Double Agent: My Secret Life Undercover in the IRA

by Kevin Fulton

  The level of hostility at the RUC station was just starting to wane when the IRA struck again. Five weeks after the attack on the station, on 3 April 1985, a car bomb exploded outside Newry courthouse, killing an RUC officer and a civilian court worker. Once again, the IRA’s South Down Command claimed responsibility.

  I walked into the RUC station again two days later to answer bail, accompanied by my younger brother. Once again, I ran a gauntlet of abuse, only this time I did so with a smile planted on my face. I had to play the part of an IRA man to the last detail. It was one of the hardest things I’d ever had to do, and I knew that, from that day on, the RUC would make my life in Newry hell.

  ‘I’m getting all this abuse and I’m not even in the IRA,’ I complained to a Republican contact.

  He was sympathetic, especially as I had named no names and was preparing to take my punishment on the chin. I was terrified of going to jail – not of jail itself, but of the treatment I would receive from IRA prisoners in jail. I had heard harrowing stories of ordinary hooch prisoners being savagely beaten on the wings or being forced to stay in their cells twenty-four hours a day. ‘We’re political prisoners and you’re just a hood,’ was the attitude. Then there was my British army past. God knows what unspeakable things would be done to me if the Republican prisoners had a problem with this. I didn’t dare think about the consequences of my working for British military intelligence being revealed. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  My contact at the Republican bar in Newry said he would talk to some of his contacts about it. I decided to stick close to him. He was the only one who could help me on this. Little did I know that sticking close to this man would yield a massive dividend.

  I was walking up Hill Street in Newry with him one lunchtime when a man bearing a disturbing resemblance to TV’s Roland Rat came scuttling out of the Lido café. He greeted my contact and the pair started chatting like old friends. I hung back a bit, wondering why I had never before set eyes on this man who was acting like my contact’s long-lost brother. Suddenly, Roland Rat turned to me and said, ‘A friend of yours was asking about you the other day.’

  I was racking my brains now, trying to work out what possible connection I might have to this man, hoping not to offend.

  ‘Oh, really?’ I smiled, going along with the riddle.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ said Roland, a glint in his eye, ‘a friend in Dundalk.’

  I felt my cheeks flush.

  ‘You do remember him, don’t you?’ he said, naming my old nemesis, the IRA’s Officer Commanding in Dundalk.

  I felt myself panicking. Am I in trouble? Have I been found out?

  With that, he burst out laughing. I stayed stony faced. I still couldn’t see the funny side to that particular ordeal. This had the effect of cracking him up even more. His bare-faced cheek was starting to irritate me.

  ‘Oh, that wanker,’ I said glumly, and that had him laughing even harder.

  I shuffled awkwardly, waiting for him to recover from his fit.

  ‘You know, you’re all right with me,’ said Roland Rat with considerable emphasis, ‘especially after that business with the lorry.’ With that, he bid farewell to my contact, turned his back on us and set off up Hill Street. He’d gone a few steps when he turned back and said to him, ‘Explain to him that I think he’s all right, mate,’ before scurrying away once more.

  ‘Who the fuck is he?’ I asked, still rattled.

  ‘That is Patrick Joseph Blair,’ he replied, ‘or Mooch as he’s better known.’

  I nearly spluttered. He didn’t need to say any more. I knew all about Mooch, freshly out of prison and freshly reinstated as the IRA’s officer commanding in Newry. The recent upsurge in IRA activity around Newry was no coincidence. Mooch was back on the scene. Months earlier, he had finished a long sentence for the attempted murder of a part-time UDR man. The attack was legendary, as reckless as it was ruthless. Mooch and his cohorts waited in a hijacked van for their victim to turn up for work at the water board. The plan was to wait for him to park his car and get out, then shoot him well before he got to the main entrance door. Easy.

  Bang on time, the intended target approached the water board’s front gate in his car. Mooch cocked his Armalite rifle. One of the team grabbed the handle to the side door, ready to slide it gently open when instructed. The intended target must have had a flash of foreboding. Instead of turning right into the water board, he put his foot down and drove on, at speed. ‘Get after him,’ came the order and the van roared into life. It took a few minutes to get behind the car. Slowly, the van inched up until they were side by side. The back door of the van was booted open. Boom boom boom, Mooch shot the man repeatedly, hitting him in the head and the body. As the car veered into a fence, the van screeched on.

  Miraculously, the man survived. In fact, he recovered sufficiently to pick Mooch out at a police line-up. Some months later, he attended the court case in a wheelchair.

  Oh yes, I knew all about Mooch Blair.

  ‘He’s saying you’re all right, Kevin,’ said my contact.

  ‘How do you mean?’ I said, not daring to jump to any conclusions as far as these boys were concerned.

  ‘You’re all right. You’re not under any suspicion. Mooch thinks you’re OK. He’d be happy to work with you.’

  ‘I should think so too,’ I said, making out like it was no big deal. Inside, I was doing cartwheels. I floated home. I was all right with the local top IRA man. Clearly, he liked what he had heard about my show of defiance in Dundalk. Maybe he had made his own checks too. For the first time in more than four years of trying, I had finally met the real thing. And he thought I was all right. I was elated.

  Andy and Gerry recognised my chance meeting with Mooch as a potentially major breakthrough. I had to find out where Mooch hung out, and I had to engineer further chance meetings with him as soon as possible. I had to get in with him. At the same time, I had to be careful not to push it, not to overdo it, or he would suspect something. I felt I could maintain that balance, right enough.

  I discovered that Mooch, unlike a lot of top Provos, did attend the odd Irish night – just long enough to squeeze a bit of flesh and to revel in a bit of adoration. And so, at the next one, I kept my eyes peeled for Mooch Blair.

  Eventually, I spotted him holding court near the bar. I slipped through the throng so as to be only a few feet away when he turned round. I pretended I hadn’t seen him. ‘Ah, you didn’t head over to Dundalk tonight then?’ came the question, and I turned to see Mooch smiling.

  This time I laughed heartily. ‘It’s Mooch, I believe, isn’t it?’ I said jovially, offering my right hand.

  ‘It is indeed,’ said Mooch, giving my hand a good firm shake, ‘and I’m sorry to hear they didn’t treat you too well.’

  ‘I was a bit pissed off with them, Mooch, to be honest,’ I said. ‘I think they thought it was all a big laugh. The poor fella with me pissed himself!’

  ‘The important thing is not to take it seriously,’ said Mooch. ‘Forget about it.’

  The conversation moved swiftly on to my family. People in Newry like to build entire family trees over a drink. To my surprise, carrying on a conversation with Mooch was effortless. We knew the same people. We went to the same schools. I found that I didn’t have to think before I spoke.

  ‘We should have a proper chat sometime,’ he said finally, as we emptied a second round of drinks. ‘You know, somewhere a bit quieter.’

  ‘That’d be great,’ I said, and I knew he genuinely meant it. I would be seeing more of Mooch Blair. I was on my way. I had no idea where it would take me, but some sort of odyssey had begun.

  I made sure I bumped into Mooch regularly after that. Soon enough, he introduced me to a man with whom I was to become inextricably linked. He was a top IRA figure – unfortunately, I cannot reveal his real name or his true identity here, but I shall call him Conor throughout the book. To my delight, Conor soon sought me out at Irish nights, and we would enjoy a few
drinks together. We laughed at the same things, and shared the same interests. Conor even told me he had been in the Territorial Army, where he had developed a lifelong passion for guns and explosives.

  Conor made no secret of his IRA career. With his standing and reputation, how could he? He didn’t seem very politically motivated, more a man who loved the prestige and power of his position and the buzz of planning operations. For my part, I wasn’t remotely politically motivated, and I too loved guns and explosives. It was solid ground on which to construct a murderous friendship. After a few drinks too many, Conor would regale me with his hair-raising escapades as a volunteer. I made no secret of my fascination with his secret life, or of my lust for action since leaving the army. Despite this, he never seemed to get to the point of actively recruiting me into the IRA. I felt constantly like a salesman failing to close the deal.

  Meanwhile, our wives hit it off famously and we became a regular social foursome. When Conor had to hotfoot it to Dundalk, my wife and I drove down regularly to see them. A friendship that had at first been cultivated was blossoming naturally. I suppose that sums up the perversity of Northern Ireland. I had more in common with my enemy than with anyone I’d encountered on my side.

  Eventually, during the summer of 1985, I felt close enough to Conor to seek a favour. As my November court date for the ill-fated lorry hijack loomed closer, the terror I felt at being sent to prison was making me ill. I confided in Conor my blood-curdling fear that Republican prisoners would target me because of my British army past. He told me he would see what he could do.

  Weeks later, Conor told me he had secured certain assurances. If I was sent to prison, no harm would come to me. The relief I felt was indescribable. I had Conor vouching for me, and I had honoured the golden rule of not naming names to the RUC. Finally, after five long years, I was being accepted into the bosom of Republicanism. Now I only hoped that the Crown – for which I had sacrificed so much – would show me mercy.

  I thought the court date would never come. I just wanted to get it over with. Finally, one rainy morning in November 1985, my brothers and I set off for Belfast and the Crumlin Road courthouse. We drove in silence along the West Link, past Unity Flats, up the Crumlin Road past the Mater Hospital. We were all thinking the same thing: Would we be making the return journey that evening?

  Directly across the road from the courthouse, connected by an underground tunnel, loomed the mock-gothic fortress that is Crumlin Road Prison. Its vast granite walls were encrusted with black filth, making it look more like a grim Victorian factory. I wondered whether I would be sleeping inside those great black walls that night.

  Each of us pleaded guilty to the lorry hijack scam. We were all lilywhites, and our solicitor had predicted suspended sentences. He was partially correct.

  Brother one got a suspended sentence. Brother two – whom everyone agreed had been dragged into it by me – got eighteen months. Then the judge turned to me. ‘Kevin Fulton, you have pleaded guilty to the charge of theft. It is clear you were the ringleader of this operation, and so you must receive the harshest punishment.’

  I closed my eyes.

  ‘I am sentencing you to two years.’

  The crack of the gavel was like a shot to the heart. I couldn’t even look at my brother as we were led down the steps into separate cells. Paperwork was processed while the shock set like concrete in my veins. I told my solicitor I didn’t want to spend Christmas in prison. I wanted to appeal. I’ll always remember his words. ‘If you appeal, you’ll spend the next two Christmases behind bars.’

  Next thing, we were being led along a black tunnel, through gate after gate after gate, into a room where I followed the order to hand over all my personal possessions. My brother came in soon after, and the pair of us were led to D-wing, which housed low-risk criminals and just a handful of paramilitaries.

  I knew no one was going to unlock the cell door and let me out, so I decided to get my head down and get on with it. If I behaved myself, I would be out in twelve months. I could just about get my head around a 365-day countdown. God alone knows how anybody copes at the start of a ten-year sentence. In the meantime, I had weekly visits to look forward to and, providing I kept out of trouble, a week’s parole in six months.

  I coped with the day-to-day routine well. I was a starman – slang for an inmate serving his first prison sentence – and so my good behaviour was swiftly rewarded with privileges. I got a prized job in the laundry room. It was easy work but the real benefit was it had its own toilet. I was the only prisoner in Crumlin Road Prison able to take a shit in peace. Daily I saw the dehumanising effect prison was having on my fellow inmates, and I clung to this single privilege.

  At night, out of my cell window, I could see the lights of a flourmill and I could hear the noises and smell the smells of Belfast. Believe me, this is far better than staring at a wall. Another D-wing privilege was that we were allowed to keep a radio in our cell. This was my lifeline to the outside world. To refer to these small mercies as privileges in the outside world seems laughable. Trust me, in prison, they’re worth more than gold.

  It became apparent very quickly that I wouldn’t be getting any grief from the Republican prisoners. Indeed, I made a point of befriending any I could. I realised that I could achieve one thing in prison – I could enhance my credibility with the Provisional IRA. And never did boosting my credibility with the IRA seem such a good idea. What also became apparent very quickly was that the screws locked and unlocked the doors, but that was as far as their powers went. In Crumlin Road Prison, the IRA controlled everything.

  Two events in particular boosted my reputation with Republican prisoners. The first was a surprise visit by Conor’s wife. Of course, I desperately looked forward to my wife’s weekly visits, but they broke my heart. I felt overwhelmed with guilt. My poor wife hadn’t chosen to get embroiled in this Dirty War. My life was one huge lie and now she was paying the price. Every visit took place within earshot of a dozen screws, making normal conversation impossible. It was almost a relief when Conor’s wife turned up in her place. Word quickly spread around the prison – Fulton’s so tight with Conor he sent his missus to visit him!

  The second major boost to my kudos happened in March 1986. All low-grade inmates were being vetted for transfer to the newly built Maghaberry Prison in Antrim. The facilities there were top notch, and anything had to be better than crumbling Crumlin Road. Everyone was desperate to go. I had served four months with exemplary behaviour, so I saw my transfer to Maghaberry as a formality. Again, in prison, something as trivial as a transfer takes on a wildly exaggerated significance. So, when my brother got the transfer and I didn’t, I was enraged.

  To make matters worse, my brother was going to be allowed out on parole every other weekend. I couldn’t understand it. Far more dangerous prisoners than me were being rewarded with the transfer to Maghaberry. Why wasn’t I?

  I stormed down to Alex Flanagan, the prison censor, and demanded an explanation.

  ‘Sorry, kid,’ said Alex, ‘you’re here for the stay.’

  ‘What?’ I demanded.

  ‘They won’t give you security clearance,’ said Alex.

  ‘Why not? I’ve worked hard. I’ve stayed out of trouble.’

  ‘In confidence, Kevin,’ said Alex, his outstretched hands willing me to calm down, ‘it’s your reports. You’re a suspected paramilitary. It’s the, er, company you’ve been keeping.’

  Yet again, everyone had me in the IRA. Except the IRA. I made sure word got round as to why I had been refused a transfer. I was working hard for Andy and Gerry. What worried me was that they hadn’t had the decency even to get in touch with me since my conviction. I knew they couldn’t visit me directly, but I thought they’d have the connections and the clout to get to me somehow. Surely they could send someone on a ‘legal’ visit, just to keep me informed. I didn’t dare ring the 830512 number from prison. I assumed all calls were traced or recorded in some way. I started to feel
desperately alone and cut off. I began to wonder if I’d been dropped. Would they still be on the 830512 number when I got out? Prison’s real punishment is giving you too much time to think. Nights are the hardest. Worst-case scenarios creep up on you during the day but you can beat them away. They come back and torment you at night. There is nothing to fill those great black voids of night except worry. I needed some certainties in my life. I craved reassurance. I was getting neither from my handlers.

  Finally, in July 1986, the morning of my week’s parole arrived. I met my wife outside, then headed straight to a coin box to ring my handlers. I was desperate for a meeting, desperate to know where they had been and what was going on. Andy came to the phone, eventually. He was so casual you’d think I’d just been away for a piss.

  ‘Glad to hear you’re all right,’ he said. ‘I’ll get back to you later and we’ll arrange a meet some time this week.’

  I was painting the bedroom ceiling at home the following day when the phone rang. It was my mother. They were expecting me for dinner. ‘Don’t be coming down town to see us,’ she said.

  What?’ I said.

  ‘Just don’t be coming down town. Three policemen have been shot.’

  Next thing, it was on the news: three RUC men shot dead in Market Street. They were parked up in an armoured car eating ice cream when a gunman approached the vehicle and opened fire. The image made me shudder – the innocent pleasure of eating ice cream juxtaposed with such cold-blooded and barbaric murder. No doubt, they would be cracking sick gags about it in some bar in Dundalk.

  The phone rang again. It was Andy. ‘Listen, Kevin, I’m afraid we won’t be meeting you now.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’ve a lot going on with the three policemen,’ he said. ‘People are watching, too many people.’ He clearly sensed my disappointment. ‘It’s for your own good,’ he said. ‘It’s best for your safety at this stage.’

  ‘There’s a few things we really need to talk about,’ I said.

  ‘Trust me, it’s for the greater good, Kevin. We’ve got to think about the bigger picture. You’re coming to the stage now where you’re nearly in. We’re not going to let anything get in the way of that.’