wore that day was very, very short.
As we drove the girls home, I chatted to Angela and I felt captivated. Angela was the first girl I had become interested in since I had started working with the Special Branch 18 months earlier. During that time, I had become so involved with my own secret world, watching people, earning money selling stolen goods and keeping myself to myself, that I had had no time for girlfriends. Angela changed all that.
After dropping off the girls I said nothing to my pal, but I knew that I wanted to see Angela again. Four days later a friend of mine persuaded me to go with him to a party on the Ballymurphy Estate. I never smoked, drank or took drugs, so attending parties had never been of great interest to me. I quickly became bored and wanted to leave. Friends would often try to persuade me to get drunk, go to pubs, attend parties or go dancing, but I would always shy away from such high jinks.
I had been born in the Troubles and had grown up in the most violent environment. Facing RUC truncheons, Army plastic bullets, raids on our streets and houses by the Army and the RUC, nightly riots, sectarian hatred and the noise of IRA bombs tearing the city apart made me grow up fast. To many of us, parties and getting drunk seemed frivolous, even silly, for there were more important things in life. It seemed that we enjoyed our carefree fifteenth birthdays like schoolboys the world over and then, suddenly, grew beyond our years and began behaving with the maturity and seriousness of 25-year-olds.
Whenever I went out with my mates to a pub or a party, I would usually make an excuse and return home early. On this particular night, for some unknown reason, I decided to go along.
Only eight people were present when we walked into the house, the music blaring. And to my absolute surprise and delight, sitting on the sofa was Angela, once again wearing a tiny mini-skirt and a white baggy shirt. She looked gorgeous.
After chatting for an hour or so I told her that I was going to the local shop for some cans of Diet Coke.
‘I’ll come with you,’ she said enthusiastically, and ran to join me as I walked out of the house.
As we walked down the street, chatting, we exchanged phone numbers.
‘Are you going to call me?’ she asked.
‘Of course I am,’ I said
As we walked back again I felt a new man, for I had become convinced that there was a certain chemistry between us. I felt that Angie seemed genuinely interested in me. As we talked we discovered that her elder brother, Tommy, had been at school with me and we had been good friends.
I phoned Angie the following evening and we met an hour later. I told my sister Lizzie about Angela and asked to borrow the key to the house she was renovating up the street from my mother’s. I grabbed some tapes and walked the two miles to Falls Park where we had arranged to meet. For several hours we sat, kissed and cuddled in my sister’s house while listening to tapes. We got on really well.
From that night on we became inseparable. We would see each other most evenings and in no time we had become lovers, wanting to spend as much time together as possibl
e, making love at every opportunity. And Angie had a heart of gold, buying me presents every week, despite the fact that she had little money.
She took a part-time job in a fish and chip shop on the Falls Road and would work Thursday, Friday and Saturday afternoons. I would meet her at 7.00pm and we would frequently babysit for her mother, looking after Sam and Louise, or spend the evening at my mother’s or sister’s houses.
My mother took to Angie. She treated her as another daughter and they would sometimes go shopping together. I would often find them chatting together in the kitchen over a cup of tea as though they had known each other for years.
‘I don’t know how you put up with my son,’ my mother would tell Angie. ‘He’s such a head case. You must be some girl to cope with him.’ And she would laugh.
After dating Angie for a few months, a good friend of mine, Joe Ward, a married man five years older than me, asked me whether I wanted to work with him. I had admired Joe all my life as he had lived next door to us and he had always showed me kindness and generosity. I respected the fact that when I was growing up he would treat me more as an adult than a child.
On this occasion, Joe told me that he had taken a contract with the Housing Executive and needed a partner to help to erect fencing on the Ballymurphy estate. Joe had a reputation for being a prodigious and fast worker and many men would not work alongside him because his work-rate was so exhausting.
I was only too happy to join him and make some honest money, enough to finish my career selling stolen goods. I also respected and trusted Joe for he had proved a good friend. Once, about a year earlier, Joe had saved me from being arrested by the RUC after we had become embroiled in a fight near Queen’s University in the centre of Belfast. We had been surrounded by a group of half a dozen young men who had obviously been drinking, and they began pushing and shoving us. After Joe had asked them to stop a number of times he grabbed hold of a couple of them and gave them a few good punches. When one of them jumped on Joe’s back I joined in, pulled the man off Joe and started punching him. Seconds later we heard a yell and saw another six or seven of their mates running towards us.
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