‘It’s lovely to see you, Marty,’ she said and my fears subsided. Instinctively I knew this was the old Mary, the girl I could trust.
As I drove away from the station Mary began bombarding me with questions, wondering why I was risking my life returning to Belfast and why I needed to talk to her so urgently. I drove to Castlereagh, to one of the places where I had frequently met and talked to Felix during my four years working for the Branch. I thought we might be safe there though I conceded that I might bump into Branch officers debriefing one of their sources. But I reckoned I had less chance of being recognised by SB officers than my old muckers in West Belfast who had known me all my life. It was a chance I had to take.
‘I’ve probably no need to say this, Mary, but I must ask you to keep secret everything I’m about to discuss with you. I must be able to trust you.’
‘You know you can, Marty,’ she replied, ‘we’ve always been able to trust each other.
‘Good, well listen; you remember my kidnapping and all that back in August 1991?’ I began.
‘Sure,’ she replied, ‘it was the talk of Belfast especially since Chico and Jim were made to look such fools.’
‘Well, I need to whether you heard anything suspicious about the abduction. Whether anyone found anything odd about it,’ I asked, speaking slowly and deliberately.
‘You must be joking,’ she said, ‘we were all talking about how it was possible for Chico and Jim to walk you out of Connolly House and abduct you in broad daylight. I had no idea you were working as a double agent for both the IRA and the Branch, Marty; you must enjoy danger.’
‘Did you hear anything else?’ I asked, ignoring her remarks about my reasons for working for the Branch.
‘Marty, I could talk to you for hours about what everyone was saying but I don’t think it would help. I listened whenever the subject came up because of our friendship but I couldn’t even attempt to defend you because of Tom. He’s never had any idea, thank God, that we’ve ever met, let alone be good friends.’
She went on. ‘There was one night when I was with Tom and two of his IRA mates in a club and they were talking about you. They thought that Chico and Jim had thrown you out of the window because they had become increasingly nervous as the day wore on and the IRA security team had still not arrived. Another theory put forward was that the Branch had dumped you because you had outlived your usefulness.’
As I was digesting what she had told me, Mary asked, out of the blue; ‘Did you know many secrets then, Marty?’
‘No, not really, I replied, laughing at such a direct question about such a highly secretive subject. ‘Nothing that wasn’t everyday work. All I did was tell the SB what the IRA were planning so they could step in and stop the killings.’
‘I thought that’s what you were doing,’ she said, ‘but I could never say so because your name was shit after everything came out about you.’
‘So you didn’t hear anything that surprised you?’
‘Not really,’ she said, ‘but there was one point which people kept bringing up about you. They all said you were a hard man who would knock the shit out of anyone who got in your way. They wondered if the Branch became scared of you losing your temper if anything went wrong and giving someone a good hiding. Some even jokingly suggested that the reason Chico and Jim were sent to pick you up because someone at the top wanted you to give the two big-headed bastards a good thumping.’
‘And what did everyone think?’
‘They were all confused,’ she said. ‘No one was able to work out what really went on and why. It was because everything seemed so mysterious and bizarre that people talked about it for so long.’
‘Can you think of nothing else?’ I asked, a little disappointed that she had not been able to give me a more concrete lead that might that might help me find out what really happened.
‘Wait a minute,’ she said excitedly. ‘There was one more thing which I could not get out of my mind for a long time and which I thought was odd, even extraordinary at the time.’
‘What was that?’ I asked.
‘When Chico and Jim returned from the South some weeks after you jumped from the window the IRA sat back for a few days wondering if the Branch would come and pick them up. But nothing happened. Neither the RUC nor the Branch even bothered to question them and that aroused real suspicion in IRA circles. Everyone was talking about it, for it seemed so strange. After a few days Chico and Jim were picked up by the IRA security team on suspicion that they were working for the Branch. Some IRA people apparently believed that you hadn’t jumped out of the window but either Chico or Jim had let you go and concocted the story to make it seem dramatic. They were held and questioned for at least a day. Remember, Marty, Jim McCarthy had been kneecapped by the IRA for helping prison officers while he was in jail when all the other IRA prisoners were involved with the dirty protests. From the IRA’s point of view Chico also had a suspicious past because when questioned by police over a charge of attempted murder involving a British soldier he had admitted to being a member of the IRA. You know there was no worse sin that an IRA man could commit than telling the RUC they were a member of the IRA. Everyone was saying that neither man was considered trustworthy by the IRA leadership.’
‘So have you any idea why they were sent to kidnap me?’ I asked her.
‘No, Marty,’ she replied, ‘no idea at all. It seems so extraordinary, unless of course Chico and Jim were really working for the Special Branch.’
I said nothing to that line of argument but it was probably one of the most important pieces of information Mary was going to give me that day.
‘But you’re not going to stay around here are you, Marty?’ she said, sounding concerned.
‘No, I’ll be away in a few days.’
I dropped Mary back at the train station and she gave me some warm hugs and a couple of kisses on the cheek, telling me to look after myself. Her last words to me were, ‘Don’t worry, Marty; I’ll tell no one we’ve met. Take care.’
As I was driving away from the station I came to some lights that were at red. When the lights changed I was about to drive away when I caught the eye of a taxi driver who was travelling in the opposite direction. The man was looking intently at me. As he looked at me I saw his mouth drop open and then he shouted, ‘Marty, Marty McGartland . . .’ Fortunately the lights had changed and I drove away convinced the man was a member of the IRA, a man whom I had known when working with Davy Adams, Gerry Adams’ nephew, in IRA intelligence. At first I couldn’t recall his name and then I realised it was a man named ‘Billy’ who had known me quite well. ‘Fuck,’ I thought to myself, ‘he’s recognised me.’
I had first met Billy when he was working as a taxi driver with one of the many taxi firms which owed allegiance to the IRA. These taxis would sometimes be used to ferry men and weapons across the city. For many years the taxi firms had been a wonderful courier service for the IRA and the Branch believed that some of the firms were funded and run by the IRA hierarchy, frequently employing well-known IRA men who had been jailed for IRA activities and had been released. Understandably, these men found it very difficult, if not impossible, to find work or get a regular job because of their backgrounds. The IRA would give them jobs as taxi drivers so they could earn some money. They could also be trusted.
I was annoyed with myself for permitting someone to recognise me yet it hadn’t really been my fault. I told myself to keep calm and act accordingly. There was no direct threat to my security and the man Billy obviously had no idea where I was staying. Nevertheless, there was now an IRA man who knew I was in Belfast and driving around in a re Vauxhall Vectra. I had no idea whether or not he had managed to note the registration number but I was doubtful as there had been so many vehicles blocking his view of the number plate. Now I knew that I had to dump my hire car, and quickly.
I drove back to the car rental depot as calmly as possible, checking my rear-view mirror every other second. As I drove I put o
n the baseball cap that I carried in the car and took off my bomber jacket so that anyone driving past would see a man in a sweatshirt and cap. It may not have worked but, on the other hand, I knew it might put off anyone searching for me. I had to accept that Billy would have swung round his taxi and done his damnedest to trace me and I would take no chances. I also wondered if he had been in radio contact with his base. If he had, and had raised the alarm of my return to Belfast, I knew I could really be in the shit.
When I arrived at the garage I parked the car out of harm’s way in the middle of a line of other hire vehicles, some of them Vauxhall Vectras. I walked into the office, keeping a wary eye open for Billy and his taxi but throughout the ten minutes or so I was in there I saw no taxis whatsoever in the area. The necessity was to get out of the city, out of Northern Ireland and back to the mainland as quickly as possible. I knew it could be risky waiting around the Belfast ferry terminal for it would have been so easy for the IRA to send a few men to search the place. I decided it would be safer to make my way to Larne and take the ferry from there. I made my way on foot through the back streets the few hundred yards to the Belfast City Hall from where the buses depart. I had to wait around for half an hour or so before the next bus left for Larne. I stood behind the shelters, not wanting to sit on the bus waiting because I knew I would feel exposed. As more people gathered I stood amongst them, trying to make myself inconspicuous.
The journey to Larne was long and tedious and seemed to go on for hours. I bought a copy of the Belfast Telegraph and spent most of the journey reading, concealing my face from anyone who could be checking me out. I must have read the paper from cover to cover during the hour-long express coach service. For the final ten minutes or so I worried about what I would do once I reached the terminal, for I realised that the Larne terminal was always stuffed with SB officers checking everyone coming and going. There was also the small matter of the CCTV cameras which were constantly checked by the RUC looking out for suspected terrorists. I also had to take into account that the SB now knew that I was back home in Belfast and would be asking questions. I judged that if Mike had heard I was back in Northern Ireland then nearly every other SB man in Belfast would have been made aware of my arrival.
More importantly, although I believed my arrival in Belfast would not trigger any major interest in me from the RUC or the Branch, I had to assume that ‘Box’ and their surveillance units might still have a residual interest in me which I would ignore at my peril. I wanted to believe what Mike had told me, that it was very unlikely that ‘Box’ was still interested in taking action against me but I couldn’t take that risk. As far as I was concerned MI5 were nearly as much of a danger to me as the IRA. And the thought made me chuckle. What I did know from conversations that I had held with my SB handlers during the years was that MI5 was a ruthless organisation which would stop at nothing, prepared to go to any lengths if they believed the so-called ‘national security’ was at stake. It had also been explained to me that on many occasions what MI5 deemed the ‘national security’ was more often than not an excuse to carry out whatever devious activities they wished, including taking the law into their own hands.
‘Never trust “Box” was the maxim that the Special Branch in Belfast lived by, for they believed MI5 officers worked to a different agenda from any of the other intelligence and security services in the fight against the IRA and the Protestant paramilitaries.
‘ “Box” is a law unto itself,’ I was told by more than one SB handler in Belfast. ‘They are happy to ride roughshod over anyone, including those they are meant to be working with. They treat us as second-class citizens to be ignored until we are wanted to carry out some task or other that they don’t want to do. We never trust them further than we can throw them because they’re so secretive. We are meant to be working together combating terrorist activities and yet they keep everything to themselves, never sharing information with us which, sometimes, could be of real importance to us. As a result, some Branch officers are loath to keep “Box” informed of all the intelligence they gather. It’s a mad way to go about combating terrorism but it’s all the fault of “Box”. They believe they are superior and think we are here just to follow their orders and carry out their demands.’
Of course, I had no idea whether the attitude of Special Branch officers was deserved or simply petty internal jealousies among competing intelligence agencies, but I did have every reason to be wary of ‘Box’ and make fucking sure I kept out of their grasp. I had not wanted to believe what Mike had said about the ‘Box’ plot to get me killed but there was no other logical conclusion I could arrive at. I was not going to trust them one inch.
As we all trooped off the bus at the Larne terminal I tried to make myself as inconspicuous as possible. Most of those on board seemed to be families but I looked in vain for some person or group of people that I could latch on to in an effort to draw attention away from me. I needed to buy a ticket and as I walked into the booking area I noticed a few RUC officers, wearing black flak jackets and carrying sub-machine guns, slowly patrolling the area as a deterrent to any would-be bombers. I realised that they would also have been looking out for any suspicious characters who might have been working for the IRA or indeed any of the paramilitaries.
‘Afternoon sir,’ the voice behind me said, hitting me like a thunderbolt for I had not been aware I was even being watched. I spun round and there must have been astonishment on my face as I looked into the eyes of two RUC men standing stock still only a matter of feet from me.
Desperately trying to regain my composure, I replied, ‘Afternoon,’ and forced myself to smile. I feared that the two officers would want to question me because I realised I must have looked very nervous, and I tried to relax, telling myself to stop being stupid.
I walked over to the ticket office and queued for my one-way ticket and then immediately made my way to the cafe for a cup of tea and to escape from the prying eyes and possible questioning of the patrolling RUC men. I realised that travelling alone, being in my mid-twenties and speaking with an obvious Belfast accent made me an ideal suspect for peelers bored from their hours of pacing up and down the departure areas.
As I sat drinking tea my attention was drawn to a man I judged to be in his late twenties whom I heard asking for a cup of coffee in a Belfast accent, one which sounded remarkably like a West Belfast tone of voice. Instantly, I recognised the man but I couldn’t for the life of me put a name to his face. Yet he worried me. I felt he was a young man I had met during my two years inside the IRA. I recalled the times, the hours I had spent poring over Special Branch photographic files trying to remember the faces of people, mostly young men, whom my handlers asked me to keep a sharp look out for. I believed that this young man was one of those IRA suspects the Branch had asked me to keep a watch out for.
And then he noticed that I was looking at him. Our eyes met and I was more convinced than ever that I knew him, not only from a photograph file, but on a more personal basis, and that worried the shit out of me. I looked away and when I managed to look at him again, via a mirror in the cafe, I realised that he had recognised me but he too was not sure of my identity.
I decided to sit still and pretend to keep sipping my tea, though in reality I had finished it some time ago. Occasionally I would glance over towards the young man and every time I looked across the cafe he would be all but staring at me as if trying to confuse or frighten me. I wondered whether I should go over to him, engage him in conversation, try to find out if I did in fact know him or whether my fears of detection were playing on my nerves. In retrospect I was glad that the RUC officers had nodded to me and said ‘good afternoon’, treating me in the same way as many other travellers that day. That meant it was very unlikely that he was armed and that fact, if push came to shove, would give me a fair chance of making my escape.
The man was quite well built but I noticed that, despite his youth, he carried a bit of a beer belly and didn’t seem particularly
fit. I figured that if he challenged me I would be quite capable of giving him a good thumping. That thought gave me some confidence, for I realised that the palms of my hands had been sweating as though I suspected my cover would soon be blown.
He finished his cup of tea and came across to my table. ‘Don’t I know you?’ he asked in a strong Belfast accent, looking intently at me in what seemed to be a friendly manner.
‘Don’t think so,’ I lied. ‘Where do you think you know me from?’
‘I can’t place you,’ he said, ‘but I’m still sure we’ve met some time.’
‘Maybe,’ I lied again, ‘but I don’t think so.’
‘Do you visit any clubs in West Belfast?’ he asked, suggesting to me that this was his way of informing me that he was an IRA sympathiser if not an activist, trying to find some common ground between us.
‘I doubt it,’ I replied, ‘because I live in England now. I was just visiting my folks.’
Dead Man Running: A True Story of a Secret Agent's Escape from the IRA and MI5 Page 22
