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

by McGartland, Martin

  Ever since I had made the decision to return to Belfast I had tried to push to the back of my mind the possibility that here was a chance to see my boys, Martin, then seven, and Podraig, then six. I also wanted to see Angie but I thought that was unfair even though I knew she would always be precious to me. I had no intention of letting Martin Or Podraig see me though I wanted more than anything to grab hold of them and pick them up and cuddle and kiss them and tell them that I was the Daddy they thought had been killed in a car crash. I knew I was torturing myself even trying to get a peek at them but I couldn’t stop myself. I wondered whether one of the underlying reasons I had returned to Belfast was the fact that I had a desperate need to see them again. Every time I was alone I would think about them, realising that I had sacrificed two wonderful boys for the sake of working for the fucking SB and I knew every time I thought of them how I had wasted my life. But here was a possibility, or at least a faint hope, that I would see them. I told myself that I must make no effort to talk to them or get too close because that would be grossly unfair to them. They had been told that their Daddy had died in a car accident, that I was no more, and to see them face to face would be nothing short of cruel and pernicious.

  I also knew that I must make bloody sure that Angie didn’t see me. Angie had been given a raw deal, not knowing whether to throw in her lot with me or stay at home near her family and bring up the kids on her own. She had also been visited by the IRA on her return from England and questioned closely about every detail she knew about me. And she had been warned that if I should ever contact her or, more importantly, visit her in Belfast she was duty bound to tell the IRA immediately. To let Angie see me for even a split second would place her in jeopardy for if she did not tell the IRA she had seen me there was no doubt in her mind that she could face a beating. I had already been grossly unfair to Angie and I had no wish to cause her any more pain or trouble.

  I knew they lived off the Springfield Road in the Falls, an area where I also knew many IRA members lived too. I didn’t really care about myself for I had a fast car and a getaway would be quite easy. I decided to make only two runs down the road, for to continue driving up and down in a new Vauxhall would only attract attention from neighbours. I had no idea, of course, whether they were at home, staying with her parents or away with friends. It was a ten to one chance that I would see the lads in any case, maybe a 50 to one chance, but I had to try it. I guessed this was my last chance ever to see them and as I drove down the first time the road was near deserted. At the end of the road I continued and parked a mile away, waiting for five minutes in the hope that on my next run they might, they just might, be out playing in the street or going off shopping somewhere with Angie. As I thought of them tears filled my eyes and I kept wiping them away. I had no control over my emotions and had never realised how powerful such affection for two little kids could be. I knew that at that moment I could walk up to their house, knock on the door and see my two darling lads. But, thank God, my mind told me not even to attempt such a move because that on simple, selfish act could have put their future and Angie’s life in danger.

  I drove off again, returning down the road where they lived and saw three kids playing at the end. My heart leapt and I drove towards them, neglecting to look at the house where they lived, praying through my tears that two of the lads I could see were Martin and Podraig. But as I neared them I realised they were neither of my boys and I cursed myself for letting my wishes become too unrealistic. I drove by them and looked at them, wondering what I would have felt if either of them had been Martin or Podraig. And I knew I could have done absolutely nothing. I drove on, forcing myself away from them, telling myself that even if I had seen them I could have done absolutely nothing. And in my heart I felt like shit.

  But I wasn’t finished yet. The emotions that had torn me apart that morning were still surging through my mind and my body and I decided to go and see my Ma. It had been more than six years since we had met and I felt an urge to see her once more. Though our relationship had always been distant I felt a strong respect for her. I knew she was a good woman and always had been. We had never been close, hugging or kissing each other, but I had always tried to take care of her though I know she often thought of me as a mad young tearaway who had been difficult to calm or control.

  I drove to Moyard Parade at a normal speed, determined not to draw attention to myself and I parked immediately outside her garden gate, just 12 feet from her front door. I left the engine running and the driver’s door open in case we should be interrupted by some unwelcome bastard who happened to be nearby. I ran to the front door and banged the letter-box. I looked through the window in the front door and saw my Ma walking towards the door. She saw me and stopped dead in her tracks. I could see her face go pale before me. For three or four seconds she paused, not knowing what she should do, and then briskly walked to the door and flung it open.

  ‘Martin,’ she shouted, before I had a chance to say a word, ‘what the fuck are you doing here? Are you fucking mad or what? Now get the hell out of here at once.’

  I was just about to tell her that all I wanted to do was to see her and chat for a few minutes when her lifelong friend Alfie came into the hall still dressed in his boxer shorts. ‘Martin, you stupid cunt, what the fuck are you doing here? Do you want to get us stiffed or something? Just fuck off, will you, and don’t come back.’

  I stood and roared with laughter at their response to my appearance at their front door. Within a split second all the emotion that had built up in my heart that morning had disappeared like dust in a wind but as Alfie was saying his piece I looked at my mother and, though her words had been violent and unrelenting, her eyes had betrayed real fear. ‘I’ll call you sometime,’ I shouted as I ran to the car, jumped inside and drove away. I realised we hadn’t even touched.

  But those few seconds of harsh reality with my Ma had brought me to my senses. I was once again my old, confident self, not worrying about anything in particular and ready to enjoy life. And for some unknown reason in that moment I didn’t care a damn about the IRA, MI5, the RUC or the Special Branch. At the top of Moyard Parade, the street where I had played as a youngster, I stopped the car to take in the view of my old hunting grounds. For a few minutes I was mesmerised, knowing that this was the place where I really belonged and where people I could trust still lived. Of course I couldn’t and wouldn’t trust everyone but I knew I could put my faith in some of them, trusting them far more than the so-called trustworthy government agencies that had tried to kill me and were now hounding me at every turn.

  As I looked down the hill and across the estate, my attention was drawn to a young woman in her twenties as she passed by my car and I realised that I had known her quite well some years ago. Almost involuntarily I wound down the window and called out to her. ‘Arlene,’ I shouted and she turned and looked at the car.

  ‘Jesus, I know you; you’re Marty McGartland,’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Just visiting,’ I replied.

  ‘So you’re not stopping?’

  ‘No, only a few hours, then I’m off,’ I replied. ‘Are you still going out with Bob?’ I knew Arlene had been going with him and they had had a baby together.

  ‘Ah, Marty, that was finished years ago; you’re well out of touch.’

  ‘Have you got a new boyfriend?’ I asked.

  ‘I have that, yes,’ she replied. ‘And what about you? I hear you and Angir finished.’

  ‘You know me, Arlene, I still keep myself to myself; there’s no woman who will take me after Angie. She was a diamond.’

  ‘Well, Marty, it’s been nice speaking to you; take care of yourself now.’ And she walked off down the road.

  It was only after she had gone that I recalled that the person whom she had named as her new boyfriend was a staunch Republican who had close connections with senior members of the IRA. ‘Fuck,’ I thought to myself, ‘I can’t hang around here for long. I’ve only
been here minutes and already my past has caught up with me.’

  I slammed the car into first gear and began to drive off down the street when I saw a really familiar face, a young man named Sean who used to work with me in the scrap metal business, one of my covers when working for the Branch. Sean was always a cheerful lad, a few years younger than me, who seemed to have a permanent smile on his face. I liked him. I slowed down and shouted, ‘Sean, Sean,’ and he looked round and recognised me instantly.

  ‘Fuck, Marty, are you back here again?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not staying,’ I replied.

  ‘Jesus, that’s a nice car, Marty. Is that yours?’

  ‘No,’ I replied, ‘I stole it.’ And he burst out laughing.

  I wanted to stop and chat to Sean because we had always been friends but I also worried that Arlene may have told people she met her latest piece of gossip; that she had just seen Marty McGartland at the top of Moyard Parade, though she would not have meant me any harm. I guessed my arrival back on the scene might have caused some tongues to wag. And if any Provo heard I was back they would be out looking for me within minutes. In that instant I realised I was putting my mission in jeopardy by indulging in my emotions and driving around Ballymurphy and I cursed myself for not acting in a more professional way. I knew I had to get out of the area, and quick.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I asked Sean.

  ‘Top of the Rock,’ he replied, meaning the Whiterock shops near the Springfield Road.

  ‘Jump in,’ I said. ‘I’ll give you a lift.’

  I dropped Sean near the traffic lights at the junction of Whiterock and Springfield roads and waved him goodbye. ‘Goodbye and good luck,’ he said.

  ‘Same to you, too,’ I shouted after him as he slammed the car door and walked off to the shops with a wave.

  Seconds later, Sean was walking past a group of young jobless lads who were standing around chatting together when one asked him, ‘Who owns that smart car you just got out of?’

  ‘It’s Marty’s,’ he replied, without thinking.

  ‘Marty who?’ another asked.

  ‘Marty McGartland of course, who else?’ he replied.

  ‘Marty McGartland?’ someone shouted and the call was taken up. The dozen or so lads hanging around all gathered together and began earnestly discussing the dramatic news as Sean walked off.

  I would hear what happened after I returned to the safety of Newcastle and it made me realise, if I needed any further proof, that for my own safety I should never return to Belfast again. More importantly I also heard what happened to Sean and what upset me was that it had been my fault for taking such risks. Later that day as he was walking back home two IRA members, whom he recognised, came up to him. He sensed he was facing trouble, if not danger, from the way they came and stood looking at him, menacing him.

  ‘We want you to come with us,’ one said.

  ‘Where to?’ Sean asked.

  ‘Mind your own fucking business and come with us,’ the leader said.

  ‘What do you want me for?’ Sean asked.

  ‘Did you see Marty McGartland today?’ asked the other.

  ‘Aye,’ he replied.

  ‘We want to talk to you, so shut the fuck up and come with us.’

  He knew there was no way out and reluctantly turned and walked off with one man either side of him. They took him to a house not far distant and he feared he was facing a beating. They asked how he had met me. Where was I going? Where I was living? Who else was with me? Was I asking any questions? Did I visit anyone in the area?

  These questions were fired at poor Sean as he stood trembling, trying to answer the barrage of questions quickly enough before more were fired at him. He was shaking with fright because he believed that if he did not give the answers they required they would try the rough treatment and he knew that he might be severely injured. He had seen others given severe beatings before and it wasn’t a pretty sight. But he had one asset. He knew nothing about me or my whereabouts. All he could tell them were details of the car I was driving but he had no idea of the registration number.

  One important question that worried him was when they asked, ‘Was Marty carrying a gun?’

  Sean, of course, had no idea and he told them so, but that didn’t mean they believed him. ‘Listen,’ Sean told them time and again, ‘I was only in the car a few seconds, as long as it takes to drive the few hundred yards. He told me nothing, nothing.’

  Finally, he convinced the IRA men that he knew nothing but before he was allowed to walk free he was given a warning. ‘If you see Marty again you don’t talk to him and you don’t get into his car. You come and find us straightaway and tell us. Do you understand?’

  ‘Aye,’ he replied.

  ‘Now fuck off,’ one said.

  I decided to get the hell out of Ballymurphy and West Belfast because it was obvious that I had already chanced my arm too often that day and to take further risks would be unprofessional, if not crazy. I hadn’t returned to Northern Ireland to indulge my personal emotions but to try and determine the facts around my kidnap. I had permitted my personal life to interfere with the job in hand. I drove away determined to focus on my mission and fuck my emotions.

  Chapter Ten

  I drove back to Peggy’s place very, very relieved to be away from West Belfast but knowing that my mission was only half-completed. As I approached her farm I realised that I needed to spend time alone, to sort out my mind and decide how I should tackle the final hurdle. I tuned off the A6 towards Magherafelt and found the road all but deserted. I parked the car and decided to take a walk to collect my thoughts and check what I was about to do, making sure that I would take no further crazy chances, putting my balls on the line.

  I now knew that my abduction and escape from the IRA had caused loads of trouble inside the Republican movement, making this so-called professional army look like a bunch of amateurs, unable to hold an unarmed man in a block of flats when the gaolers were holding the guns. I was really pleased that Chico and Jim had been given such a hard time, having the piss taken out of them by their IRA mates. It was obvious that there was no love lost between other IRA members and the two men and, to my mind, they deserved all the shit they received. But they could be of no further use to me.

  I realised that Chico and Jim had only been obeying orders and that it was their incompetence that had let them down. Indeed, when in 1994 I saw that Gerry Adams, President of Sinn Fein, had appointed them as his personal bodyguards, I was somewhat taken aback because I believed he would have wanted more professional bodyguards around him than those tough-talking tin-pots. I also knew that any would-be assassin would find it so easy to take out Gerry Adams with those two guarding him. But that was Gerry Adams’ concern.

  I wasn’t sure how to tackle the SB. I knew that if I phoned my former handlers they would be bound to find some way to trace me, pick me up and put me on the next flight back to the mainland. I had to assume that I wasn’t welcome in Northern Ireland, poking about, causing strife, trying to find out what really happened to me and what part the authorities had played in my kidnap. And in my heart I wasn’t certain that the SB or the RUC hadn’t been involved. It seemed extraordinary that MI5 would have planned my kidnap on their own without informing someone what was at hand. I believed it unlikely that my handlers knew of the plot because of the close relationship they had built with me during the four years we had been working together.

  In his book, however, Ian Phoenix had pointed the finger of suspicion at the TCG, suggesting that they had been involved, but to what degree I had no idea. After all, I told myself, no one, no official and no organisation had to take any positive action against me on that fateful day. All that had been necessary was negative inaction, for all someone had to do was withdraw the surveillance unit watching me and leave the dirty work to the Provo’s hitmen. It had been a neat plan, so neat in fact that it was difficult putting my finger on one single person who would have the vital piec
e of information necessary for me to challenge and nail whatever agency had been responsible for trying to get me killed.

  I realised that, in all probability, there were two sets of people who had taken an active part in the plot – the planners and the operatives. I could easily imagine those high-minded snobs in MI5 planning my abduction from the safety of their offices behind the protection of well-guarded headquarters but I also recognised that they wouldn’t have been directly involved in undertaking any of the dirty work, not when there were so many security agencies on hand in Belfast. I suspected that senior RUC officers might well have been kept informed of what was happening so that no one lower down would have ensured that when I went to the meeting at Sinn Fein headquarters I was being given the appropriate protection.

  I recalled in as much detail as I could what I had seen and what I had not seen that morning. I had expected the SB to ensure that either some plainclothes SB officers were brought in to watch Connolly House or at least members of E4A, the surveillance department of the RUC Special Branch, who were experts at keeping people under close observation. But I couldn’t recall seeing anyone around that morning and even at the time that had worried me. As I walked down the narrow country lane, with the hedges protecting me from the wind that was squalling quite hard, I recalled some of the extraordinary episodes when E4A had carried out long and difficult surveillance operations. One involved a stake-out over several days and nights in January 1990 when a team from E4A had watched a house in West Belfast where they believed the IRA were holding Alexander ‘Sandy’ Lynch, an RUC informant. When the RUC finally raided the house and rescued Sandy they discovered the Sinn Fein publicity director, Danny Morrison, whose nickname was ‘Lord Chief Executioner’, in attendance along with eight other IRA men, all of whom were arrested and charged. Lynch had taken a terrible beating and he told later how he feared he would never leave that house alive. The RUC believed that Sandy was on the point of being murdered. The RUC also found a film of Lynch’s wedding day which the IRA security team had shown him, telling him that if he did not confess to working for the Special Branch he would never see his wife again. That had been a highly professional surveillance task and yet, seemingly, it had been impossible to track me once I had left Connolly House even though I had walked out of the front door with two well-known IRA thugs!