Fifty Dead Men Walking

by McGartland, Martin

  On one of these occasions, on meeting Paul I was introduced to his girlfriend, a slim, short, blond-haired woman in her 40s who had obviously taken good care of herself. Davy explained that the woman was a celebrated actress who had appeared in many plays in Ireland as well as a number of television films in the UK. Remarkably, she was also the mother of seven children.

  At one of my regular meetings with Felix and Mo, I mentioned that I had met a woman with Davy Adams, for whom he showed a certain respect, as though she was a woman of some importance. Neither Felix nor Mo took much notice of what I was telling them, nodding and taking the occasional note.

  ‘What did you say was this woman’s name?’ one of them asked.

  ‘I didn’t,’ I replied.

  ‘Well, did you find out her name?’ Mo said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you remember it?’ Felix asked.

  ‘Of course I can,’ I replied, ‘do you think I’ve no brain in my head?’

  ‘What was it?’ he asked again.

  ‘Rosena Brown,’ I said.

  I had barely finished telling them her surname when they yelled ‘Rosena Brown! In unison, and turned to look at me in astonishment.

  ‘Yes,’ I repeated, ‘Rosena Brown.’

  ‘She is perhaps one of the most important IRA operators we have ever had to track,’ Felix said. ‘She’s dynamite. She has been questioned time and again by our people, put under tremendous pressure, but has never said a word.’

  He went on, ‘Marty, I can’t impress on you how important she could be. She’s a dangerous woman. We have been trying to get someone close to her for years but we’ve never succeeded. Get as close to her as you possibly can and keep us informed.

  CHAPTER NINE

  SOME DAYS AFTER MY CONVERSATION WITH FELIX AND MO, I was given an opportunity to establish some sort of relationship with Rosena Brown when Davy Adams asked me to accompany her to Andersonstown. She was going to visit an IRA activist.

  I took her to the address and waited outside in the car for ten minutes. I had no idea whom she was seeing, but I knew that the Branch would be tracking my car and would probably discover the name of the person living at the address.

  On her return, Rosena said, ‘Marty, would you do me a favour?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, happy to maintain the relationship with one of the IRA’s most important operators, ‘what is it?’

  ‘Would you take me to the city centre, because I have to meet someone there?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, ‘but I don’t want to take the car because of all the parking restrictions and RUC check points. It would be better if we went in a black taxi.’

  ‘That’s fine, thanks.’

  Rosena Brown always dressed smartly, usually in new jeans and a fresh, clean shirt or smart sweater. Her hair always appeared well groomed, her make-up was applied immaculately with only a hint of lipstick, and her nails were manicured. She also smoked, although she wasn’t a chain-smoker, and she would carry small, smart hand-bags attached by a long strap around her neck.

  Seconds after the taxi dropped us at the rank in Castle Street, Rosena and I were nearly knocked over by another taxi which was speeding to join the rank. Rosena had to jump, literally jump, out of the way of the taxi, otherwise she would have been hit.

  Rosena put her hand to her heart, realising that she had narrowly escaped being run down, ‘Jesus!’ she said. ‘What an idiot. He would have hit me if I hadn’t jumped out of the way.’

  I shouted at the driver, ‘You fuckin’ dickhead! Watch where you’re going.’

  He replied, ‘Shut the fuck up,’ as he parked his taxi in the rank. I turned and walked up to him as Rosena said, ‘Don’t worry, Marty, come, let him be.’

  But the driver had annoyed me, for he was swearing at us when he had been entirely at fault. I walked up to the driver’s window.

  ‘What are you slobbering about, big mouth?’ I asked him as I stood with my face only a few inches away from him.

  He must have realised that I was furious, as he tried to apologise saying that he hadn’t seen us crossing the road.

  Rosena came and pulled at my sleeve, urging me to leave the taxi driver alone. But I wanted to have the last word. Seeing that he was wearing glasses, I said, ‘You should get yourself a pair of fucking binoculars instead of those glasses, then you might see people. Are you fuckin’ blind or something?’

  I was on the verge of thumping him in the face but the driver looked away and said nothing, so I walked away with Rosena.

  ‘You must take care,’ Rosena advised me as we walked down the street, ‘you’ve got a terrible temper.’

  During the following few weeks and months, I would sometimes see Rosena every other day. Sometimes I would be sent to her home, a terraced council house in Cliftonville. The house was tidy and the three younger children whom I saw from time to time always appeared well behaved. I would often see the children cleaning and tidying the house which surprised me. I could tell that they respected their mother, never giving her cheek and always appearing to be obedient and polite.

  There were those in the IRA, however, who were becoming concerned about Rosena’s safety. They feared that she could be easily targeted and executed by the loyalist paramilitaries, because the area where she lived was surrounded by staunch Protestants.

  On one occasion, I heard Brian Gillen, who was then head of the IRA Belfast Brigade, speaking of his concern for Rosena. ‘I think we should try and get her moved,’ he said, ‘she’s far too exposed where she lives. She’s a sitting duck in that house.’

  Senior IRA men knew that it would be a brilliant coup for the Loyalists if they managed to kill her. It would also be highly embarrassing for the IRA, for Rosena was known as one of the organisation’s most important and successful intelligence officers.

  Extensive media interest centred on a court case in March 1990, when Rosena Brown had been named as the IRA intelligence officer who had persuaded a principal officer in the infamous H Blocks of the Maze Prison to give her information, including the home addresses, of fellow prison officers.

  Belfast Crown Court was told that Christopher John Hanna, aged 45, had passed the information to Rosena Brown, knowing it would be used to murder fellow officers. Rosena obtained the address of one of Hanna’s colleagues, Brian Armour, 48, Vice-Chairman of the Northern Ireland Prison Officers’ Association, and passed the information to an IRA active service unit. They checked out the officer’s address and placed a booby-trap bomb under his car in October, 1988. The following morning, as Brian Armour drove to work, the bomb exploded, killing him instantly. The following day, a bomb was placed under the car of Thomas Murtagh, the Governor of a young offenders’ centre near Belfast, but it failed to detonate.

  In the court case, Mr Ronald Appleton, QC, for the prosecution, said Hanna had collected information about fellow prison officers and passed them to a woman he knew as ‘Anne’. Hanna told a fellow prison officer that he had been meeting the woman, described as a ‘Mata Hari-type spy’. After Rosena had picked him up in a hotel bar one night, they would kiss and cuddle in a lay-by, or meet and chat in a cemetery where his parents were buried. He told his fellow officer that he believed Anne to be a ‘Provo’.

  Hanna claimed that he was acting under duress, after being intimidated by threats against his daughter and grandson. He was jailed for life.

  The court was told that Rosena was questioned several times by Special Branch officers but was never charged. It was also stated in court that the Special Branch went as far as trying to recruit Rosena as a double agent but with no success. During questioning, Rosena would sit saying nothing, refusing to answer questions thrown at her. The IRA’s anti-interrogation lectures would have prepared her for all types of interrogation, and she had obviously learned their lessons well.

  Early in 1991, I was asked by one of the IRA’s intelligence officers to go and see Rosena at Whiterock Further Education Centre, situated in my old school, St
Thomas’s.

  I was always impressed by how polite Rosena would be to everyone, and sometimes I wondered if there was a touch of snobbery about her politeness, engendered, perhaps, by her years as a successful actress.

  ‘Nice to see you, Marty,’ she would say, in a friendly, genuine voice. ‘How are you?’

  It wasn’t the usual way people addresses each other in West Belfast. Her politeness made me more respectful and polite as well and, whenever we were together, I made a conscious effort to behave well. ‘What can I do for you?’ I asked.

  ‘Will you be able to take this to Davy?’ she asked, taking from her mouth what seemed like a small, screwed up piece of paper, not much larger than an aspirin tablet, wrapped in cling film.

  ‘Aye,’ I said, taking the note from her.

  As I drove back to Davy’s house, I thought hard about whether I should open the note and read it. The fact that Rosena had kept the note in her mouth made me think it was of some considerable importance, something that the Special Branch would dearly like to scrutinise. But I realised that Davy would probably have been able to tell if I had tampered with the cling film, and that risk was not worth taking.

  I decided to be cautious and immediately took the note to Davy and, to my surprise, he opened and read the contents of the note in front of me. In that instant, I realised the considerable trust that Davy Adams now placed in me. Though pretending to take no interest, I watched intently and saw that the message had been written on two cigarette papers glued together.

  After a few moments reflection, Davy said, ‘Marty, I want you to do me a favour. Go to the nursery in the Turf Lodge district and give this to a man whom I think you know – Matt Lundy. It’s urgent.’

  As he handed back the cigarette paper, I noticed that he had not re-sealed the cling film. In the past, I had seen other top secret IRA notes delivered in this way but usually, when the contents were highly confidential, the cling film would be slightly burned with a match or lighted cigarette, totally sealing the note. But not this time.

  Five minutes down the road I pulled into the kerb and gingerly opened the note. It contained a list of no less than a dozen names, addresses and car registration numbers of RUC officers. Some of the addresses had also been given post codes. At the top of the note were the three letters ‘RUC’. This, indeed, was dynamite intelligence and I realised that all those officers were now at serious risk.

  Several options raced through my mind. I thought of stopping and phoning Castlereagh, but realised that would be suicidal, for if some IRA man spotted me in a phone box in that republican area, suspicions would be aroused. I thought of copying down the list of names and addresses but I knew I didn’t have time to stop, buy a pen and paper and sit for perhaps ten minutes diligently writing down the list. I also knew that I had to get to Lundy’s school quickly, because if Davy Adams phoned and asked whether I had arrived safely, arriving late would have aroused serious suspicions. It was only a seven-minute drive and I had already stopped for two minutes to read the note.

  I had no option but to drive on. I could see that Matt Lundy was surprised to see me for he obviously had no idea I was a member of the organisation. I handed him the note. At first he seemed reticent to take it but when I explained to him that Davy Adams had sent me he happily accepted it.

  Immediately, I drove to a safe phone box outside the republican area and called the Branch, telling them I needed to see someone as a matter of urgency in the usual meeting place.

  ‘I had to see you,’ I told Felix and Mo as I climbed into their car. ‘You’ll never believe what’s just happened. I met Rosena Brown and she gave me bit of paper to take to Davy. He opened it, and after reading it told me to take the note immediately to Matt Lundy.’

  ‘Did you manage to read the note?’ Mo asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘it contained the names of about twelve RUC men with the addresses, and the car registration numbers. Some names also had post codes. I believe this means that Rosena has access to someone who has a computer with details of RUC personnel.’

  I could see from their reaction that both Felix and Mo were extremely concerned with the news. And they even seemed a little annoyed that I hadn’t taken a copy of the note, because it was obvious that the IRA now intended to target those officers, who were now at serious risk.

  ‘Give us a break,’ I said. ‘If I’d had the time I would have copied the note, but that would have been far too risky in the middle of Turf Lodge.’

  They nodded in agreement for they knew I was right.

  A few days later, they came to the conclusion that Rosena may have formed a relationship with an RUC officer who was supplying her with information, the same way as she had persuaded Hanna, the prison officer, to provide her with names and addresses. They also asked me if I thought there was any possibility of me retrieving or even just seeing the note again.

  ‘Go and fuck yourself,’ I replied, angry that they should even ask me to risk my neck to that extent. But I gave Felix the benefit of the doubt, believing that he had probably been put under pressure to have a sight of the note by one of his superior officers.

  Throughout the early months of 1991, my IRA cell was becoming more active. One evening, a young woman knocked at the door of my flat and gave me a piece of paper with an address written on it. Speaking in a whisper, she said, ‘Marty, you have to go here at eight o’clock.’

  This was normal practice for calling members to meetings of IRA cells. I left immediately to drive to the meeting at Gortna Mona in Turf Lodge, and after ten minutes everyone had arrived.

  Spud pulled the phone socket out of the wall. ‘Why did you do that?’ Peter asked.

  ‘Because the Branch can listen in to our conversation if you leave the socket in,’ he explained.

  He said that the cell needed dumps in which to store gear – explosives, guns and ammunition – and he wanted everyone to find two or three places in which to store the weapons that the cell was beginning to acquire.

  After 30 minutes or so, the meeting ended and Spud told everyone to leave the house separately, one or two at a time, some using the front door, others the back.

  As I was about to leave, Spud stopped me. ‘Marty, can you stay behind for a minute?’

  ‘Aye,’ I said, wondering why I had been singled out.

  ‘Have you got your car?’

  ‘Aye,’ I said. ‘What do you want?’

  He explained that IRA intelligence had given him the name and address of an RUC Inspector who lived off the Antrim Road in Lisburn. The Inspector was understood to travel most days along back roads from Lisburn to Belfast in a blue Vauxhall Belmont, which he never garaged at night but left in his driveway.

  Spud gave me £20 petrol money and I drove to Lisburn that night to check out the Inspector’s house. Fifty yards from the end of the street, I saw the Vauxhall parked in the driveway. The following day, I returned to the Inspector’s house. The car had gone, but as I surveyed the house I saw two lovely little girls, not yet teenagers, both with blond hair, playing in the driveway.

  I looked at the two girls with warmth and happiness in my heart for I was confident that, now I had become involved in this IRA operation, there would be no way that I would let their father die, nor would there be any risk to either of those two innocent children. As I drove back home, I pondered how IRA or loyalist bombers could go through with their evil work having come face to face with their victims’ children.

  I returned a third time to the house, this time at night, and saw his car parked in the drive. It seemed obvious that he had a regular police job with regular hours, which would make him a sitting target for any bomber. I reported back to Spud that the Inspector checked under his car each morning, in the hope that Spud would tell me to forget the operation. But he didn’t.

  He suggested that we would need a car thief to show is how to open the passenger door of the car, silently, so that a booby trap could be placed under the driver’s seat. By tamperin
g with the passenger door, Spud hoped the Inspector would not notice when getting into his car.

  I became concerned that Spud intended to carry out the bombing in the immediate future and notified the Special Branch to treat the planned operation as a matter of urgency.

  They took immediate action, moving the Inspector and his family to a new house. When the IRA bomber returned to survey the house, there was a ‘For Sale’ notice outside. The house was empty.

  A week or so later, I was contacted again and told that Spud, my new boss, needed to see me urgently. It seemed he was taking up more and more of my time.

  ‘We have a problem,’ Spud told me as soon as I reached the agreed meeting place.

  ‘Do you need driving somewhere?’ I asked, because Spud would often ask me to carry messages or people from place to place around Belfast.

  ‘No,’ he replied, ‘nothing like that. This is a major problem.’

  I wondered what on earth Spud was worrying about, acting mysteriously and yet wanting me to become involved. I smelt danger.

  He told me that a couple of nights earlier, two members of our Active Service Unit had burgled an RUC officer’s house outside Ballymena and had stolen his rifle, hiding it in a hedgerow on the edge of a field near his home. The plan had been to take the rifle, hide it nearby, and then return a couple of days later and shoot the peeler when he arrived home at night, using his own rifle. But the two-man IRA unit team had lost their bottle and were frightened to return. They believed that the peeler had notified his senior officers of the theft and that the SAS were lying in wait for the thieves to return.