Dead Man Running: A True Story of a Secret Agent's Escape from the IRA and MI5

by McGartland, Martin

  ‘Let’s go,’ said one of my Special Branch bodyguards only seconds after the case had finished. ‘Just do exactly as I tell you, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ I replied.

  ‘Right, follow me,’ he said. ‘Keep right behind me.’

  He called to a number of other SB officers who were outside the court, telling them we were ready to go. ‘We’re going out the back; that should be safe,’ he said as though talking to himself.

  At the door we stopped and officers, all carrying hand-guns, moved outside checking if the way was clear. ‘Don’t move,’ I was told, ‘and keep back.’

  I could see a number of RUC officers with hand-guns, army personnel with assault rifles and sub-machine guns, guarding the rear entrance to the County Court used by judges, court officials and police officers attending the court. Twenty yards away I could see two unmarked police cars and officers checking underneath them for fear of UCBT’s, one of the IRA’s favourite methods of assassination.

  ‘Okay,’ someone shouted.

  ‘Run,’ said my officer. ‘Follow me.’ And we took off, sprinting the 20 yards to the cars. Other officers took up positions, checking the entrance and the perimeter walls. No one was permitted to enter the car park.

  As we clambered into the vehicles the RUC man told his driver, ‘Airport, and don’t stop for anyone. We’ve got to get him on the next flight out.’

  The eight-mile drive to Aldergrove was one of the hairiest I have ever experienced. The entire area around the court and across Lisburn seemed chaotic and confused. Army personnel and police officers were struggling to control the traffic as well as hundreds of people who had spilled out into the streets following the two explosions. I saw scores of children who had just been let out of school running around not knowing where they should be going, or what they should be doing to escape the mayhem. There were mothers herding children away from the town centre, police officers carrying young children and babies.

  I saw one young soldier, dressed in combat gear, body armour and a camouflage helmet, carrying two small children who must have both been under five. Slung over his shoulder was an assault rifle. He was following a young mother who was carrying a third child. She seemed distraught as she ran away from where she believed the bombs had exploded. As we sped past them I turned to check if they were all safe, worried in case they should have been running in the wrong direction, perhaps towards another IRA bomb. There was a look of fear in the young mother’s eyes and I wondered if all this terror had taken place because I had returned to the Province.

  ‘Were they after me?’ I asked my RUC bodyguard, feeling guilty and full of regrets that I might have been responsible for the bombs which I prayed had injured or killed no one but which I feared may well have done so.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied, ‘but we do know they’re after you. Did anyone know you were coming over here today?’

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ I said, ‘I told no one. In any case I don’t think I’m that important. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ he replied.

  I will never forget that drive from Lisburn. The roads around the town were choked with cars, all going in different directions but causing snarl-ups and long lines of vehicles at a standstill.

  ‘Take no notice,’ my RUC officer told the driver. ‘Switch on the sirens and the lights and make sure we keep moving. We don’t want to be caught in a road block or at a standstill because then we would be sitting ducks. If the road ahead is blocked then use the footpaths.’

  And we did. We would be driving on the roads and the footpaths, bouncing up and down kerbs and pavements and, when the road cleared, driving at speeds in excess of 70 miles an hour. Throughout the trip the back-up unmarked police car was driving only ten feet behind us, manned by four armed police officers. They were taking no chances. There were about eight police and army road blocks along the way, all heavily guarded with the police and army personnel in full body armour and all armed, most with assault rifles and Heckler and Koch sub-machine- guns. We were automatically waved through while all other vehicles were being stopped and many searched, details of the occupants noted and many drivers searched and passengers checked and asked to explain the reason for their journey. I had been struck at how impressive and speedy the army and police reaction had been to the explosions. It seemed that within minutes police and army personnel had flooded the centre of Lisburn and road blocks had been set up. But I knew that the authorities would have been angry, perplexed and extremely concerned that the IRA had managed to infiltrate the British Army’s most important location in Northern Ireland and blow the place to bits. I also believed that the blasts were a dramatic declaration by the IRA that the ceasefire was at an end and that they were intent on bringing their campaign of violence back to Northern Ireland.

  Back in Newcastle the following day I read that one soldier from Newcastle had been seriously injured in the bomb blasts and subsequently died. It seemed poignant and frightening that I should have been in Lisburn that day and that the poor man who died, carrying out his duty, should have come from Newcastle. But I would return to Northern Ireland in my quest for the truth and my next visit would prove even more dangerous for I would be on my own with no protection whatsoever.

  Chapter Seven

  Back home all seemed so peaceful and life so ordinary, but it would not stay that way for long, for my battles with the various authorities were proving difficult and complex. My court case victory in May 1997 did not go down well with the powers that be and I felt under an increasing threat. Following my court victory I did not know where to turn, or whom to turn to, for I felt exposed and vulnerable.

  While MPs, my solicitors and other kindly Tynesiders took up my case, demanding I be given a new identity and new accommodation somewhere else in Britain, I decided that the safest course for me to take was to disappear. I talked to my former SB friends in Belfast and they advised me to get as far away as possible from Newcastle.

  ‘If you stay there, Marty, you’ll be a sitting duck,’ said one. ‘Take our advice and get the fuck out of it. Remember the IRA got hold of you once and you managed to escape, next time you might not be so lucky.’

  ‘Do you think I’m that much at risk?’ I asked.

  ‘Think?’ he said, raising his voice. ‘I know you’re at risk. Now get the hell out of Newcastle till this thing’s blown over.’

  ‘Okay, I will,’ I replied. ‘Thanks for the advice.’

  ‘And whatever you do, don’t sleep at your own home for the next few weeks,’ my former handler went on. ‘Don’t take the risk even for one night. You remember the way the IRA gunmen and bombers keep one step ahead of us all the time. They never sleep in their own beds more than two nights a week. Now take the hint and get the fuck out of there. If you’re in any trouble you can always call. And one more thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘Keep your head down at all times and keep a low profile, you never know who might be after you.’

  ‘Are you being serious?’ I asked, feeling somewhat worried.

  ‘I’m just being cautious,’ he replied. ‘If you keep your wits about you, you’ll have nothing to worry about. Now fuck off.’

  ‘Cheers,’ I replied. But as I left the phone box and walked off into the summer rain I realised I was totally on my own and I didn’t like it one jot. During the years I had been working for the Branch I had always had a feeling of great security; that I was a member of a team who would always come to the rescue if ever I was in deep shit. Now, all that had changed. Despite the fact I was living in Northumberland, a place without any of the dangers of Northern Ireland, I felt somehow vulnerable. I was uncomfortable, unsure of myself and it worried me. As I walked to my car and started the engine I had a tremendous urge to drive to Stranraer, take the ferry to Ireland and drive home to Angie and the boys. I felt downhearted and lonely and miserable and I yearned for my family. I wanted nothing more in the worl
d than to go back home to Belfast and walk indoors to a hot cup of tea and the happy smiling faces of Angie and the kids. I knew, however, it was silly and impossible and I had to bite my lip to stop the tears and the emotion taking over.

  In reality, I had not the faintest idea where I could hide or where I could go. My only friends lived in and around Newcastle and I had no intention of putting pressure on them. They had all known me as ‘Ashie’ or ‘Semtex’ but now it was no joke. This was for real. I couldn’t ask them to put me up or stay at their place for a few weeks because that would be unfair. They may have been matey and kind to me for a couple of years but they weren’t family and I had no right to ask such favours. Before my trial they had no idea I was a wanted man but now they knew everything and I had no wish to ask them to pit themselves against the IRA.

  My solicitors had issued a statement immediately after my court case saying, ‘It is Mr McGartland’s view that the prosecution should never have been brought in the light of his services to the public in Northern Ireland. The prosecution has exposed him to further danger which his resettlement on the mainland was meant to avoid. Mr McGartland believes that the prosecution was brought with total disregard for his own safety and that the Crown showed no insight into the real and particular dangers encountered by those living in the shadow of the IRA. Mr McGartland now faces the prospect of having to make a new life all over again.’

  In many respects the revelation that I was not really Martin Ashe, but a former undercover agent who had infiltrated the IRA, put the fear of God into some people but also, thank goodness, won me a number of friends. Janice, the lovely lady who lived in the flat below me in Blyth, wrote a letter to her MP, Ronnie Campbell, stating; ‘Since I found out that my neighbour is really Martin McGartland I have been extremely concerned for my personal safety. I am aware that his identity and his address are now known by a large number of people in Blyth. He has been staying away from his flat since the court case but I am worried that he might move back in. I think that something should be done as a matter of urgency as I am extremely worried and the stress is affecting my health.’

  A few days after my trial a group of women from North Tyneside who knew me as Martin Ashe organised a petition demanding that the Home Secretary provide me with a new identity and a new home. It read; ‘Martin McGartland risked his life to save others. He now deserves the full support of the British Government.’ Blyth MP Ronnie Campbell wrote to Northern Ireland Secretary Mo Mowlam asking her to intervene and put pressure on her colleagues to relocate me and give me a new identity. Mr Campbell told me that his weekly surgery had been inundated with letters and people arriving on his doorstep all arguing my case. He also said that he would be raising the issue with the Home Secretary. Within a few weeks more than three thousand people had signed the petition urging quick action to ensure my safety. I found it all very embarrassing but also very kind that people who did not even know me should go to such trouble because they feared my life had been put in jeopardy. I later learned from Mr Campbell that he was personally speaking to both Jack Straw, the Home Secretary, and Mo Mowlam about my case.

  Following a television programme screened in England in June 1997, detailing my life on the run, a number of Members of Parliament came forward, all urging the Home Secretary to provide me with a new identity and a new home in a different part of the country. Labour MP Harry Barnes, who represents north-east Derbyshire, commented, ‘It is absolutely crucial McGartland is given a new identity and I want to see this unfortunate situation resolved. His life is in considerable danger.’

  A month later my solicitors did receive an offer from Burton & Burton, a Nottingham- based law firm acting on behalf of a body called ‘Crown Authorities’ in which I was offered a new passport, driving licence, National Insurance number and NHS card but not a single penny towards the purchase of a new property or removal costs. In fact, they stated categorically that, ‘it was not possible for the authorities to make any financial provision towards moving home’. In exchange for a new identity, the authorities expected me to somehow pay for everything, including selling my small Blyth flat, buying a new flat in a different part of Britain and paying for all the costs including legal fees, buying and selling costs, surveyor’s fees as well as removal costs. They also refused to understand that Blyth was one of the poorest areas of Britain and purchasing similar accommodation in another part of Britain would probably be double the cost of my Blyth flat. It seemed to me the Crown authorities were deliberately offering me a deal which I could only refuse, for to say ‘yes’ would have meant me sinking into heavy debt with little or no chance of being able to repay the mortgage and all the other costs. I knew from past experience and from talking to SB officers in Belfast that most former informants and agents were made generous awards by authorities because it was felt that society owed them as much. My treatment was so Machiavellian that I could not believe the Home Office would stoop to such tactics.

  It is, of course, always difficult for former informants relocated to mainland Britain to find a job because with new identities, new National Insurance numbers and driving licences, they could never tell any prospective employer of their former work experience or the jobs they had carried out gaining experience for the job on offer. And, of course, prospective employers could never be told what these men, and sometimes women, had really been doing for the previous few years because that would defeat the whole object of the exercise. As a result, most former undercover agents tried to find a self-employed job but that was also difficult because they had little or no experience in commerce or business.

  During the weeks following the trial and all the publicity I did not return to my home, save on the odd occasion to collect clothes and some papers I needed to pursue my case, I used my car and, on occasions, trains and buses, criss-crossing the north of England, staying at many different places. I visited a couple of old mates but only stayed with them a night or two before moving on somewhere else. Sometimes I slept the night in my car, parked in inconspicuous places, but every morning when I awoke I was suffering from cramp and the effects of sleeping rough. In the damp the shoulder wound I had sustained after my leap from the window would cause me grief and pain but after a few hours, a cup of tea and a hot breakfast I would feel better. Most of the time I showered and shaved in motorway rest rooms because I wanted to make sure I didn’t look like some scumbag or young alcoholic. I kept going by convincing myself that living like this was far better than meeting an IRA gunman at home or exploding a UCBT when I jumped into my car, but it was still a miserable existence and I hated the idea that I was running away from the IRA.

  During the weeks of travelling across the north of England only once did I suspect that I was being followed and it made my heart leap not only with fear but also with a sense of anticipation. I had come to discover that being on the run could be unutterably boring and a complete waste of time and yet, sometimes, I felt I was back in Northern Ireland, excited, even trembling at the very thought of running risks. Sometimes the frustration and the fear did obviously gnaw away at my subconscious and I would wake from my dreams with a start, expecting to find a gun pointing at my head. I had been far less worried during my years inside the IRA, though the danger was far more real and ever present. And yet, being on one’s own, not knowing from where the problems would come, made me more nervous than ever. Sometimes I would be sitting in a motorway cafe having a bite to eat and I would start trembling nervously for no apparent reason. I would try to control my nerves but that often proved difficult so I would quickly finish my meal, drink a glass of cold water and go outside, walking around for a few minutes or so to regain my composure. For some reason or other those little tricks worked for me and I would manage to regain my nerve and take off again, often driving down a motorway with not the faintest idea where my next port of call would be.

  One day I tried getting far away from the world of traffic, lorries, cars and the hundreds of people who congregate at motorway
cafes. I drove off the M6 and made my way to Wales, a country I had never visited before. I found myself in North Wales heading towards the glorious slate-coloured mountains of Snowdonia, the low, dark, cloud-filled sky hiding the top of the mountain range, and for a while I enjoyed the sheer peace and wild beauty of the desolate surroundings. I felt an urge to drink from the streams that were like torrents, falling sharply from the mountains above, sometimes cascading 50 or 60 feet before hitting more rocks and spraying the surrounding grass and moss. I parked the car by the roadside and walked up the steep rock-face of the mountain to a stream that seemed to encompass the memories of Northern Ireland where I used to walk as a young boy with my mother and sisters, a time when I had never heard of the Troubles. I cupped my hands and drank the cool, crystal-clear water, quenching my thirst and thinking how much I needed my family. I turned and looked out across the wonderful green expanse of country, dotted here and there with sheep minding their own business, and wondered if I could live in such a place. In my excited impetuosity I thought of climbing to the top of the mountain but as I looked up the sheer face of the cliff I realised that would be a stupid idea so I turned and walked back down to my car. I had been driving leisurely for another ten minutes or so around a host of mountain bends, looking down at the occasional sheer drop to the bottom of a ravine, when, all of a sudden, a large 32-ton truck came sweeping round the bend towards me, with the driving seemingly having problems keeping the vehicle on the correct side of the road. That woke me from my day-dream like an ice-cold shower and I realised in that split second that I was more at risk and more exposed here in the friendless mountains of Wales than in the maddening cauldron of motorway mania.