Fifty Dead Men Walking

by McGartland, Martin

  My mother knew that something had happened but did not want to frighten Angie and the kids. The fact that there were no records of mine at any of the main casualty hospitals led my mother to think that I may have been kidnapped by the IRA, but she did not want to ask them.

  She enquired at local RUC stations, but no one had any record of my being arrested or reported missing and there had been no reports of any bodies having been found. Finding nothing, she began to believe that I was still alive although, inexplicably, it seemed that I had somehow disappeared.

  The IRA, though, were also searching for me. They sent a team of Sinn Fein and IRA men to my mother’s house to tell her that I seemed to have disappeared, as they had not seen me around for a couple of days. They asked that if she should see me, could she give me a message telling me that the IRA were concerned for me and wanted to know that I was safe and well?

  Little did the IRA know, however, that my mother’s house had been out under 24-hour Special Branch surveillance and everyone visiting her was secretly photographed and identified.

  But my ma became suspicious when the same men also told her to take no notice of any rumours that might be circulating about me, because they were all untrue. When she asked what rumours they might be, they told her that there was some nonsense suggesting that the IRA had spirited me away. In an effort to reassure her, they told her that if I surfaced, she should tell me that the IRA only wanted to check that I was fit and well, and that I should immediately contact them.

  ‘One thing we can tell you, Mrs McGartland,’ one IRA man said to her, ‘we have no intention whatsoever of harming your son.’

  When my mother pressed them for information, they told her, ‘Someone came to speak to Marty and for some reason he jumped out of the window, that’s all we know.’

  She redoubled her efforts to find me.

  It seemed that the IRA were becoming desperate in their search for me. They dispatched one of their prettiest young women to Castlereagh, telling the RUC officer at the front desk that she was my girlfriend, Angie, and she wanted to see me. She said that she had heard rumours that I had been injured in a serious fall, but could find no trace of me in any of the main casualty hospitals. She asked whether the RUC could trace me and let her know where she could see me.

  The ruse nearly worked. Felix broke the good news that Angie had heard rumours of my fall and had asked to see me, and a date was fixed for her to return to Castlereagh where she would be able to meet me.

  Felix warned me that the IRA could have contacted Angie and threatened her in some way, all but forcing her to come to Castlereagh and, more than likely, give me a message warning me that if I didn’t give myself up to the organisation, my friends and family would suffer.

  ‘Would they do that?’ I asked Felix.

  ‘They’ve done it before and they’ll do it again,’ he said. ‘When those bastards want to extract information from someone, they will do anything. Never forget that, Marty.’

  On the appointed day, Felix took me by car to Castlereagh and I was longing to see and hold Angie once more. I had been unable to keep her and the boys out of my mind since I had been in hospital and was desperate to see them all once again, to check that they were OK and to show that I loved them all.

  Felix had never met Angie but he knew she was young, dark-haired and good looking. And so was the girl waiting to see me. But he took no chances. He had arranged for the girl to be sitting in an interview room with a two-way mirror and told me that, before I could speak to Angie, I would first have to identify her. I looked through the glass at the young woman purporting to be Angie. I had never seen her before in my life.

  I was bitterly disappointed, but happy that Felix had not permitted me to talk to the girl for I, too, now felt that I would have been given an appalling choice; give yourself up or your family will suffer the consequences. Now the girl would have to return and tell her IRA masters she had not been permitted to see me.

  Once again, however, it would be as a result of the publication of Ian Phoenix’s diary in 1996 that I discovered what the security chiefs believed had happened the day I was kidnapped. A surveillance team was tasked to watch ‘Carol’s’ movements. On 8 August, he was told by the Provisional’s to go to Connolly House, a Sinn Fein office on the Andersonstown Road in West Belfast. It was assumed that he was to be ‘debriefed’ by the Civil Administration Team, the Provisionals’ much feared internal security unit. The surveillance team was on the spot and observed him leaving a short time later. He went across the road to the Busy Bee shopping complex. The surveillance team reported back to TCG Belfast [Tasking Co-ordination Group] that ‘Carol’ was in the supermarket. They were mistaken. [He] had been snatched from the Busy Bee car park, bound and gagged, and whisked to a flat in nearby Twinbrook. There he was guarded by two Provisionals who were awaiting the arrival of the interrogators.

  Fortunately, and quite fortuitously, a helicopter was passing over the roof of the block of flats where ‘Carol’ was being held. Meanwhile, an army foot patrol was observed outside. According to Phoenix, “This caused the captors to panic” and they untied their prisoner, expecting the security forces to arrive at any moment. ‘Carol’ did not wait to see if he would be saved. He flung himself head-first through the window … landing on his head …

  Sheer good luck had saved him from the fate of dozens of others who have suffered torture and brutal death at the hands of the [Provisional] IRA’s security team. Extract from Phoenix; Policing the Shadows -

  By Susan Phoenix and Jack Holland (Hodder & Stoughton) 1996. I read those words from the diary of Ian Phoenix over and over again, for here was a man of experience, a man at the top of Northern Ireland’s anti-terrorist intelligence organisation, admitting that very little had been done to watch me from the moment I had entered Connolly House where they knew I was to be ‘debriefed’ by the IRA’s Civil Administration Team. He admitted that they had not seen me leave with my two well-known IRA henchmen, and that no SB car had tracked me to Twinbrook – he finally accepted that only ‘sheer good luck’ had saved my life.

  Senior Special Branch officers had known what was about to happen to me, that I probably faced gruelling interrogation and appalling torture, and yet nothing had been done to protect me; no officer had authorised for me to have been picked up and taken away to a secure house. Indeed, I had been encouraged to attend the meeting at Connolly House, firm in the knowledge that I would be under constant police surveillance, and that nothing would happen to me. In reality, I had been left to my own devices.

  I wondered, as I read that passage in the book, how many of the dozens of other alleged agents had been left to fall into IRA hands, questioned, tortured and shot because no action had been taken by the Special Branch senior officers to protect the men and women who risked their lives daily, providing the information that was so vital in the war against the IRA.

  It seemed to me unbelievable that senior officers could treat agents with such disdain. They encouraged the closest relationships and deep trust to develop between agents and their handlers, knowing that, in the end, these relationships would count for nothing. The decision of senior officers would always hold sway, and if that meant sacrificing agents’ identities and sometimes their lives, then so be it.

  When people such as me were persuaded, for whatever reason, to work for the SB and the Government, nothing like this was ever explained. I was never told that I would be sacrificed like a pawn in a game of chess whenever senior officers decided I was no longer a vital part of their larger game plan.

  For many months, I became angry whenever I permitted myself to think deeply of how little I, and all other agents, had meant to the top-brass in the SAS, MI5, Special Branch and Military Intelligence officers who formed the Tasking Co-ordination Group, the overall planners and decision-makers who conducted the secret war against the IRA. Time would eventually soften my anger, but I would always despise them.

  I remained in Palace Barracks
for two months while I recuperated and, with the help of physiotherapists, regained the use of my left arm and shoulder. New clothes were bought for me and, with Felix and Mo, I would occasionally be taken out for meals in restaurants all over Northern Ireland. We would chat and discuss past events, but always tried to keep the conversation light, never examining the bombings and killings that had been a part of my daily life for four years.

  Both Felix and Mo offered me friendship and seemed keen to spoil me, to build my confidence and help me face my uncertain future. Whenever we left the security of the Barracks, we would always be provided with an armed escort and my two Branch handlers would always carry shoulder-holstered hand-guns. They were taking no further chances.

  After a week or more, Felix told me that my days working as an agent for the Special Branch in Northern Ireland were finally over. He also broke the news, which I had suspected, that I would no longer be able to live in the Province, and that he would be arranging a totally new identity for me, accommodation in England, and a lump sum which had been granted by the authorities to help me through the first few months of my new life.

  He also told me that I had no option but to forget all my relatives and friends in Northern Ireland, and that I had to realise that because of the IRA’s international contacts, I would have to accept that my life would always be at risk. He told me that once I had left the Province I would be on my own, and they would not be able to guarantee my life, nor the lives of Angie and the boys if they should join me.

  I did not know what to say. Sitting alone in the Barracks, day after day, I missed them so much. I knew that Angie was very close to her family and would be loathe to leave Belfast, and I asked Felix if he would go and ask her what she wanted to do.

  Angie was in a quandary, not knowing whether to stay in Belfast with her family and friends or to move to the mainland with me and see whether she could accept the life of secrecy that she knew we would face. It would mean never trusting friends, having to live a lie, moving from place to place and fearing that, at any moment, an IRA unit might strike.

  Felix told me of the possible dangers for Angie and her family if she ever met me in the Province, because if the IRA discovered we were seeing each other, Angie, or perhaps other members of her family, risked being kidnapped or beaten.

  In October 1991, I left Northern Ireland with two armed Special Branch officers. We took the ferry from Larne and then drove to my new home, a flat in the north of England which had been bought and furnished for me.

  I was provided with telephone numbers and introduced to two Special Branch officers who would become my local contacts. When the men left my flat that night, I was feeling fit and well but very lonely and could barely wait for Angie and the children to join me.

  Four weeks later Angie, Martin and Podraig arrived. I felt like laughing with happiness and crying with the sheer emotion of seeing them once again, fit and well. Angie looked gorgeous with a wonderful smile on her face, but I could tell she was somewhat tense. The boys, then aged nearly two years old and nine months, had no idea what was going on. That first night, I went into their bedroom and watched them sleeping peacefully, oblivious in their innocence.

  ‘Do you think we’ve done the right thing?’ Angie asked as we ate supper that night. ‘I’ve never been out of Belfast before.’

  I tried to reassure her, to tell her that all would be well now that our family was together again. I told her that Martin and Podraig would have a more settled, less dangerous future in England, and that was important.

  Christmas 1991 was like magic. We rented a cottage in the middle of the country, roasted a turkey and enjoyed a bottle of wine, and sat around a log fire opening the presents we had bought for the boys. They didn’t, of course, really understand about Santa Claus, but they enjoyed the toys and the sweets and the chocolates.

  I sat and watched the family on the floor surrounded by Christmas wrapping paper, their eyes shining in the reflection of the fire, and a wave of happiness and emotion surged through me. Angie now seemed happy and loving and understanding, and every time I heard her laugh I felt relieved, happy that she was back to her old, bubbly self, enjoying her life with the children and me. And every night, as I held her in my arms and kissed her goodnight, I would thank God.

  EPILOGUE

  AFTER A FEW MONTHS OF LIFE IN ENGLAND, however, Angie became increasingly homesick for Belfast, her family and her friends.

  She also feared what might happen to Martin and Podraig, cut off from their family and forced to lead an itinerant life, moving every year or so from house to house, town to town and city to city, never being able to make permanent friends, stay at the same school, put down roots or live a normal, ordinary life.

  And Angie understood that the family would always be running from the IRA, having to keep one step ahead of them, and she felt that was not fair on her or the boys.

  The more we discussed the matter the more I came to the same conclusion. I alone had made the decision to work for the Special Branch and had never once asked her or discussed the matter with her. She had known that I had joined the IRA, but had not known why. And she had never known that I had been recruited as a British agent to infiltrate the IRA.

  Now, I knew I should let Angie return to Belfast and her family, taking the boys with her so that they could enjoy a settled life. I didn’t like the idea of losing Angie and the boys, but I knew that there was no alternative.

  Before leaving Ireland, Felix had advised me that if ever the time came when it might be necessary for me to live apart from Martin and Podraig, then they should be told, in due course, that their father had died and that they would never see him again.

  He told me that from experiences with other people in similar circumstances, it seemed better, especially for young children, to believe that their father had died, as indeed many young Northern Irish children had lost their parents in bombings and shootings since the Troubles began.

  In early 1992, Angie boarded the boat which would take her and the boys back to Ireland to begin a new life amongst family and friends.

  Within 24 hours I had moved, with Special Branch help, to a new life in another part of England, to a flat I had never seen, in a street I had never known, in a town where I was a stranger. That first night I sat on my new bed in a strange room and thought of my mother and Angie, Martin and Podraig and the fact that I would never see any of them again. The tears flowed and I could not sleep. Throughout the night, my thoughts were with them, thinking of the good times we had enjoyed together and of my sons asleep in their beds, knowing that I would never see them again.

  Three times since then I have changed my identity and have moved not only homes but to different towns and cities. One day, I hope to be able to forget my past and live in peace, buy a house and hold down a steady job. Maybe even meet someone who has no idea of my past and start a new family. But that’s for the future.

  Three years after leaving Belfast, a letter addressed to me arrived at my mother’s home. Inside was a Roman Catholic mass card, usually sent by relatives and friends when a person they know well has died. This one read;

  Sincere sympathy

  Lord, grant eternal rest to the soul of thy faithful servant and comfort and console those who have been bereaved.

  The Holy Sacrifice of the Mass will be offered for the repose of the soul of Marty McGartland, with Sincere Sympathy from your friends in Connelly House, Crumlin Road and Long Kesh.

  The mass card was signed by Reverend Patrick Crowley, Celebrant.

  Connelly House, of course, is the Sinn Fein headquarters in Belfast; Crumlin Road, was the holding centre where suspected terrorists were remanded in custody; and Long Kesh, the jail where convicted terrorists are imprisoned. It was obvious that my so-called friends were members of the IRA. It was their way of informing me that I had not been forgotten, neither would they forget me until after my death. But the cowardly IRA would not stop there.

  In July 1996, nearl
y five years after I had left the Province, my brother Joseph was at home in Moyard, West Belfast, with his girlfriend, Tracey, and Kirsty, their four-year-old daughter, when there was a knock at the door.

  Five men, wearing balaclavas and white gloves, two wielding hand-guns, pushed their way into the house. ‘Irish Republican Army,’ shouted one and grabbed Joseph. They pinned him to the floor, one man standing on his back while others took off his socks and forced them into his mouth. Two other men taped his arms and legs and bound his face with masking tape so he could hardly breathe.

  He was bundled into the back of a van and taken for a short ride. They dragged him from the van, tied a rope around his ankles and hung him upside down from a fence. Then they began beating his shins, his ankles and his thighs with iron bars. They then moved up his body, smashing his arms with a baseball bat and hitting his body with a plank of wood with nails embedded in it. He thought that the beating lasted a full 15 minutes.

  The beating left Joseph with two shattered legs, four broken ribs and two broken arms. He would be unable to walk for three months. No reason was ever given to Joseph McGartland as to why he had been so severely beaten by an IRA punishment squad. But he knew why; he happened to be my brother and, according to the cowardly code of IRA punishment squads, that was sufficient justification to inflict a terrible beating on a totally innocent young man.

  In September 1990, a group of courageous men and women formed FAIT, Families Against Intimidation and Terror, and they take every opportunity to condemn and to highlight lawless beatings, some of which are carried out as personal vendettas. But the so-called punishment squads of the IRA and the Loyalists, groups of mindless, cowardly thugs, continue to terrorise their sectarian communities with impunity.

  For four years, I had tried, in some small way, to play a part in bringing some form of security to the people of Northern Ireland, trying to save the lives of innocent people, both Catholic and Protestant alike, in the hope that, one day, the Province would enjoy a future without guns and bombs, and without the unbridled violence of the despicable punishment squads.