‘I don’t want any of your money,’ I said, ‘I don’t worry about that.’
‘It’s not my money,’ he explained, ‘it comes from the IRA.’
Before I left, he said, ‘By the way, Martin, you have a meeting with a lad who is going to swear you in as an IRA volunteer. Are you sure you want to go through with it?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘I want to become a full member.’
Three days later, I went to the house in Andersonstown and knocked at the door. A medium-built, scruffy-looking man in his 30s invited me in.
‘I know why you’re here,’ he said. ‘Listen to me, carefully. I want you to be sure about what you’re getting involved in. There are lots of people who have joined the IRA for all the wrong reasons. Some have been caught while on active service and have been sentenced to long jail terms of up to 25 years.’
I nodded and let him continue, ‘After they’ve been sentenced they have complained they didn’t know what they were getting into, and my job is to make sure you don’t make the same mistake. If you want to join Oglaigh na hEireann [Gaelic for the Irish Republican Army], you have to promise to promote the objects of the organisation and obey all orders and regulations issued by the Army and its officers.’
He then told me to go home. ‘Go to bed tonight and think hard,’ he said. ‘No one is forcing you to do this, but you must remember you could be killed by the SAS while on active service or be arrested and sentenced to a long jail term. If you don’t come back tomorrow, no one will fault you because we have many young men wanting to join the organisation. But if you do come back tomorrow, you will then become an official IRA volunteer.’
As I walked back home that night, I wondered if I was doing the right thing. I was now within 24 hours of finding myself between a rock and a hard place – the SB and the IRA – and I feared that I would end up as mincemeat. That night I hardly slept a wink, looking at Angie lying beside me, knowing that I would go back to the house the next day in the knowledge that I was making the biggest mistake of my life.
During the oath-taking ceremony, I not only had to swear allegiance to the IRA, but the man would also take me through a number of the army orders contained in the IRA ‘Green Book’.
I listened with a sinking heart to three particular pledges the man read out; ‘One. No volunteer should succumb to approaches or overtures, blackmail or bribery attempts, made by the enemy and should report such approaches as soon as possible.
‘Two. Volunteers who engage in loose talk shall be dismissed.
‘Three. Volunteers found guilty of treason face the death penalty.’
The moment I returned to my flat, I went to the bedroom and pressed the button on the front of the little white radio the SB had given me.
‘I have to go out,’ I said to Angie. ‘I’ll see you later.’
I met Dean who was alone in his car, the first time I ever met him on his own.
‘Brilliant, wonderful,’ he said. ‘Marty, you’re a professional.’
Within days I thought my career as a British agent was over. I was sitting in a republican club on the estate when four mean-looking men approached me. One grabbed me by the shoulder.
‘Upstairs,’ he said, his voice and his manner menacing.
I am sure that at that moment my face turned white and I felt my mouth go dry. I went with the four men who surrounded me as though trying to stop any thought I might have had of making a run for freedom.
Upstairs, the room, which was used as a disco, was blacked out, the only lights coming from a bar at the far end.
‘Keep yourself out of IRA business,’ one said, digging me in the chest.
‘What are you talking about?’ I asked.
‘Your friend Paul smashed into a taxi and has refused to pay up. And you went to see the taxi driver to tell him he would not be getting a penny because it was totally his fault.’
‘Well…’ I began.
But they refused to listen, ordering me to shut up and mind my own business. I didn’t mind what they said; I hardly heard the words, as a wonderful sense of relief washed over me. All they were bothered about was some petty matter over a minor car crash. I thought they had discovered I was a British agent.
I shut up and said nothing, happy to agree with whatever they said. I went home feeling wonderful. But there would be other, more sinister incidents to come.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WITHIN DAYS OF TAKING THE OATH ALLEGIANCE, my cell commander ordered me to attend a meeting at a house in the Turf Lodge area of Belfast where I could meet a man they called ‘The Interrogator’. I was suspicious at first and asked Dean for advice.
‘I think you should attend,’ he said. ‘Do as they say and show that you are a committed member of the organisation. I am sure that whatever you learn will be useful, really useful. Remember, Marty, the more we know about the IRA, the better equipped we are to stop their bombings and shootings.’
One evening, a few days later, I made my way to the house in Turf Lodge not knowing what to expect. When I knocked at the door, a balding man in his forties asked me my name before inviting me inside. He was about 5ft 8ins tall with bright, intelligent eyes.
‘Pleased to meet you, Marty,’ he said, obviously trying to put me at my ease. ‘I’m here to help you in case you ever get picked up by the RUC. My job is to prepare all volunteers in case they get interrogated. You will come and see me a few times and we will go over everything just so that you know exactly what to say and what to do if the RUC ever pick you up and take you to Castlereagh for questioning.’
‘Aye,’ I replied, knowing that I would have to concentrate and remember everything he was telling me so that I could repeat it to Dean later.
Speaking slowly to make sure that I understood everything, the interrogator told me that if I was ever suspected of being involved in any IRA activities the RUC could arrest me and hold me for seven days before being charged or released. He added, ‘Throughout those seven days and nights the CID will question you, taking it in turns to wear you down, trying to catch you out so they can break you.’
‘Their intention will be to break your spirit so that you will tell them everything they want to know; details of operations, of bombings and shootings; the names of other members of your cell; names of any other IRA members, even the names of friends and relations of yours.’
‘Aye, I know,’ I said.
‘But it will be your duty to tell them nothing, absolutely nothing,’ he said, ‘and I’m going to tell you how to do that. That’s why it is very important that you attend these anti-interrogation lectures.’
He continued, ‘Now, listen very carefully. If you are arrested, you will say absolutely nothing and you will never answer any question the CID asks of the Custody Sergeant.
‘When he asks you any questions, tell him this; “When interviewed I will refuse to co-operate but this does not mean that I am guilty. I want Madden & Finucane to represent me.”
I nodded, for I knew that the highly regarded firm of solicitors represented, among their many clients, Republicans and Catholics.
‘Have you got that?’ he asked and I nodded again and repeated the words to him.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now tell me again to make sure.’
I did and he smiled. ‘Good. The IRA is a very strong, determined army. The British Government, the security forces and the RUC have realised that they can never destroy the IRA but, over the years, the IRA leadership has learned that their army has one weakness; the interrogation of our members by the RUC. We have many details of IRA members who have broken under strong police questioning.’
Later, the interrogator told me that the IRA Army Council had been warned of the danger of untrained members being broken during police interviews and, as a result, had decided to introduce the anti-interrogation lectures.
He added, ‘If we can improve the resolve, the will-power of members to resist intensive interrogation by CID officers, then the organisation of the IRA
will be that much stronger.’
The interrogator repeated time and again that under no circumstances must I ever answer any of the questions put to me during any interviews by CID or RUC officers. He instructed me to ask for a solicitor only from the Belfast firm of Madden & Finucane and refuse any other solicitor they might suggest.
During another interrogation lesson, I was told what to expect should I ever be arrested.
‘They will usually come for you early in the morning while you’re still asleep, sometime around five o’clock. They will bang at your door and invade your house making a lot of noise. They will try to confuse you, order you to dress quickly, and come with them immediately.’
‘But you must refuse to do that. You must tell them that you have the right, as you do, to make yourself respectable. Take your time; go to the bathroom and wash and shave, clean your teeth, comb your hair, even splash on some after-shave if you have any. Dress properly in a clean shirt and wear a jacket and a smart pair of trousers. They won’t like it, but fuck them. Take no notice when they try to hurry you. Do you understand?’
‘Aye,’ I replied, ‘I’ll do that. I’ve got some aftershave.’
The interrogator continued, ‘Then the RUC will take you to Castlreagh and put you in a cell. They will leave you there for a few hours before the interrogation officers come to see you. The officers will have known the night before that they are going to interview you and will have had a good breakfast, a shower and a shave and will want to make you seem second-rate compared to them. But, because you will have followed this advice, you will look as smart as they do. They won’t like that. They hope that when they enter your interview room you will be pathetic, unshaven, scruffy, putting you at an immediate disadvantage.’
I listened intently, determined to remember it all.
“Tell them nothing. Never answer one of their questions, no matter how many times they ask you. Don’t look down at the floor and never appear nervous or frightened. Always remember to keep your head up and look them straight in the eye as though remembering their exact identity.
‘I understand,’ I said.
The interrogator told me what to do in my cell during the hours that I wasn’t being interviewed by the police. ‘Exercise, keep fit, walk up and down the cell or the room and keep alert the entire time. Sleep and eat at every opportunity. Whatever food you’re offered, sit down and eat it and try to enjoy it. It will help sustain your energy, help you to resist the bastards’ questions. Some IRA people have refused to eat their food, but that’s stupid, because without food you become weak and vulnerable to their questions. You must never appear tired or sleepy, but always look alert. Never let them see you might be weakening or vulnerable, but show you have a resolve like steel.
‘Before any interview starts, take the opportunity of going to the toilet. After they begin to interview you, they will refuse to let you go to the loo because they know that when someone wants to go desperately they will say almost anything just so they can go. They also realise that when anyone wants to have a shit desperately enough the concentration goes. That’s when you’re vulnerable and they know that. If they refuse to let you go and have a shit then you must take action. Simply take down your strides and shit there and then on the floor in front of them. It will be their fault and they will know it. They hate that.’
‘Really,’ I said, roaring with laughter, ‘shit in front of them?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘right there and then in the interview room. Remember, next time you ask to go to the toilet they won’t say “no”.’
During another lesson, the Interrogator told me what I should do if the police or Special Branch ever started to beat me up while being interviewed.
‘Hit back,’ he said. ‘Give them everything; smash the fuck out of them. Don’t be frightened to hit back, and the harder they hit you, the harder you hit the bastards back again. They know they shouldn’t hit you but they will, especially the nasty bastards, the hard men who are determined to break you.
‘And if they begin to smack you around while another officer holds you then curl up into a ball on the floor if you can and try to protect your head and face. They’ll probably kick the fuck out of you but then you’ve got them. As soon as they stop, demand to see your own doctor. Tell them you refuse to see any other doctor and, if one comes in, tell him that you demand to see your own doctor. Make sure you give his name and address and keep demanding it. It’s your right to have your own doctor, so keep demanding it. That will scare the fucking shit out of them because your doctor will note any marks and injuries you have suffered. That will cause the RUC problems.’
The Interrogator also told me to expect the ‘good cop, bad cop’ routine that I had heard about before. The “good cop” will be your friend, call you “Marty”, tell you that if you answer the questions he will make sure you never have any trouble and that the IRA will never know you said a word. The “bad cop” will shout and swear and threaten and probably hit you, and you must never show that bastard that you are the least bit frightened of him. If you do show weakness, he will realise it and know that in a few days’ time he will break you.’
I was also told that the quickest way to be freed was to say fuck all. The interrogator insisted that if I kept quiet, resisted everything and never answered a single question, then the interviews would only last a few days and the police would free a man far sooner than if they felt they were on the verge of breaking someone. Then the odds would be on being detained for the full seven days.
He added, looking me straight in the eye, ‘Marty, remember; seven days or seven fucking years.’
I passed every detail of the four sessions I had in the Interrogator’s expert hands on to Dean as soon as possible.
‘Tell me everything, Marty, every tiny detail,’ he would say, ‘because this is really important. The more we know about their techniques, the more chance there is of getting round them and the less chance there is of innocent people getting hurt.’
I also told Dean about the infamous IRA Security Teams.
‘They’re evil bastards, Marty. What have you been told about them?’ he asked.
‘I learned that when an IRA member has been picked up and interviewed by the RUC, a special IRA Security Team will sometimes follow them from the moment the man is released from custody. The man doesn’t know he’s being followed, but for two or three days he is watched by members of the team. They take note of everyone he talks to, everywhere he goes, everything he does.
‘A couple of days later he is told to report for questioning. The man goes to a safe house. Inside is total darkness, no lights whatsoever. The man is taken to a room and told to sit down while men in balaclavas question him, asking him a hundred questions about his time inside, the police questioning, the details and, more importantly, his answers.
‘The man is made to feel like a leper, a traitor. They question him harder than the CID ever did. If they think he’s talked or betrayed the cause, then he’s fucking had it. And if they think he’s been turned and become an informant, they will beat the shit out of him, torture him and whatever. And before they’ve finished with him, they will have discovered every tiny piece of information that he gave about members and the IRA operations. If he admits to being turned, then he’s fucked – just a bullet in the back of the head.’
I told Dean that I understood there were two IRA Security Teams, one operating in Belfast, the other in ‘Derry. I also told him that the names of the Team members were kept so secret that even IRA men who had been in the organisation for years had no idea as to their identities.
‘I understand that their main job is to root out those IRA members who are turned during their interrogation and persuaded to become police informers. They have now become a law unto themselves with the power of life and death.’
From the day I took the oath of allegiance and became a fully-fledged member of the IRA, sometime in the autumn of 1989, I found myself working more frequently
for Davy Adams and the IRA’s Belfast Intelligence Unit. He asked me to call at his house once or twice a week, where he would give me details of potential targets he wanted me to reconnoitre.
One of my first tasks was to check out the movements of a Major in the Ulster Defence Regiment (since re-named the Royal Irish Rangers), who lived on the Cregagh Estate in the heart of Protestant Belfast. Davy Adams had been told that this man rode to work each day on his powerful motorbike.
‘I want you to go and take a look at this address,’ Davy said to me as we chatted in the back garden of his house. ‘See if there is any way one of our active service units could put a semtex booby trap in one of the motorcycle’s panniers.’
When he gave me details of the location we would move back inside the house because he did not want anyone to see him poring over a map. We walked into the kitchen where he took out a large map of Belfast and laid it on a work-top. He signalled for me to come over and pointed to a street in the Cregagh area. Throughout, he never spoke a word. He pointed to the exact street with a pen so that I would not make a mistake. Then, using his forefinger, he outlined the number of the house he wanted me to check out.
On those occasions, I too, never spoke a word. When I wasn’t sure of the exact number, I would write it on a scrap of paper and, if correct, he would give me the ‘thumb’s up’ sign, telling me I was correct.
Only when I was leaving and we moved outside his home would he say anything to me, perhaps suggesting that I should check out the target at night time, or whatever was best for the particular operation. On this first occasion, Davy told me to survey the Major’s home at night, check out the panniers on the bike and to make sure we were targeting the right bike by checking the registration number.
The following morning, I phoned Dean and gave him details of the task I had been set, giving the address and all the facts I knew of the UDR Major and the IRA’s intention to place a bomb in the pannier of his motorbike.
Fifty Dead Men Walking Page 12
