None Shall Divide Us

by Michael Stone

  Two months later the Brigadier for Londonderry was dead. The IRA shot him as he sat in his living room talking to two RUC detectives who were there to warn him about his personal safety. The IRA active-service unit stood at a wall and shot through the window. The two detectives lay on the ground. They didn’t give chase and they didn’t return fire. Tucker had the Brigadier for Londonderry killed.

  Tucker died in October 1995 from a massive heart attack while playing pool in Millisle. His death notices made interesting reading. At the time the young Johnny Adair was in charge of the UDA’s C Company in the Lower Shankill, and his battalion placed one as coming from Tucker’s ‘friends in Tenant Street and Ladas Drive’, two well-known Belfast RUC stations. I am glad Tucker Lyttle is dead. Like Jim Craig, he bastardised the UDA. He was a career Loyalist, feeding the press, meeting Republicans and meeting his police handlers.

  13

  THE BIG BALL IS ROLLING

  ENNISKILLEN CONTINUED TO WEIGH HEAVY ON MY MIND AND NOW THAT JOHN MCMICHAEL WAS DEAD I FELT IT WAS UP TO ME TO CONTINUE THE WORK HE STARTED AND AVENGE THE DEATHS OF INNOCENT CIVILIANS. By early 1988 there still had been no retaliation for the atrocity, but I knew it was only a matter of time. I wanted Republicans to pay. I wanted something so terrible it would be for ever stamped on their collective heart. It had to be something spectacular and unforgettable, something they would remember for generations to come.

  I continued to stalk Republicans whose names and details appeared on intelligence files given to me by UFF intelligence officers. I continued to pursue my master plan: to use a high-profile Republican as bait and lure his comrades to his funeral. Sooner or later, luck and fate would be on my side. I had also adopted a strict new set of personal rules. It was at this time that I decided I would keep Tucker Lyttle out of the loop. He would never know what my plans were and so wouldn’t be in a position to compromise any more operations or my security.

  I set my sights on John Joseph Davey. He was a sixty-year-old Sinn Fein councillor. Davey was married with three children and lived a life steeped in Republican traditions. In the 1950s and 1970s he was interred in Long Kesh. In his later years he was an active and devoted member of Sinn Fein and a well-known local politician on Magherafelt District Council. I had seen his intelligence file, which contained the usual assortment of photographs and video images, but one picture caught my eye. It was a large black and white photo of him carrying the coffin of an IRA man from Toome who drove off a bridge while being chased by the security forces. There were also notes from speeches Davey made about ‘driving Orange scum into the sea’. He was an old-school Republican but a target. An old-fashioned family man who had a routine, he always returned home for his meals. I would exploit this window of opportunity. A weekday in early February was decided for the sanction.

  Davey’s home was in the middle of the countryside, surrounded by fields. It was miles from anywhere. I wanted to strike as he left the house. I would disable his car with a Sterling sub-machine gun. The Ruger pistol would deliver the death shots. The telephone wires linking his family to the outside world were cut to allow me extra time to escape from the scene. I hid in the bushes surrounding the remote house, waiting for Davey to appear. He appeared in the pool of light that illuminated his front door, got into his car and drove into the lane. I waited for the Sterling to start rattling, but it didn’t. It had jammed. This gave Davey a chance to escape with his life. I fired shots from the Ruger but his early IRA training kicked in and he rolled away from the car in the defensive manoeuvre and, although I kept firing, no bullets struck his body. I ran after him, but an alarm went off, then lights came on, so I disappeared into the dark.

  Almost a year to the day later, Davey was shot dead by the Mid-Ulster brigade of the UVF. He was ambushed near his home after attending a council meeting. The gunman had been blooded by me and was my back-up man on my failed attempt on Davey’s life. The young gunman hid behind a pillar and opened up with an AK47. Davey was cut to shreds. I got the news when I was on remand in the solitary wing of Crumlin Road jail. I was proud my protégé went back and finished the job. He even carried out the hit to the last detail, as instructed by me a year earlier. He torched the car and left the weapon in the burning wreck. The associate who supplied the weapon didn’t want it back. He had a lot of munitions at his disposal.

  After Davey, I turned my attention to John Augustin O’Kane. I was determined to have my target as bait for a high-profile Republican funeral. Farmer O’Kane was from Kilrea, County Armagh, and lived with Davey’s sister, Annalena. He had a twenty-seven-acre farm on the outskirts of the village. O’Kane only occupied the farm dwelling during the lambing season, but during the rest of the year he paid regular visits. He kept a cock and hens in one shed and there was animal feed and dog kennels in another. A third outbuilding was used for rearing chickens.

  I constructed a bomb in Belfast. It was a percussion-cap grenade that I intended attaching with a hook and wire to the door of the henhouse. On the inside of the doorframe, I fixed a small hook to the wood. I then attached the wire to a bolt at the back of the grenade’s fly-off levers, tested the tension of the wire to make sure the device detonated at the exact moment after O’Kane pushed open the door. I’d set a nine-second delay, so it would explode when he was deep inside the shed. Things didn’t go according to plan. O’Kane didn’t push open the door, but Stephen Kennedy, his nephew, did and the device exploded, causing eye injuries. I was surprised to find out later that there were also kids at the farm at the time. I didn’t see any on my dry runs, but that day happened to be a school holiday. They weren’t physically hurt, but all the same I had angry words for my contacts.

  One year later, Kennedy lifted a bail of hay at his farm. It had been booby-trapped with an RDG5 grenade by a unit I had trained. As he moved the bail he heard the grenade click and ran for his life. He escaped serious injury for a second time.

  The Game

  Dad’s resting after dinner, gone the hard day’s toil.

  Manually breaking the earth, rhythmically

  shovelling the soil.

  The television is humming as he slumbers in his chair.

  Mum’s gone to run an errand, so he’d better beware.

  Two mischievous little eyes watch in a calculating way.

  It’s young Darryl aged four, he’s determined to play.

  Armed with weapons of plastic, a gun and a knife.

  Man’s well-rehearsed ritual, in the taking of life.

  Darryl wants to have fun, so he plans his attack.

  He’ll pounce on his quarry with a punch and a smack.

  Pick the right moment, when he’s deep in his slumber.

  A scream and a shout as he strikes Dad like thunder.

  That instinctive reaction wakes Dad with a start.

  ‘Christ, it’s only the nipper’ as hand goes to heart.

  The youngster, now puzzled, beats a hasty retreat.

  Dad looks angry, as he gets to his feet.

  The game now commences, mission search and destroy.

  Both hysterical with laughter, this man and his boy.

  The battle is relentless, over chairs, under beds.

  An inevitable conclusion, poor Dad lies dead.

  Those imaginary projectiles, from a toy plastic gun

  Have concluded this battle, the victor – the son.

  The deceased playing possum is refusing to budge.

  Darryl kneels by his father, first a touch, then a nudge.

  The boy is frightened by stillness,

  not sure what he’s done.

  ‘I was only playing, Daddy, it was only fun.’

  His pleas go unheeded, gone the fun and the joy.

  So cruel to torment his beautiful boy.

  ‘Please get up, Daddy, please don’t die.’

  A surge of emotion, he has started to cry.

  Comforting arms embrace him, Dad’s eyes

  fill with tears.

  A re-enactment of realit
y. Damned rebellious years.

  14

  CHAIN REACTION

  I DIDN’T GET MY REPUBLICAN BAIT, BUT FATE WAS TO DEAL ME AN AMAZING HAND ON 6 MARCH 1988. IRONICALLY, THE BRITISH GOVERNMENT WOULD SET ME UP WITH THE PERFECT SCENARIO, THREE DEAD IRA HEROES. The SAS shot dead the three in Gibraltar. The two men and a woman were planning a murderous attack on innocent people. The British government said the target was a military band that played in front of the Governor’s residence during the ceremonial changing of the guard, but men, women and children bystanders would have been caught in the blast. It said the soldiers acted because they were in danger. The dead IRA members – Sean Savage, Mairead Farrell and Danny McCann – were posing as holidaymakers on the Rock. Rumours circulated that there was a fourth member of the active-service unit, who fled for her life when the shooting started.

  The authorities made political capital out of the Gibraltar incident. Praise was heaped on the SAS men for killing three terrorists who were out to take human life. The government showed the IRA who was boss, and then came the embarrassment when no weapons or bombs were found in the car. A device was found the next day, in a car in nearby Marbella, but the SAS still came under fire, accused of having a licence to kill. The three deaths on the Rock became a notorious propaganda weapon for the IRA, and the Republican movement has never forgotten it.

  Those deaths had an impact on my associates and myself. We were pleased the British Army’s elite had eliminated three ruthless killers and saved scores of innocent lives. We were glad when Sinn Fein had problems getting the bodies home. Its leadership had to plead with the Irish government for a specially chartered plane after Spanish ground staff refused to handle the bodies. I listened to every media broadcast and discovered they would be flown to Dublin and taken by road to Belfast. I hoped Loyalists would turn out by the thousand and throw missiles at the cortège, and they did. They threw bricks and missiles from overhead motorway walkways.

  I scanned the death notices in the Irish News for details of the triple funeral. The funeral service would form the backbone of my operation. The three gunned down in Gibraltar would be buried with full military honours at the Republican Plot in Milltown cemetery, in the heart of West Belfast. This is Sinn Fein/IRA’s cenotaph, where the remains of many Republican soldiers are buried, a historic and emotional place for all Republicans. Martin McGuinness would be there and so would Gerry Adams. The mourners would be a who’s who of the IRA. The leadership was about to get the shock of its life.

  I went to see a senior member of the UDA and told him I wanted official clearance to undertake a special operation. I said the sanction was in retaliation for the Poppy Day massacre at Enniskillen and other atrocities carried out by the IRA. The brigadier said he needed to know the exact details of what I had in mind, including the names of the targets, where it would happen and my weapons of choice. I refused point-blank to tell him anything. I told the brigadier the operation was ‘something special’.

  He insisted he needed more information. I stood firm and refused to give any details, saying my personal safety depended on the confidentiality of the operation. When he said again he needed more information before he could OK the sanction, I told him: McGuinness and Adams, within ten days. He promised to come back to me within twenty-four hours of consulting his colleagues. When he came back he said I had official UFF clearance to sanction Adams and McGuinness. He also informed me of the official codeword for claiming responsibility, but I would never have claimed responsibility. I wasn’t stupid. I knew that calls were made to the Samaritans and newsrooms and that those calls were recorded.

  I now had ten days to prepare. Top of my list was munitions. I had my two personal weapons, the Ruger and the Armalite, but I needed something different. I couldn’t stick an Armalite up my coat and use it at the Republican Plot. I had to have different weapons and new weapons, and I knew exactly who could help me. I took a train to Coleraine to see an associate I was sure could help me. I knew he could supply the munitions I needed to make my contribution at the IRA’s cenotaph. I always used public transport when visiting contacts and associates. Buses and trains were the ideal way of getting around Northern Ireland suspicion-free. Buses and trains were never stopped and searched by the security forces but cars were. Taking a car posed too high a risk.

  I was met in Coleraine by my associate and informed I was going on a drive. I took a seat in the last car of a three-car convoy and our journey began. Each car was linked to the others via walkie-talkie. We drove for miles. Two hours later the car stopped. I was back in roughly the same area where our journey had begun earlier in the day. It was a farm in the middle of nowhere. I was introduced to ‘Mr A’ in the hay shed of his sprawling property. Mr A was a leading figure in Ulster Resistance, which was launched in 1986 in response to the controversial Anglo-Irish Agreement. He invited me to sit down. Next to where I was seated was a massive item covered in tarpaulin. I pulled back the covers and there was part of a large arms shipment that had arrived from South Africa via contacts of Brian Nelson. Nelson was a high-ranking UDA/UFF man who was also a British Army agent. The shipment was split three ways – between the UDA, the UVF and Ulster Resistance – and each got a one-third share. Contained in Ulster Resistance’s share were AK47s, RPGs, rocket launchers, 9mm revolvers and grenades. I had never seen so many weapons in one place at one time.

  There was also another container, about four feet long, and Mr A asked me if I wanted to see something special. It was an FIM/92A Stinger, a £50,000 surface-to-air rocket launcher, which he said arrived in the shipment by mistake. Mr A told me the Stinger ‘just arrived, out of the blue’. He said it was going back to South Africa, but I don’t know if it was returned or not.

  Mr A didn’t say much except to tell me to take whatever I needed and to use it well. I could have walked away from that remote hay shed with five revolvers, five rifles and twenty grenades, but I took enough to carry on my person without raising suspicion. Instead of being greedy, I took seven grenades, one Browning pistol, a box of 9mm rounds and two extra magazines. I wrapped the detonators in tin foil and placed them in my outside pockets. I wanted to prevent them from getting warm against my body and igniting. I put the Browning down the waistband of my trousers. I now had my weapons.

  My associate drove me to a safe house. In the kitchen I raided the cupboard for food. I put biscuits, bread and milk in two plastic bags and hid the grenades and the gun among them. On top I placed a carton of eggs.

  I was to be driven back to Belfast by my contact, but when I got into the back seat a stranger was behind the steering wheel. I had never seen him before. My associate told me to ‘not worry about vehicle checkpoints’. The car drove off. The driver, one hand on the steering wheel, held up his RUC warrant card. If we were stopped at a checkpoint he would show his pass and we would be waved through. My associate left me at the Albert clock in the centre of Belfast and I walked to the bus stop to get the number 24 home. It arrived. I paid my fare, took a seat at the back and got off just yards from the house. As I walked up the garden path I realised I was taking my weapons of war home with me. I hid the grenade and pistol in the dog kennels. If the house was raided, the cops would never get near them – my dogs would eat them alive.

  Later I watched the news. I watched in disgust as the Irish police saluted the three bodies as they were removed from the belly of the plane. I felt anger rising in the pit of my stomach as they escorted the massive convoy as it left the airport to begin its journey northwards. The Irish people had given the IRA dead a hero’s welcome, and that made my blood boil.

  The countdown had begun. The bodies were back home and would be buried within the next three days. I chose my back-up team. It was to be a three-man squad consisting of me, a driver and a back-up gunman. The others were not members of the UFF but part of a trusted network of freelancers and associates I had nurtured all over the province. The original plan was that the back-up man would accompany me into the cemetery and co
ver me as I made my move on Adams and McGuinness. He would be armed with an automatic rifle that had a folding stock for easy concealment. He would also have three of the seven grenades, which would enable him to perform a crossfire operation. He was young, with some experience of active service, but he believed in the cause. He had fire in his belly. He told me he understood the importance of the operation and was prepared to die at my side if it came to it.

  My driver was someone I had worked with before and trusted with my life. He was my protégé and I had trained and blooded him. On 8 March I did a recce with my driver. I had specialist associates. One gave me aerial shots of the cemetery and another gave me street maps which had the exact placing of the Army sangars, or lookout posts, overlooking Milltown cemetery. This information was vital. I needed to know if I would be observed in the cemetery and leaving it after the attack.

  While my driver explored a variety of escape-route options in his car, I took a look around the cemetery. First I went to the Roll of Honour. Names were inscribed on the black marble, honouring those who died for their great cause. I knew the cortège would have to pass it. I smiled to myself at the poetic irony of it. The coffins of three dead martyrs would pass and, as mourners grieve for their fallen comrades, the IRA leadership dies with a clean shot to the head. This would be their Enniskillen, an insult to their war dead.

  I thought about using a bomb to cause maximum chaos and injury. I thought of booby-trapping the open grave at the nearby Republican Plot with a hair-trigger pressure plate that would go off as soon as the coffins were lowered into it. I abandoned the idea because I thought it was too indiscriminate. It sounded too much like Enniskillen. I realised to do that, to prime the open grave, as mourners looked on, would be to stoop lower than the Provos. It would be sacrilegious to butcher people as they mourned their dead, even if the dead and the mourners were Republicans. I would be better than McGuinness and his people. My actions on 16 March would prove I was no indiscriminate sectarian killer. I had three targets, Gerry Adams, Martin McGuinness and Danny Morrison. Ordinary people were not the targets, but if they became involved, then so be it.