Whenever I thought of that time I would get mad as hell, for the more I concentrated on what happened the more I realised I had been hung out to dry, deliberately. But now I had to nail the bastards once and for all.
Ideally, I realised that I needed to find someone who knew the details surrounding my abduction, someone involved with the Tasking Co-ordination Group, which included senior officers from the SAS, MI5, Special Branch and military intelligence. I needed to talk to just one person who worked with the TCG and whom I could trust from any of these agencies. I felt sure there must be a number of people who would have known the truth and would have utterly disapproved of what happened to me. I knew there must be some honourable people in TCG, as there were in the Special Branch, who would happily tell me what really happened that day. But how to find them and how to get to them? If I took too many risks as I had done earlier that day I could even find myself taken out, for I figured that if they were capable of arranging my funeral in August 1991 when I was a well-known informant it would be a fucking sight easier for them to get rid of me now when I was meant to be living in England. All these thoughts weighed heavily on my mind as I considered how to proceed.
I decided to sleep on it and drove back to my secret hide-out at Peggy’s place. As I walked through her open front door which was only held by a latch it seemed I had entered a different world. All seemed so peaceful and relaxed and my new-found little furry friend came up to me, pressing herself against my legs until I bent down and stroked her for a few seconds. ‘It’s only me,’ I called, not wishing to frighten Peggy who I knew would be sitting on her bed resting her legs. It seemed extraordinary that life out here could be so calm and peaceful when, in reality, just a car ride away such devilish machinations could be going on day and night, when even trusted friends could be killed without a moment’s thought.
I decided to phone Mike, my SB pal, and ask to meet him. I knew I would be giving him the shock of his life, visiting Northern Ireland with no protection and conducting my own one-man-band detective agency, but I believed he would be strong enough to take it and agree to see me though he would be putting his neck on the line. I recognised that Mike had already broken RUC rules by informing me that a secret plot had been organised to have me killed. I went for a stroll and a mile or so from the cottage dialled the number he had given me on my mobile, which I had brought from England for just such an eventuality. I knew that there would be no hope of anyone tracing such a call if I made it from a mobile some distance away from where I was staying. I knew the SB and other security agencies had the most sophisticated bugging and tracking devices but I had been led to understand that no one was yet capable of tracing a mobile phone call with any accuracy, especially of the call was made in the middle of the country.
I dialled and waited. A minute or so later the phone was answered. It was a woman who, I presumed, was his wife. I knew it would be crazy to ask for Mike’s number so I left a message saying that his friend from Birmingham had called and would call back later that evening. I knew I was taking something of a risk but believed that Mike would understand that I was only phoning him because I needed his help. He had told me to phone him if ever I needed him. That time had now arrived and I only hoped he had meant what he said.
I cooked Peggy a light meal, scrambled eggs on toast, and at 9 p.m. went out for another stroll. I called Mike’s number again and, as I expected, he answered the phone.
‘Hi, Mike,’ I said, ‘it’s your little friend calling. I hope you don’t mind but you told me it was okay for me to contact you if I needed your help.’
‘Yes, that’s fine,’ he replied. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I need to see you,’ I said. ‘It’s urgent.’
‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I was expecting a call from you. You’ve come across for a visit.’
‘How the fuck did you know that?’ I said, somewhat taken aback that news of my arrival in Belfast had reached the Special Branch.
‘Marty, you should know it’s our business to know everything that’s going on in Belfast,’ he said, and he laughed.
‘Do you know my whereabouts?’ I asked, checking what he really knew of my movements.
‘I know you’ve been back to your old territory, West Belfast,’ he said, chuckling. ‘Anything else you want to know?’
‘Fuck off,’ I said, ‘you know nothing; you’re just guessing. But can I see you tomorrow?’ I asked.
‘Aye, mucker,’ he replied.
‘On your own.’
‘You cheeky cunt,’ he said, ‘do you think I would want anyone to see me talking to you? I’d be for the fucking high jump if anyone saw us together.’
‘When do you want to meet?’ I asked.
‘Sometime early in the morning,’ he said. ‘There’s a job I have to do at ten in the morning. Can you make it for eight-thirty?’
‘Aye,’ I replied. ‘Where?’
‘I’ll see you at Victoria Park,’ he said.
‘Victoria Park?’ I said in some surprise, for I had heard of it but had no idea exactly where it was.
‘Oh, fuck me, Marty,’ he said, ‘you must remember Victoria Park; you know, off the Sydenham By-pass.’
‘Ah, up there near Belfast City airport?’ I said.
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you there.’ And the phone went dead.
I was up bright and early and driving towards Sydenham shortly after six the next day, giving myself plenty of time to check out the area, making sure that Mike and I would be on our own. Now I was treating the whole mission with more determination and professionalism. I slowly toured the perimeter of the park. I assumed that Mike would arrive at Victoria Park station searching for me so, as eight-thirty approached, I drove round the area by the station.
We met as arranged. I saw him driving past the station and he saw me. I turned and followed him and he drove a few hundred yards away until he found a convenient place to stop in a road overlooking the playing fields. He got out of his car and walked over to me saying nothing until he got into the passenger seat.
‘How are you doing, mucker?’ he asked, shaking my hand.
‘I can’t answer that until we’ve had a talk,’ I said with a laugh.
‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, sounding sceptical. ‘To start with, what the fuck are you risking your neck coming over here for?’
‘You know,’ I said, ‘it’s what we talked about in Birmingham.’
‘Oh that,’ he said. ‘I thought you would have forgotten all about that.’
‘How could I?’ I asked, raising my voice. ‘All that came as a real shock to me, you know, mike. I couldn’t sleep for days after that.’
‘If I thought my news would have had that effect I would never have told you,’ he said.
‘If you knew the shite I had been put through since we last met, you would understand why I’m so concerned. Have you no idea what those bastards have put me through in England?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Mike asked.
‘Did you not read in the newspapers about my trial in Newcastle?’
‘Aye, of course I did,’ he said. ‘You were a fly cunt, Marty.’
‘Balls,’ I replied. ‘Mike, you’ve no idea how those bastards hounded me, stopping me every fucking day, asking stupid questions like my identity. On one occasion I was driving a brand new car with the latest plates on it and the traffic cops stopped me demanding to see my MOT, demanding I get out while they examined the tyres, the exhaust and all that shit. Mike, the car was brand fucking new.’
‘Fuck,’ he said, sounding concerned. ‘Why were they playing that game with you?’
‘Let me go on, Mike. When I asked why they had stopped me that day they had the fucking gall to tell me that it was just a routine check. After a while that treatment gets on your nerves. I knew they were just winding me up and I tried to stay calm but after weeks and months of that treatment you just lose your rag.’
‘I understand,�
� he said.
‘No, Mike, you couldn’t understand because it’s never happened to you. These bastards would stop me week in, week out asking for my ID, checking my driving licence and insurance and sometimes arresting me just to confirm my identity. And yet they knew full well my identity because they had so frequently arrested me in the past. I thought they would stop that game after a while but they didn’t. In a four-year period I must have been stopped more than 50 times and that’s no exaggeration, I promise you. What concerned me, Mike, was why – why they were picking on me? I thought you might be able to help.’
‘Shit, I didn’t know that,’ he said, ‘We heard nothing about this over here, nothing at all.’
‘Listen to what happened,’ I continued. ‘After my trial I couldn’t go back home because my real name and my new ID had been read out in court along with my home address. For six years I had kept stum, no one knew that Martin Ashe and Martin McGartland were one and the same person. Now the world knew. As a result I left home and spent weeks living rough in my car driving around northern England, usually sleeping in the car and all that shit. So when the traffic cops stopped me and asked for my address I would tell them, “No fixed abode”. One day the Northumbria Police stopped me, asked to see my licence and when they checked it with the police computer they found I was down as living at my Blyth address. But they refused to believe I was no longer living at Blyth. They knew who I was; they knew I had just been in court.
‘That’s tough,’ he said, ‘but how can I help?’
I sensed that I had been going on a little too long about my problems back in England.
‘I wondered if the treatment I was receiving in Newcastle was linked to what you told me happened the day I was supposedly kidnapped?’
He thought for a while and I kept quiet, giving him time turn things over in his mind. After a couple of minutes he said, ‘I don’t know, mucker, but I doubt it, I really do.’
‘So why do you think they would pick on me for so long as though they were carrying out a vendetta against me?’
‘I can’t answer that,’ he replied. ‘You’re asking me questions which I find impossible to answer.’
I thought it was time to stop that line of questioning for it was obvious that Mike wanted no part of it. ‘Can you help me with the abduction?’ I asked, treading carefully.
‘It depends what you want to know,’ he replied.
‘Everything,’ I replied. ‘I need to know if there was anything that you forgot to tell me during our meeting in Birmingham. Have you heard anything more because, Mike, I’m desperate to know what really happened that day. It’s been trying me crazy to think why MI5 should attempt to have me killed.’
‘I told you everything I know in Birmingham,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing more I know; there’s nothing more I can tell you.’
He must have seen the look of dejection on my face as I struggled to find the right question to ask him which would cause him to talk openly about my kidnapping. Now, it seemed to me, he was wanting to walk away from the question as though I was embarrassing him.
‘Answer me this, can you?’ I said. ‘Have you any further idea of the identity of the man MI5 were supposed to be protecting?’
‘I’ve thought about that too, Marty,’ he went on, ‘and I just don’t know, not for certain. All I know is that he was a very senior man doing the same job you were doing, but he was in deeper.’
‘But why didn’t they just ship me out, relocate me and let me be?’ I almost pleaded.
‘Sometimes, Marty, but only sometimes, the men who run these agencies believe that the only solution to such a problem is to remove the offending informant from the scene completely so that he can never cause an embarrassment or, as in your case, accidentally reveal a source’s identity. But, Marty, don’t ask me why because I just don’t know.’
‘But have you no idea?’ I asked again.
‘Firstly, Marty, you must accept what I know; that I promise you that I don’t know the reasons behind their decision to get you picked up. But there is one question you must ask yourself. Was there anything you did in the four years with the Branch that made Box [the name RUC and SB officers gave MI5 officers working in Northern Ireland] act in the way they did? It may be that the only person who can answer that question is yourself. You must examine your mind to see if there was something that you were involved in which, at the time, you didn’t realise was highly sensitive material but which in fact was of tremendous importance. Maybe, just maybe, there was something you became involved in that they feared you might one day reveal. And that revelation could have caused the most terrible consequences on a number of other sources.’
His reply puzzled me and I wondered what Mike was driving at because I knew of nothing that I had done during my years with the Branch that could be of such extraordinary significance in intelligence terms.
‘Mike, I think that’s shite,’ I said. ‘But nothing has changed from what you told me in Birmingham?’ I went on, wanting to get to the core of my investigation.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I told you everything when we had that chat, everything I knew.’
‘Do you think they’re still after me?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I really don’t think so; in fact I’m sure they’re not after you.’
‘How can you be so sure then?’ I asked.
‘Because that’s life in our business, Marty,’ he said. ‘They would only have another go if there was something of real importance. But you’ve been away from it all for six years now. I don’t think they would touch you, honestly.’
It was good to hear such assurances but it didn’t really help me. ‘So there’s nothing more you can tell me?’ I said with some belligerence in my voice.
‘You’re right, mucker,’ he said, ‘I can’t help you any further. You must understand that fucking coming over here is like putting your balls on the line. I came to see you because I thought you had been treated disgracefully but if you’re starting to come over here, asking questions, causing trouble and walking around West Belfast you’re simply asking for fucking trouble. You have to walk away from this, Marty, and forget it.’
‘But why should I stop it? It was my fucking life they nearly took, Mike. Can’t you understand that?’
‘Of course I do and I admire you for having the balls to follow through this business but you must understand, in our business, bygones are bygones. You can’t keep looking back on what happened; you must only look forward. You survived and that’s it; forget it; walk away and continue with your life.’
‘Let me change the subject, let me ask you to answer some questions of a different nature,’ I said.
‘Fire away,’ said Mike, ‘if I can help, I will.’
‘It’s about Chico Hamilton and Jim McCarthy, the two IRA men who kidnapped and held me at gunpoint for seven hours.’
‘Go on,’ he urged.
‘I cannot understand why these two men were never questioned, never arrested or never charged over my kidnap. I was alive; I could have given evidence in a court case. From what the RUC and the Special Branch have said these two men were seen going into Connolly House and leaving with me. Then, mysteriously, I disappeared but because I survived the ordeal I could have given evidence in court which would have led to their conviction. Why was no action taken against them?’
For a minute Mike looked down, obviously deep in thought, and he shifted his body nervously. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, Marty; I just don’t know.’
Dead Man Running: A True Story of a Secret Agent's Escape from the IRA and MI5 Page 20
