‘I know it is. I agree with you,’ replied Mike, ‘but that’s the way they work. MI5 have their contacts with the IRA at the highest level and they always have had. We suspect they gave the IRA the wink, told them where to arrange a meet and then told your SB handlers to make sure you attended that meeting at Sinn Fein headquarters.’
‘But I thought the SB were watching over me,’ I protested. ‘Felix told me that they would make sure I was kept under constant surveillance because they feared I might be kidnapped by the IRA. The last words Felix told me were to take care but not to worry because he was keeping me under constant surveillance.’
‘They were,’ said Mike. ‘But as soon as you parked your car and walked into Connolly House the SB were called off the operation by the TCG who took over the responsibility. Remember, Marty, the Tasking Co-ordination Group comprised members of MI5, the SAS and military intelligence. Remember that the SB have to take their orders directly from JIS and the TCG, and the Special Branch were simply pulled off the case, leaving you to fend for yourself .’
‘But that’s wicked, despicable,’ I said, stumbling over my words in my frustration and anger. ‘That’s betrayal; in fact it’s worse than that, Mike. Basically, they were arranging my kidnapping, knowing I would be murdered. In essence those officers in JIS were guilty of conspiracy to murder. What shits, what cunts. Are you sure, really certain that everything you’re telling me is true? I find it hard to believe that MI5 officers would treat people like that.’
‘Well, they can and they do,’ said Mike. ‘There have been others too, Marty, touts, informers and agents who have worked for the Brits during the Troubles and then, when JIS believe they might have passed their sell-by date, they just arrange a convenient kidnapping or so-called accidental death. You must remember that MI5 officers and senior IRA men do talk to each other. These things are arranged on both sides. Let me ask you a question; when did you last hear of a senior IRA man or an MI5 officer being murdered? Not for years. And I’ll tell you why. Because sometimes they find it necessary to talk to the IRA.’
‘Really?’ I said. ‘Do you mean they conspire together?’
‘Sometimes, yes, of course, but it’s not really a conspiracy,’ said Mike. ‘Officially, of course, it is always denied but it certainly goes on.’
‘Do you know, Mike,’ I said, ‘I feel sick, physically sick, at all you’ve told me. I just didn’t believe things like that went on.’
‘Marty,’ Mike said, ‘if you hadn’t had the courage to leap out of that window I don’t think you would have been tortured. I think the IRA would have just taken you away somewhere and shot you in the back of the head, probably leaving your body in West Belfast, so that some Catholics would have found you. Then the IRA would have issued a statement saying that you had been a traitor, working for the RUC. They would have painted your name as black as possible so even your own mother would have been ashamed to visit the shops or walk out on the streets for fear of what neighbours and friends would say to her.’
‘That’s horrible,’ I said. ‘I gave my all for the fuckers. I risked my neck to save other people’s lives and they repaid me by arranging for me to be kidnapped by the IRA. That’s fucking great isn’t it?’
‘Come on,’ said Mike, ‘let’s go and have a cup of tea.’
‘Aye,’ I said, getting up from the hard wooden bench as though I had the weight of the world on my shoulders. ‘I feel deflated, empty,’ I said. ‘Now everything’s gone out of my life. I thought I had done a good job, I felt that my work in Belfast had been worthwhile, that I had contributed something to Northern Ireland. Now it seems the powers that be thought I was nothing but a piece of shit. They had their pound of flesh from me and nothing else mattered to them. They treated me like a bit of scum. God, it makes me angry.’
We found our way to a McDonald’s and Mike treated me to a burger, chips and a coke. He ordered the same. We sat across the table from each other and as I munched my way through the Big Mac I looked him in the eye, the anger rising within me as I thought how close I had come to death. I thought back to those moments in the bathroom before making the decision to jump through the window 40 feet above the ground; moments when I was undecided whether to jump or not; and now realising that if I hadn’t taken that risk I would be a dead man, my mother’s reputation would be blackened and tarnished and the rest of my family treated like lepers amongst the Catholics of West Belfast. I shuddered as I thought of the stress that my mother would have suffered, having brought me up as a Republican.
‘I really believed in Felix, Mo and Ray,’ I said at the end of a long silence, my voice full of misery.
‘You still should,’ said Mike, obviously trying to cheer me up. ‘They believed in you. If they had known that you were entering the lion’s den with no chance of escape they would never have let you walk into Connolly House.’
‘Is that so?’ I asked.
‘Hand on heart,’ said Mike, ‘I know that Felix thought of you almost as a son. He would never have let anything happen to you if he had known such a trap had been set.’
‘So you think it was a trap then?’ I asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ he replied, ‘I know it was.’
‘And now?’ I asked. ‘What’s the situation now?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Mike.
‘Are the bastards still after me? Do MI5 still want me dead or have they given up?’
‘I don’t think they’re still after you. But I can’t be sure. They have no reason to be. You left Belfast six years ago and you can’t give away any secrets. Everything’s changed. Of course they would know your address in England and your new identity. And they haven’t tried anything, have they?’
‘Not as far as I know,’ I said.
‘Exactly,’ Mike replied. ‘I believe you’re safe from British Intelligence but I wouldn’t swear on it.’
‘But why would MI5 want to bump me off?’ I asked incredulously. ‘Why not just put me on a flight to the mainland and have done with it if they thought I might have betrayed someone accidentally?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Mike, ‘but they have their reasons, no matter how convoluted those reasons might be.’
‘And what about the IRA?’ I asked. ‘I presume they’re still after me.’
‘Of course,’ Mike replied, ‘no doubt about it. Look what they did to your brother.’
In July 1996 my brother Joseph was at home in Moyard, West Belfast, when an IRA punishment team of five men, all wearing balaclavas, pushed their way into his house, tied and gagged him and carried him out to a waiting van. They drove a short distance away, dragged him from the van, tied a rope around his ankles and hung him upside down from a fence. Then they began beating his legs, body and arms with a baseball bat and hitting his chest with a plank of wood with nails embedded in it. The appalling beating went on for 15 minutes. It left Joseph with two shattered legs, four broken ribs and two broken arms. He was unable to walk for three months. No reason was ever given by the IRA thugs for the beating. But Joseph and I knew why; he happened to be my younger brother and, according to the twisted cowardly code of IRA punishment squads, that was sufficient justification to inflict a terrible beating on a totally innocent young man.
After a couple of minutes, I replied dourly, ‘Do you think I can ever forget?’
Mike went on. ‘Listen, Marty, you’re out of Belfast, living at a secret location in England, difficult for the IRA to trace or find you. And it’s probably impossible for them to take any action against you while you’re living in an English city. They have no back-up here; they have no West Belfast to hide you. No, you’ve no need to worry now. But keep your head down to be on the safe side.’
‘Don’t worry, I replied. ‘I always keep something under my pillow just in case. If I thought the IRA were going to burst into my house I would do what I had to do. I would answer to the law later.’
‘But always remember,’ said Mike, ‘never do anything rash and always keep cool
.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not daft,’ I replied.
He smiled. ‘I never thought you were stupid,’ he said. ‘Not even when you were a kid. You were a damn good source, your handlers were always singing your praises. Remember what Detective Superintendent Ian Phoenix [head of the Northern Ireland police counter-surveillance unit] said of you?’
‘Aye,’ I said.
‘Phoenix said that Carol, your code-name, was certainly one of the SB’s best spies in Northern Ireland in 1990-91. Remember, Marty, they can’t take that away from you.’
‘What do you think I should do then?’ I asked, hoping for some information from Mike.
‘That’s up to you,’ he said. ‘I can’t make up your mind for you. It depends how angry and hurt you feel. But for now take my advice and do nothing. Go home and sleep on it. See how you feel in the morning; see if the anger subsides. It should do. Look on the bright side, Marty. You’re young, healthy, alive and fit; you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. Forget Northern Ireland, the IRA, the RUC, British Intelligence and all that shit. Think of the future.’
‘What future?’ I asked, still feeling despondent.
‘Well, put it this way. Have you got a girlfriend?’
‘Not really,’ I replied, ‘nothing serious. I tend to live on my own because of everything that happened in Belfast. I believe the IRA are still after me so I don’t like taking any risks. I’ve had scares but so far no one has actually tracked me down, thank God. None of the people I meet, none of the girls I date, none of my drinking mates have any idea of my background. I tell them nothing because I don’t want to cause any trouble or aggro for any innocents. I don’t like girls staying the night. You never know when they might start nosing around. Mike, Listen to me, since Northern Ireland I don’t trust anyone any more. And after what you’ve told me today I trust them even less.’
‘I understand,’ he said. Changing the subject, he asked, ‘Do you ever see your wife Angie, or your nippers, Martin and Podraig?’
‘No, never,’ I told him.
Before we left the restaurant Mike gave me his telephone number and, in return, I gave him my mobile number, but not my ex-directory one. I knew, of course, that he had the number already but I was taking no chances with my home number. He was a member of the SB, he was friends with Felix and Mo, but now, more than ever, I could trust no one. I don’t what I would have done without a mobile phone because it was my link, my one link, with the rest of the world. I could give that number to anyone and no one could trace me. It also gave me a sense of security and, sometimes, I needed that. With the news that Mike had brought me, I needed that security more than ever.
I walked him to the railway station and he boarded the next train north. I remembered his parting words; ‘Keep your head down and take care. And don’t do anything rash. If you want me at any time you know where you can find me. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ I replied.
‘Good luck,’ said Mike. And he was gone.
I watched his train gently gather speed out of the station and disappear. I turned on my heel and walked away to find my own train, wondering what the hell to do, wondering why Mike had taken the trouble to come and explain what had happened to me. What he had told me I could not take at face value and yet everything he had said made sense. I had a lot of thinking to do.
Chapter Three
I had thought long and hard about everything Mike, my SB pal, had told me. I tried to dismiss his theories but the more I turned over the matter in my mind the more certain I became that he had been telling the truth. Everything he had said made sense, making me both worried, unsure of myself and fucking angry. I spent sleepless nights wondering what I should do and days walking through the Northumbria countryside trying to decide what action I should take. I realised that returning to Belfast, the city where I was born and raised, the city that for more than 25 years had been a battleground between Protestants and Catholics, the city where I had turned my back on the IRA and started working for the RUC Special Branch, would be a massive gamble. I knew that I might be risking my life but to me there was no choice. I was determined to discover the truth, to discover who had been responsible for putting my life at risk and whether there had been an MI5 plot to have me kidnapped and killed. The information that Mike had given me during our meeting in Birmingham had come as such a shock that I knew I could not rest until I had discovered the truth. For four years I had risked my life helping to save the lives of British soldiers, RUC officers, prison officers and members of the public and then I learn that British Intelligence had arranged my kidnap in the hope that it would lead to my murder. Sometimes as I walked alone in the beautiful Cheviot Hills or Harwood Forest outside Newcastle I struggled to imagine that those who ran British Intelligence in Belfast could have been so wicked, unprincipled and callous that they would sacrifice one of their own who had done nothing but work for them and save the lives of innocent people. Yet, seemingly they could, and they did, without blinking an eye. Those thoughts made me both angry and resentful. My thoughts returned to that day in August 1991 when the IRA sent Carol, a lovely young messenger, to call me to a meeting with Podraig Wilson, at Connolly House, the Sinn Fein headquarters in Belfast. I knew Wilson was the head of the IRA discipline, the man who decided who should be kneecapped and who should receive beatings by the IRA’s thuggish punishment squads. Before accepting the invitation to meet him, however, I had phoned my Special Branch handler Felix seeking his advice. The very thought of walking into Sinn Fein headquarters scared the hell out of me, and the fact that I had been called to see Podraig Wilson, of all people, made me feel as if I was about to receive a death sentence. ‘I’m in loads of trouble,’ I said to him, my hands shaking nervously as I clambered into Felix’s car an hour later. I had driven through a myriad of back streets for my meeting with Felix that day for I was convinced that if the IRA had called me to a meeting with Podraig Wilson they would have been keeping a 24-hour watch on my movements. I drove with one eye on the rear-view mirror and zig-zagged in and out of a number of housing estates, making sure that the IRA were not following. And yet I was still shaking like a leaf when I met Felix.
‘Calm down,’ he reassured me, ‘ and speak slowly. What’s up?’
I explained exactly what had happened and the date that had been fixed for me to meet Podraig Wilson – 10 a.m. the following day.
‘I understand,’ he said, speaking slowly as he thought what to do. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll have to take advice on this one as to how we’re going to play it. But, rest assured, I won’t let you down. We’ll take care of you.’ For the next few hours I drove around Belfast keeping well away from my home and from any Republican areas. I was taking no risks. At 3 p.m. I phoned Felix as arranged, expecting him to tell me that the Special Branch would move me to a safe house or even out of Northern Ireland until the danger had passed. My chin was shaking as I heard Felix tell me that senior Special Branch officers had decided that I should attend the meeting with Wilson the following morning. Felix told me to borrow a friend’s car and drive to Connolly House, park the car at Andersonstown Leisure Centre and tell Wilson that I had taken a black taxi. As I put down the phone the palms of my hands were sweating and I was shaking. I walked from the phone box trying to convince myself that with Felix and the Special Branch watching over me I would be quite safe. That night I didn’t sleep a wink but tossed and turned, wondering if I was being foolish or whether I should steal away in the night, catch the ferry to Scotland and disappear. As dawn arrived, however, I managed to convince myself that I had become paranoid, that I had never been let down by my handlers and that the two people I trusted most were my two SB friends. Over the four years I had worked for British Intelligence I had developed almost a father-son relationship with Felix, and Mo had always been a good mate. In any case I firmly believed that the IRA would never try to kidnap me at Connolly House, which was kept under constant surveillance by the Special Branch. ‘They would be stupid to
try that one,’ I told myself. That morning my mother ironed a pair of jeans for me and I looked at her, happy that she was oblivious to the fear that gripped me. I felt a great surge of emotion; I wanted to confess everything to her, about the IRA, the Special Branch and the job that I had been doing during those last four years. I also wanted to tell her that I believed the IRA now knew that I worked for the Branch and that my life was in very real danger. But I told her nothing. I knew it wouldn’t be fair to subject ma to hours, days, maybe weeks of fear and worry over my safety. I didn’t even kiss my mother goodbye that morning, though I desperately wanted to put my arms around her and tell her much I loved her. But I had never been like that with my mother and I knew such behaviour would alarm her. So I let it go and walked out of her life with a cheery ‘Bye, Ma.’ As I drove to Connolly House, however, I suffered a panic attack, convinced I was walking into an IRA trap. I had to phone Felix to check that all was well and to seek reassurance that I was right to go ahead with what I believe was a madcap adventure. I circled a roundabout three times and stopped at the phone box.
‘Is that you, Felix?’ I asked when I was put through.
Dead Man Running: A True Story of a Secret Agent's Escape from the IRA and MI5 Page 3
