‘And I’ll tell you something else. If it wasn’t for the good work of the RUC and the British Army one hell of a lot of innocent people would have been killed or maimed in these bombings. It’s a result of their work, risking their lives on occasions, moving people out of these targeted areas, that lives have been saved, not the bombers taking precautions. And if you don’t like doing this job trying to stop the bombers then you can leave at any time.’
Dean’s reaction upset and angered me. It seemed that he could not understand what I had been saying. But I was convinced I was telling him the facts of life which faced hundreds of young men like Fitzy, but he didn’t want to put those facts into the equation. I walked out without saying another word.
For the following four weeks I never used the car that the SB had fitted with the tracking device. Though I continued to work part-time for the second taxi firm, I deliberately took not the slightest notice of any IRA suspects. I also stopped visiting republican clubs but would continue to lend Fitzy another cheap, old banger I had bought as a runabout.
I took the opportunity to spend as much as time as possible with Angie and we had great times together. Angie had quit the YTP and her job in the chip shop and the two of us were really happy together in our little flat. I was also happy for Angie, for not only was her pregnancy going well but her mother would visit her most days, bringing her presents, and helping to furnish the flat.
One day on the Springfield Road, I was walking to the shops when I noticed a face I recognised under his flat police hat. It was Officer Billy on foot patrol with an army unit.
I looked the other way and tried to sneak past Billy as he was checking a vehicle that had been stopped at the check point. ‘Yo,’ I heard and instantly knew it was Billy calling for me to stop.
‘Come here,’ he said and, as though he had no idea of my identity, said, ‘What’s your name?’
‘You know what my fucking name is,’ I replied, irritated that Billy was playing games with me.
‘You don’t seem in a very good mood today,’ he replied, walking over to me. ‘Did you get out of bed the wrong side, or something?’
‘What do you want?’ I asked, annoyed that he had stopped me.
‘I’ve got a note for you, from Dean. He wants you to call him on this number,’ and he handed me a small piece of paper with a number I did not recognise.
I thought long and hard about phoning Dean. I was in two minds, not sure what I should do. I needed to be alone to think and I walked to the Black Mountain and sat for several hours deciding which path I should take.
I realised that I had every reason to forget about the Special Branch, turn my back on the whole business, get a decent job and settle down. I had my beautiful Angie, the first girl in my life that I had ever really loved. I was convinced, too, that she felt the same. Every day Angie would tell me how happy she was and how much she loved me. And, even more important perhaps, was the fact that in a matter of months I would be a father. I recalled that I had never known my father because my parents had separated when I was a child. I was determined to try and be a good father to my unborn baby.
And at the back of my mind I could never forget the stories I had heard of British agents who had been discovered, dead, often after days and weeks of the most horrendous torture. I had no wish to end my life like that.
My heart and my head told me to stop working for both the Special Branch and the IRA, to walk away from the whole awful messy business. And yet I felt if I took that course of action I would be walking away from reality, that I would be turning my back on my responsibilities. I knew that the Special Branch were trying to stop the killings and the bombings; I knew in my heart that the IRA were wrong to use the bomb and the bullet to pursue their political aim of a united Ireland, instead of persuading the people to vote for their policies like any democratic party should.
I also believed that if I didn’t continue working for the SB, who were trying to bring peace to Ireland, then I would regret my decision for the rest of my life. I wondered as I sat in solitude on the mountain whether I had been selected to play this role, working for both the IRA and the Special Branch because I could be of some use.
Then I realised that all I was thinking was nothing but a load of shit. I wanted to go back to the SB because of the excitement and because Dean and the others treated me with respect. They didn’t treat me like the IRA used their people, as pawns in their great big scheme of things, not caring who got shot or killed, as long as those at the top remained out of reach of the security forces.
As I walked back down the mountain and saw the housing estate in the distance, I realised how insignificant I really was; a young, Catholic kid living in a run-down, working-class area of Belfast
who would never make anything of his life. But I had been given a chance to save people’s lives and I was determined that I would not turn my back on them. I couldn’t.
I went to the nearest phone box and dialled the number Officer Billy had given me. Within seconds I recognised Dean’s voice.
‘How are you then, Marty?’ he said, a warmth and an enthusiasm in his voice. ‘Good to hear your voice again. How have you been?’
‘I’m alright,’ I replied, not wanting to sound too keen.
‘Any chance of you popping down to see us?’ he asked.
‘When do you suggest?’ I asked.
‘Could you pop down tonight, around eight o’clock?’
‘Aye,’ I replied. ‘Shall I meet you at the usual place?’
‘Perfect,’ said Dean, ‘look forward to seeing you.’
Two hours later I was sitting in Dean’s car off the Cregagh Road. Again, there was a new man sitting in the driving seat.
‘Meet Mo,’ Dean said, ‘he’s taking over from Coco.’
‘Sorry about the spot of bother we had,’ Dean said. ‘I don’t like falling out with anyone, especially someone who has been so good at his job. It’s silly.’
I was determined, however, to have my say. ‘Listen, Dean,’ I began, ‘you must remember that I have been friends with a number of these lads all my life. Most of them aren’t bad lads at all; they’ve been caught up in the drama of the whole business and they can’t see the wood for the trees.’
‘But you, too, must understand, Marty,’ Dean said, ‘that this is no game. These people bomb and kill, and they must be stopped. You can help save people’s lives by the work you’re doing with us. You do understand that, don’t you?’
‘Aye,’ I said. ‘I believe in what you’re doing, trying to put a stop to all this killing, but you must sometimes out yourself in my shoes.’
‘Let’s you and I have a deal,’ he suggested. ‘We’ll still have to target Fitzsimmons but we’ll only keep him under surveillance. I promise you we won’t arrest him, if you’ll come back to work with us.’
‘OK,’ I said, ‘that’s a deal.’
The following day, I was back working again as I had done in the past. I would drive around in my Vauxhall, the car fitted with the tracker device, and I would lend it to Fitzy whenever he wanted to borrow it.
One day, Fitzy asked me if I would take him to the DHSS office on the Falls Road so he could collect his Giro cheque. His baby daughter was with us in the car. After collecting the cheque we were driving back home when a DMSU (Divisional Mobile Support Unit) Land Rover overtook our car and pulled in, forcing us to stop. The DMSU were feared by the IRA for their task would be to know every ‘player’ – every IRA member – in their particular area. They would also search local republican clubs looking for familiar faces and IRA men whom the Special Branch wanted to question. All day they would tour the streets, stopping and searching individuals they believed to be IRA suspects or sympathisers.
I immediately jumped out of the car while Fitzy remained in the passenger seat with his daughter on his knee. I gave the officers my name and address and Fitzy gave the name of my pal Joseph Ward, as well as Joe’s date of birth and correct home address. As the officer was writing
down these details, Fitzy slowly took his Giro cheque, on which was written his real name, from his pocket and slipped it into his daughter’s knickers, fearing he was about to be searched.
I noticed another officer staring at Fitzy. After a few moments, he walked over to him.
‘What did you say your name was again?’ he asked.
‘Joseph Ward,’ Fitzy replied.
After taking down all the details, including details of the car, the officers let us go. But it had been a close shave for I knew that one of Fitzy’s IRA bomb team had been arrested and the IRA had immediately informed the other squad members to lie low in case he had been ‘persuaded’ to reveal the identities of the team.
‘’Fuck me!’ Fitzy said, ‘I thought that peeler recognised me.’
Shortly after this scare, Fitzy asked me whether I wanted to meet a good friend of his, a senior member of the IRA by the name of Adams, Davy Adams. I could hardly contain my surprise for this meant that I was to be introduced to one of the most powerful IRA leaders in West Belfast. I knew that his uncle was Gerry Adams, the President of Sinn Fein/IRA organisation, and the man who had been the Commanding Officer of the Belfast Brigade of the IRA in the 1970s.
I met Davy one afternoon a few days later outside the Whiterock Leisure Centre. He was an athletic man of medium height, with a full beard and dark hair and wearing a simple sweat shirt and new jeans and trainers. He looked smart in his casual gear. Davy Adams simply nodded as I walked up to him.
‘Are you OK?’ were the first words he said to me.
‘Great,’ I replied.
‘Shall we take a walk?’ he asked, and motioned me to follow him. We walked into the Roman Catholic City Cemetery which adjoined the Leisure Centre, and for the next 30 minutes we walked around the thousands of graves, chatting about the weather and nothing in particular. As we walked I kept thinking that if this man Adams knew I worked for the Special Branch, it would be only a matter of days before I, too, would be incarcerated in one of the graves.
From the moment we began talking, I realised that Davy Adams was nobody’s fool but a well-educated, articulate man who had considerable knowledge of the IRA, its background and its position in Ireland’s political history. I knew he had also served at least one jail sentence for his commitment to the IRA cause.
He told me that Harry Fitzsimmons had been talking to him about me and how I would drive him around Belfast, knowing that he was moving bomb-making equipment around the city.
‘Are you happy doing that, Martin?’ he asked.
‘Aye,’ I said, ‘I don’t mind helping Harry.’
‘Would you like to join the IRA?’ he said.
‘Yes, I would,’ I said, trying to conceal my excitement and apprehension for this was the opportunity that the Special Branch had been guiding me towards for the past 12 months.
‘I could speak to someone,’ Davy Adams said, ‘if you would like to join?’
‘I would,’ I said. ‘Will you arrange it?’
‘In the meantime, I want you to keep away from Harry Fitzsimmons. I want you to contact me direct and I’ll give you my numbers. If you want, you can do some work for me, but it will still mean you’re working for the IRA. Is that OK?’
‘No problem,’ I told him.
He told me to see him at his home in Springhill, in the Ballymurphy Estate, the area known locally as ‘Beirut’ because of the amount of rioting and IRA activity. The Beirut area was full of well-known IRA members, called ‘Red Lights’ by the IRA because these were the people who could not travel outside the area for fear of being immediately picked up by the RUC, suspected of being on IRA business and taken in for close questioning which could last hours or days. Most of the time, the ‘Red Lights’ would sit around the IRA clubs openly talking and discussing past and present IRA operations, believing they were totally safe amongst sympathisers and active supporters.
Within minutes of leaving Davy Adams, I went home, collected my car and drove out of the area to a phone box.
‘Dean, listen,’ I said when I had been put through to him, ‘you’re never going to believe this. This afternoon I spent half an hour with Davy Adams, the Davy Adams. He’s asked me to join the IRA.’
‘Are you telling me porkies?’ he asked, half jokingly.
‘No I’m not. I’m deadly serious, honest,’ I replied.
‘Marty,’ he said, ‘tell me; how the fuck did you meet Davy Adams?’
‘Through Harry.’
‘Harry who?’ he said. ‘Who the fuck’s Harry?’
‘You remember, Harry Fitzsimmons, the lad from the IRA bomb team.’
‘What are you telling me, Marty?’ he asked. ‘What has Harry to do with Davy Adams?’
‘How the fuck am I supposed to know? Harry just asked me if I wanted to meet him and I did what you wanted me to do, go and meet IRA people.’
Dean was not yet certain that I was talking about the real Davy Adams. ‘Tell me Marty, what did he look like? Describe him.’
I told him exactly what the man looked like, down to the last detail.
‘Hold on,’ he said and he put down the phone. A minute later he came back and asked where I was speaking from. When I told him he asked me if I could see him in the usual meeting place in 20 minutes. Before I could reply, he hung up.
As I jumped into his parked car 20 minutes later, Dean turned round and handed me a file. ‘Look at these photos,’ he said. ‘Is that your man?’
‘Yes,’ I said, as I instantly recognised the face of Davy Adams, ‘that’s him.’
For a full five minutes Dean said nothing, wondering why someone as senior as Davy Adams would be interviewing me, asking me whether I wanted to join the IRA. To Dean it seemed incomprehensible, and he was searching for possible reasons. I sat still and waited.
‘Are you going to meet him again?’ he asked finally.
‘Yes, in two nights’ time.’
‘Good,’ Dean said, ‘go along, see what he’s got to say and phone me immediately.’
‘OK, I’ll be in touch.’ I left and returned to my car.
Two nights later I stood outside Davy Adams’ house in Springhill, knowing that my life would change once I had summoned up the courage to knock at the door. I put such thoughts to the back of my mind and banged twice on the door.
A young girl, whom I guessed was Davy Adams’ daughter, answered the door.
‘Is your dad in?’ I asked.
‘Who shall I say wants him?’ she asked with a smile.
‘Tell him my name’s Martin.’
She walked to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Daddy,’ she shouted, ‘you’re wanted.’
‘Who is it?’ he called from upstairs.
‘His name’s Martin.’
‘Oohh, good!’ I heard. ‘Tell him to come upstairs.’
I noticed at the bottom of the stairs a barred, steel door which, when closed, would probably have been impregnable. In the following couple of years I would see many such doors at the bottom of the stairs in the homes of a number of senior IRA members. I also noted that behind the front door were two steel drop bars, preventing anyone from breaking down the door. Many IRA and Sinn Fein members had been killed by local paramilitary gangs breaking into their homes at night and shooting them as they lay in their beds. Now they took no chances.
‘In here, Marty,’ I heard Davy say, and I walked into the back bedroom which he had turned into a study with a desk and a chair, the walls covered with books. Also on the walls were photographs of former IRA heroes.
‘Give me a minute or so,’ he said, ‘I must finish reading something.’
It was only when we went downstairs into the garden that he mentioned the IRA. He said nothing but it was obvious that he believed his home was bugged by the security forces.
‘I have a little job for you to do,’ he said. ‘I want you to go and check a house belonging to a member of the UVF.’
I knew the Ulster Volunteer Force to be one of the loyalists’ most violen
t paramilitary organisations which regularly targeted and murdered IRA members and sympathisers.
He explained that the house was in Arosa Parade near The Grove Playing Fields, in the heart of loyalist territory, and gave me the man’s name that lived there. He told me that the Loyalist had been responsible for a number of attempted assassinations of IRA and Sinn Fein men. He gave me a brief description of the man and his car, but told me that the man was very cautious.
‘You will have to be very careful,’ he warned.
Before I left he gave me £10 in cash. ‘That’s petrol money,’ he said. ‘If you need any more, just ask.’
I phoned Dean the following morning and told him of the task I had been set by Davy Adams.
‘Go through with it and do what he asked you. They might be watching you. We’ll try to look after you at the other end, but be careful; if the Prod’s catch you in that area they’ll kill you.’
I knew Dean was speaking the truth and vowed to be as careful as possible. On some occasions, strangers driving through those loyalist areas had been frequently stopped and someone had leapt into the car with a hand-gun or baseball bat to check the reason the stranger was in the area.
I drove over to the house at around 10.00pm the following night when I knew there would be little traffic about. If by chance someone tried to stop me, I knew I had a chance of escaping by simply putting my foot on the accelerator and driving away. During the day, with far more traffic on the roads, there was always the danger you could be blocked accidentally by other vehicles.
And Dean had given me one piece of advice that I did not forget; ‘If anyone tries to stop your vehicle by standing in the way, just put your foot down and drive straight through them. If you stop, you’re a dead man.’
The following day, I reported back to Davy and told him that I had visited the street twice and seen nothing; even the lights were out although it was only 10.00pm.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ he said, ‘the chances of seeing him straight away aren’t very high because he usually walks everywhere. Continue to check out the place from time to time and when you see something report straight to me. If you need more money for petrol just let me know.’
Fifty Dead Men Walking Page 11
