‘I hate leaving you, Marty,’ Angie whispered.
‘I know, I know,’ I said, stroking her hair and brushing away her tears.
For most of the time that three-hour journey was dispiriting, unnerving and miserable. Every mile I drove I kept hoping that Angie would change her mind, tell me to stop and turn round, tell me that she could not go ahead with her plan to return with the boys to Belfast. I wanted to beg and plead with her to change her mind but I knew that I had no right to try and persuade her to stay with me in England. And so, though I was feeling despondent and near to tears, I never tried to dissuade her from the path she had chosen. At Stranraer I had said that I would stay at the terminal as she walked with Martin and Podraig the two hundred yards to the ferry. Angie was weeping and wailing, the tears streaming down her face as she kissed me goodbye and turned to walk away, out of my life forever. Podraig was sleeping peacefully, his head on her shoulder, unaware of the trauma that was ripping apart our family. Martin, however, did not want to go, did not want to leave me, and Angie had to drag him along the quay by the hand as he kept looking back, screaming for me to go with them. I don’t know how I managed to control myself for I desperately wanted to run after them and bring them back to the terminal, to plead one last time for them to stay with me. Until that moment I had never realised how much I cared for the three of them and how much I wanted to protect them and look after them. I watched them walk out of sight and on to the ferry and in that moment I felt I had nothing to live for. That wretched feeling of desolation and loneliness never left me during the long, long journey back to Newcastle, driving through the dark, isolated countryside of southern Scotland lit only by the stars that seemed in that darkness to be so very bright. I could think of nothing to cheer myself; could think of nothing to help relive the feeling of despair or to stop the tears that erupted every few miles. And I cursed myself for the stupidity of youth that had led me into this terrible state. Little did I realise then that my troubles were only just beginning.
Chapter Five
Within a couple of weeks of Angie’s return to Belfast the dreaded knock at her front door came early one morning. The IRA demanded that she attend a meeting at Sinn Fein headquarters to answer questions. It was, of course, the same place – Connolly House – from where I was kidnapped by two of Gerry Adams’ henchmen, Paul ‘Chico’ Hamilton and James ‘Jim’ McCarthy. Though understandably nervous and frightened, Angie agreed and went along as ‘requested’. She knew that she had no option but to attend otherwise the next request would probably be far more forceful. She had no idea what might happen to her and she feared more for Martin and Podraig than for herself, for she had no idea what course the interview might take. Angie knew that she would be asked where I was living, my address and telephone number and full details of my car. The man who called at Angie’s front door after her return from England was Joseph Mulhern, a 23 year old IRA sympathiser who was well known in Catholic areas of West Belfast as a ruthless thug and bully, a member of an IRA punishment gang who delighted in terrorising, bullying and beating young Catholic teenagers, sometimes kneecapping them, at other times simply dragging them from their homes and beating them senseless with iron bars and baseball bats. Angie would have known that such an invitation from such a well-known thug could not be ignored. For four long hours Angie was questioned by ‘Jim’ McCarthy and another IRA interrogator before being allowed to return home. She had told them everything she knew of my whereabouts. At the end of their questioning the IRA interrogators told her to inform Sinn Fein headquarters if she should hear from me or, more importantly, if I should return to Belfast for a visit. Before I drove her and the boys to Stranraer for their return journey to Belfast I told Angie that if she was ever questioned by the IRA then she must tell them the truth, hiding nothing and answering whatever questions they asked to the best of her ability. I told her that within 24 hours of her arrival in Belfast I would have moved house, changed my car and changed my identity. In fact, I had no idea exactly where I would be 24 hours later but I had been telling her the truth for I had been told by the Special Branch that I would have to immediately sell both the house and the car, as well as change my mobile phone number. In fact, I stayed in my own home. For to my great surprise Alan, my SB officer who liaised with the Newcastle Special Branch, told me during a conversation in a pub car park only days before Angie left that, having discussed the matter with headquarters, they advised that I should not move house.
‘Not move anywhere? Stay put?’ I asked, totally perplexed.
‘Aye, that’s right,’ Alan said. ‘The SB say that they’ve had a word with the powers that be and they believe you’re in no danger; just stay where you are.’
‘But the odds are that Angie will be questioned by the IRA and I’ve told her to tell the truth,’ I replied.
‘Don’t let it worry you,’ Alan said. ‘Our SB boys know what’s what. You’re okay.’
‘How can they possibly say that?’ I asked, amazed at their lack of concern for my safety.
‘You’ll be okay, Marty,’ Alan said. ‘Don’t worry about a thing.’
The nonchalant attitude to my possible danger shown by the Special Branch surprised and, to a certain degree, alarmed me. The Special Branch knew that I had been moved to the mainland and given a new identity because, according to the IRA, they were determined to kill me. I had been judged guilty of treason to the Republican cause and, accordingly, my penalty was death. But this didn’t seem to have any effect on the SB hierarchy or their advisers in MI5. I couldn’t understand their laissez-faire attitude. Throughout my four years working for the British Intelligence in Belfast I had always been told to take no chances whatsoever, to leave nothing to chance and to always assume that the IRA were a thoroughly ruthless and intelligent organisation which should be treated with respect. It seemed the Special Branch and MI5 thought otherwise, happy to leave me to my own devices even though there was now every chance that the IRA knew of my current home address. Before she left Newcastle I had warned Angie that the IRA men who interviewed her would pull no chances during her interrogation but that she would probably be well treated if she told the truth. However, I also knew in my heart that the IRA would have been capable of taking any action towards her if they thought by doing so they could beat a path to my front door – and kill me. Many people were under the impression that the IRA never ill-treated or tortured Republican women but showed them respect. Nothing could be further from the truth. On most occasions, if IRA interrogators believe a woman is withholding information from them, they will treat her in the same way as a man who refuses to answer their questions. It is a rule that if a Republican man or woman is found to work for the RUC Special Branch or British Intelligence they will be interrogated, tortured and murdered after being branded a traitor to the cause. However, neither Angie or I knew that Joseph Mulhern was also working for the RUC as an informant, running the same risks as I had run during my years as an undercover agent. He tried to cover his work for the police by showing a brutal side to his nature, happy to take part in savage IRA beatings of young teenagers and anyone who dared to cross the path of the petty IRA volunteers. Ten months after summoning Angie to her cross-examination, Joe Mulhern was also called to attend a meeting where he would be questioned by the dreaded IRA Civil Administration Team. Joe Mulhern, whose staunch Republican family was well known throughout West Belfast, was taken for a ride – south of the border – and held prisoner for ten days. During that time he was tortured until he finally cracked, admitting working for the RUC since 1990. Ten days is a long time for a man to be held, even by the IRA’s standards, but immediately after his confession Joe was taken to a lonely spot near Castlederg, and shot. His carcass was found dressed in a khaki boiler suit, his hands tied in front of his body. He was wearing no shoes. He had been summarily executed in the IRA’s traditional way – shot twice in the back of the head. From the day I took Angie and the boys to Scotland to bid them farewell I kept a low p
rofile, ignoring the advice of the Newcastle Special Branch and changing my home from month to month, determined to keep at least one step ahead of any possible IRA assassination squad. I also changed my car on a couple of occasions just in case the IRA had stepped up their efforts to trace and pursue me. I knew full well that if an IRA active service unit was despatched to England to ‘get’ me there would be no question of them kidnapping me. I knew they would simply be ordered to kill me whenever and wherever they found me. There was another reason I stayed out of the limelight. For some months following the fire-bombing of the Metro Centre there had been no further bomb attacks in the north-east. It seemed the IRA bombing team had left the area, presumably returning to Belfast. But, in December 1992, an IRA warning was issued saying that a bomb was to be placed on the Newcastle Metro system. In fact, no bombs were ever discovered but the warning caused chaos for many hours, closing down the system while bomb teams and police checked for possible devices. Four months later, on 23 April 1993, IRA terrorists blew up an Esso oil terminal at North Shields near Howdon on the north side of the River Tyne. Two months later another IRA explosion rocked Dunston, Gateshead, when a bomb blasted the Redheugh gas holder, ripping a huge hole in the side of one of the three gas tanks. Hundreds of residents – many pensioners – were evacuated from their homes. On the same day – Wednesday, 9 June 1993 – explosions rocked another Esso terminal in North Shields but fortunately no one was injured. It was part of the IRA’s strategy to bomb industrial targets on the mainland, hitting places which had never previously been attacked by IRA active service units. The campaign was intended to strike fear into the people who had never been touched by the Troubles in Northern Ireland. It also made me realise how close the IRA squad must have been to my Newcastle home. One year after Angie and the boys had returned to Belfast my troubles with the authorities began to mount. Looking back on those heady days I can now see everything falling into place but at that time I must have been remarkably naive, believing I had friends in the Special Branch both in Belfast and Northumbria who thought it was their duty to keep an eye on me and to protect me. I had no reason to think otherwise. For four years I had been cosseted and protected by my handlers, made to believe that I was a vital, all-important cog in the fight against terrorism and, in particular, against the IRA gunmen and bombers. Sometimes the praise I received made me believe I was a hero, particularly during the two years I was working inside the IRA intelligence wing, providing sensitive material which the Special Branch used to counter the men of violence terrorising Belfast. The fact that my work resulted in saving the lives of many innocent people made the risks I was taking each and every day seem absolutely worthwhile. Understandably, after Angie and the boys had left and I was leading a lonely existence in Newcastle, I would often recall my life as an agent in Northern Ireland. I recalled driving through Belfast, ferrying one or more top IRA activists around the city, and feeling a warm glow as I listened to their conversations, taking a mental note of their ‘hush hush’ plans to bomb and blast shops, offices, factories and RUC and Army bases, not caring a damn how many innocent people died in the process. Within an hour of hearing such information I would have found a way of passing on the intelligence to the SB, ensuring those people’s lives were saved. My handlers were always totally supportive, offering advice and encouragement. But I never needed any encouragement for I knew that the lives of wives and sweethearts, husbands and sons were being saved. As events unfurled throughout 1993, however, I was left with the strong impression that the Northumbrian authorities seemed hell-bent on getting me before a Magistrates Court. They knew that I was living in secret in Northumbria because I had been targeted by the IRA and my life had been threatened. They knew it was their duty to protect my identity to the best of their ability.
I didn’t know why; I hadn’t a clue why the Northumbria Police Force would wish to take actions that might expose me, reveal my new identity, announce to the world my secret address where for two years I had been trying to keep a low profile living under my new name. Everything was under my new name; my bank accounts, my mortgage, my driving licence, my social security number, my passport. No one in Newcastle, including my closest friends, had any idea that I was not really Martin Ashe – my new name – but in reality Marty McGartland. I had been smuggled out of Northern Ireland by the Special Branch and every precaution taken was designed to ensure my real identity and my new address would be kept secret. Only the Northumbria Special Branch and, of course, the most senior police officers were told of my arrival on their patch. They were informed that I was a prime target for an IRA assassination squad, that my life was in permanent danger from an IRA attack and, as a consequence, they urged that everything should be done to ensure no one, but no one, knew of my real identity and background. The SB in Belfast knew from their sources within the IRA that the word had gone out; ‘Get Marty McGartland’. They knew that I had been responsible for betraying many of the IRA’s plots to bomb and shoot soldiers, prison officers and RUC and Army personnel; they knew that I had been responsible for stopping the IRA carrying out major attacks on British soldiers, preventing police officers being blown up by UCBT’s, and I had also given the Branch a stream of names and addresses of the IRA’s top hitmen and bombers. That information had also been passed through the Joint Irish Section, the top-level British-staffed covert organisation which even I knew very little about except that they were responsible for advising the Tasking Co-ordination Group, always called TCG. I had been told by my handlers that every effort would be made to take care of me and stop an IRA active service unit from getting to me. For, they told me, if an IRA unit did murder me my very death would have put the fear of God into every agent and informer working for the Branch or British Intelligence in Northern Ireland. At a stroke it would have cut off the supply of information which the RUC, the Branch, military intelligence and MI5 rely on for more than 80 per cent of their intelligence in the Province. And without good intelligent sources, the security services in Northern Ireland are a spent force. My contacts with the uniformed branch of the Northumbria Police Force began in earnest in late 1992 after a fracas with a number of Northumbria police officers. I had been sitting in my car, minding my own business, when a police officer I had never met before approached the car, telling me to move the vehicle. At the time I was parked in the Library car park in Newcastle, a public place where I was perfectly entitled to leave my car. I refused to move away and he began shouting at me. I wound up the window and sat in the car listening to the radio. Suddenly he began banging on the window with his truncheon. I got out of the car to discuss the matter with him and he made a grab for me, intending to arrest me. He pushed me against the car and I turned round and pushed him. A scuffle developed.
‘What are you doing?’ I shouted at him.
‘I’m arresting you for resisting arrest,’ he said.
‘But that’s madness,’ I told him, ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.
‘You have,’ he protested. ‘You have refused to obey the order of a police officer.’
‘Don’t talk crap,’ I told him. ‘I’ve committed no offence.
‘Don’t you fucking talk to me like that, you little prick,’ he said. ‘You’re nicked, you little bastard.’ I began to get back into my car and the officer made another grab at me, this time threatening me with his truncheon. I saw red and he struck out at me with the truncheon, hitting me around the head and shoulders, I managed to get the better of him. He called for assistance on his personal radio and I grabbed hold of him, pinning him face down on the bonnet of my car. Within two minutes four police cars and a police van arrived and I suddenly found six officers trying to pull me away from their colleague, everyone shouting and yelling. Eventually they handcuffed me and put me in the van. But while I was being driven to the police station the officer riding with me said, ‘You’re nothing but a fuckin’ Irish mick . . . you’re no fucking hero.’ I was amazed at what he had said. At that moment I realised that ordinary co
ps on the beat knew all about my background and the fact that I had worked for the British Intelligence in Northern Ireland. I had not the faintest idea where those cops had been given that information and for what reason. It seemed unbelievable that Northumbria police officers should know all about me when every detail about my previous life was meant to be a closely guarded secret. That fracas with the patrol officers was the start of four years of problems with the Northumbrian Police. From that moment I was repeatedly pulled over by traffic patrol officers for alleged speeding offences. I was also stopped and questioned by ordinary uniformed officers which would culminate with me being accused, and sometimes arrested, for alleged public order offences. During those four years I was stopped on more than fifty separate occasions by traffic police, not only for speeding but just so that the officer could examine my car, checking my lights, tyres, brakes etc. I was in an impossible position. I was accused of more than half a dozen public order offences. I would be taken to court and then have to listen to the officers as they gave evidence on oath in the witness box about my latest alleged misdemeanour. And, of course, the magistrates would accept the word of the police officers and though I would try and defend myself I would be found guilty and fined between £100 and £250 on each and every occasion. Later, however, I became friendly with one Whitley Bay police officer. He told me, ‘Martin, I think you should know that some police officers knew how you would react so that they could arrest you and take you to court. They could find different ways to get you before the magistrates. We knew that you would respond by telling us to “piss off” and leave you alone. That was our reason for accusing you of a public order offence.’
Dead Man Running: A True Story of a Secret Agent's Escape from the IRA and MI5 Page 8
