Double Agent: My Secret Life Undercover in the IRA

by Kevin Fulton

  To me, this was a highly irresponsible development. Let’s face it: when an ATO walked in to defuse a device, he believed he was going to defuse it, not set it off. The double-switch system would trick the ATO into walking into his own death. Worse than that, it would put innocent members of the public in unnecessary danger. What if the police hadn’t managed to clear the area around the bomb by the time the ATO had been sent in?

  I told my handlers about this heinous new development. They assured me that the bomb squad would be fully briefed about it. ‘Good work,’ said Gerry, and I finally felt like I had supplied some really significant information, information that would save one life, maybe more. I felt like I had finally done some good as a double agent. This feeling didn’t last long.

  The development team put the micro-switch device through its paces. By spring 1989, the general consensus was that it was ready. Ready for what, exactly, I didn’t know. I wouldn’t be finding out until after the event.

  I was parked up near the jetty in Omeath one morning in April 1989, waiting to pick up a delivery from an IRA man, when I heard this almighty wallop. Across the stretch of water, I could see a plume of smoke rising above the town of Warrenpoint. I assumed that the RUC station had been blown up; I hoped that some unfortunate ATO hadn’t been blown up with it. I soon learned it was worse than that. Much worse. There was one eventuality of the double-switch system which none of us had foreseen.

  A few days later, the man who drove the bomb into Warrenpoint told me all about it. A Hiace van had been hijacked for the operation. A massive fertiliser bomb was placed in the rear of the van, to be detonated by a box timer. To prevent an ATO defusing the bomb, the decision had been made to detonate it using the double-switch system. He parked the van as close as he could to the RUC station. Wasting no time to get away from the scene, he left the keys in the ignition. Adjacent to the RUC station was a hardware store. A customer went into the hardware store and complained that a van was blocking his passage out of the store’s yard. A young employee went out to investigate, saw the keys in the ignition and moved the van so that it wasn’t blocking the exit to the yard. He reversed it closer to the store.

  The movement of the van triggered the micro-switch.

  Meanwhile, Hardbap had decided to ring the bomb warning into the Daisy Hill Hospital in Newry. ‘You’re a bit late,’ snapped the woman at the other end of the line, ‘they’re bringing in the casualties now.’

  Seconds after the van had been moved, the bomb went off.

  One teenage girl who worked in the hardware store was killed. Several others were injured. Another great day for the Provisional IRA. The slaughter in Warrenpoint was shrugged off as ‘just one of those things’. Conor dismissed the horrendous blunder with the cliché that there were always innocent victims in war.

  I was invited to join the development team full time. I agreed. At least this way I could warn my handlers about all future developments. We dedicated our every waking hour to the methodology of causing maximum carnage and destruction. Like crazed boffins, we were constantly experimenting with different explosive mixes, different detonators and different devices. We figured out a way to detonate Semtex in cider bottles, or inside the frame of a bicycle. We dragged our contraptions into the mountains to test them, before returning to our makeshift lab painstakingly to tweak and modify and adjust. Our lives were dedicated to the pursuit of a sort of grotesque perfection. It became all-consuming.

  I was watching TV one night when an advert came on boasting about the incredible absorbency of a particular brand of tampons. The next day, I bought a box of heavy-flow tampons and soaked them in lighter fluid. The manufacturers would have been proud as punch. Each tampon absorbed the contents of three tubes of lighter fluid and burned for nearly twenty minutes. Tampons became an unlikely ingredient in our incendiary devices, and helped burn down several buildings, including the new Sprucefield shopping centre in Belfast.

  Of course, being seen constantly in the company of men like Conor, Hardbap and Johnny, I soon became a target of the security forces. To the RUC, Special Branch and my former comrades in the British army, I was an IRA man. I was the enemy. The RUC stopped and searched me repeatedly, sometimes eight or nine times in a single day. Three officers in particular seemed hell-bent on making my life a misery. ‘You fucking murdering Provo bastard,’ they would say. ‘We’re gonna get our friends in the UVF to stiff you.’

  A dig in the ribs was commonplace. They would take the ice-cream van apart, breaking anything breakable and deliberately contaminating the ice cream. ‘Some of your old friends from the Royal Irish Rangers are coming to town at the weekend. We’ve told them where to find you. They’re gonna give you a right old hammering.’

  When the RUC wasn’t provoking me, Special Branch would have a go. They would stop me and order a full security check over the radio. They made sure it took the best part of an hour. If I was selling ice cream, they would order me to shut down and sit in their car for a chat. Special Branch officers constantly tried to recruit me as a tout. Tell us what you know and we’ll leave you alone. It became impossible to function normally in Newry.

  Sometimes, the verbal threats became very real. On nine separate occasions, I was battered by the RUC. Once I had ceased working as a double agent, I sought them out to tell them the truth. They congratulated me on playing the role so well, and admitted that on more than one occasion they discussed ways that they might get me killed. In a way, I didn’t blame them. I was an IRA man out to kill them and their colleagues. If I was in their shoes, I would probably have done the same. How were they to know we were working for the same side? I still don’t hold it against them.

  It was just as well really, because my handlers said they couldn’t stop it. ‘We can’t trust ordinary plod officers in the RUC with information like this,’ said Alan. ‘It’s better for you that they think of you as an IRA man.’

  ‘If they left you alone, it would look a bit strange, wouldn’t it?’ Gerry pointed out. ‘It’s testament to the excellent job you’re doing.’

  I did feel that I was doing exceptionally well. That my stock was rising within the IRA was beyond dispute. But my burgeoning reputation as a solid, dependable and efficient volunteer came with a significant down side. Increasingly, I was being ordered to carry out more important tasks on behalf of the IRA. More important tasks were inevitably more dangerous for me personally. Worse still, these tasks were getting closer and closer to outright terrorist activity. I never really imagined myself doing such things on behalf of the British army. I was convinced that a very distinct line existed, a line that agents would be ordered not to cross under any circumstances. Throughout the years, I clung to the belief that, as soon as I was ordered by IRA chiefs to do something that might kill or injure an innocent person, I would be pulled out by my handlers. But when my handlers sat back and let me construct bombs which ended up planted in the middle of towns and cities, I knew that this line had already been crossed. I now clung to the belief that, as soon as the IRA put me in a position where I would directly have to injure or kill someone, I would be pulled out by my handlers. The main flaw in this contingency plan, I was about to discover, was that it didn’t take into account the very real possibility of being ‘bounced’ into a murderous operation.

  To be bounced is to be given an order that you must carry out straight away. ‘There’s a squib leaving for Belfast right now, can you scout it up?’ Hardbap asked a volunteer one afternoon. The volunteer had to jump straight into his car and carry out this task. Scouting basically involved driving well ahead of the vehicle carrying the bomb to check for army roadblocks or anything suspicious. Clearly, it was impossible for me to call a halt to any deadly convoy. If I got bounced into scouting a vehicle, what was I supposed to do? Hop out of my car into a coin box, give my handlers a quick call and then carry on? They would rumble me. If I was lucky, I would be instantly shot; more likely, I’d be tortured for a few days and then found in a ditch.


  What was I supposed to do if I got bounced into an execution or into planting a bomb? I needed clarification from my handlers. Alan and Gerry were crystal clear on the matter. ‘If you’re bounced and you think it’s going to be a spectacular against any of the security forces, then you must risk everything to try and find a way to alert us. We’ll pull you out and that will be that. If you’re bounced into planting a bomb or setting a landmine, try to make sure it won’t go off, or make sure it goes off much earlier or later than planned. If you’re bounced into kneecapping someone, aim high into the thigh.’

  Little did I know that, over the next few years, I would be faced with each one of these scenarios. I realised eventually that there is no line. In the Dirty War, anything goes.

  Weeks later, I was asked by Conor to drive a couple of volunteers to a pub in Mayobridge, County Down. I knew something was going on – I had developed a sixth sense with these people. The way they walked, the way they talked, the way they were so aware of their surroundings, I could tell that a spectacular of some sort was imminent.

  A day later, in November 1989, the IRA detonated a landmine in Mayobridge that killed three members of the Parachute Regiment. I looked into the mirror that night and repeated the mantra. ‘I am a British soldier. I am a British soldier obeying orders …’

  CHAPTER SIX

  By 1990, I lived in constant dread of being ‘bounced’ into some sort of murderous terrorist attack. The call could come at any moment. The caller could order a murder or a punishment shooting or a bomb attack down the phone like a takeaway pizza. To illustrate how callously efficient this Dial-a-Death service could be, let me tell you about an incident in which I was allegedly involved

  It is said that on Easter Sunday night, me and another IRA volunteer were summoned to an address by Conor.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

  ‘You have to go to this number at Iveagh Crescent,’ said Conor. ‘We want a man there kneecapped.’

  ‘Who?’ I asked.

  ‘Eoin Morley,’ said Conor, ‘that’s his girlfriend’s address, but I have it on good authority that he’s there right now.’

  I had heard about Morley. Until recently, he’d been a formidable figure within the Provisional IRA. By all accounts, he’d shot and killed a member of the security forces. Recently, he’d defected from the Provisional IRA to a splinter group called the Irish People’s Liberation Organisation (IPLO). He’d also fallen out with Conor.

  Myself and the second volunteer, a seasoned dispenser of so-called punishment shootings, were each handed a weapon. I assumed I was back-up, muscle. After all, I’d never done anything like this before. I then examined the weapon Conor specified he wanted used for the job. It was a high-velocity rifle. I was surprised. I thought a pistol would have been much more appropriate for a kneecapping.

  ‘Isn’t this a bit too powerful?’ I asked rhetorically.

  ‘Ach, no,’ said Conor, ‘it’ll make a nice neat wee hole, that.’

  ‘But, if the bullet hits a bone, it’ll travel right up his body,’ I said. ‘This will kill him!’

  Conor dismissed the pair of us with a wave of his arm. The decision had been made.

  Clearly, I couldn’t pull out – to bottle it at that juncture would be to dash all my hard work at a stroke. I would have been written off. ‘He’s only fit to sell papers,’ they would say. I would never be trusted or included in anything serious again, or, worst-case scenario, the IRA would kill me. How could I expect to save lives if I wasn’t even involved in Grade One IRA activity? Obviously, I couldn’t stop and call my handlers. What could they do for me in such a situation anyhow? I could comfort myself with the knowledge that Morley himself was a terrorist killer, someone who’d shown no mercy in the past. If I had to harm somebody to save the lives of the innocent, then this would probably be the kind of person I would pick.

  As the car pulls into Iveagh Crescent, my concern shifts to my own survival. Morley’s dangerous. He might be armed. I find it easy to switch my focus solely to the gory task in hand. There’s nothing like the prospect of death or serious injury to distract the conscience.

  As the car pulls up, the gunmen slide down their balaclavas. I follow my partner round to the back of the house. Silently, the senior IRA man slides bins up against the back door. I immediately twig. This is to prevent Morley making an escape.

  We creep round to the front door. If you can give a friendly knock, I give it. A young woman answers. The masked men push past her into the house. She screams, great piercing screams. ‘Get the fuck out, get out, get out!’

  I don’t know if she’s shouting at us, or at the man desperately shouldering the back door. Suddenly, the man abandons the back door and charges towards us. He makes a grab for my gun. We fight like fuck. As I struggle to stay on my feet, I realise three things very quickly. Firstly, if Morley gets a good grip of a gun, someone other than Morley will wind up getting shot, maybe killed. Secondly, if we don’t finish this thing very soon, one way or another there’ll be neighbours in to help him and then it could get very messy indeed. Thirdly, the police will be turning up in a matter of seconds.

  Just then, two shots ring out. Silence. Broken only by Morley crumpling to the floor. The gunmen turn and flee.

  The next morning, I found out that Morley was dead. He was 23. His girlfriend was a mother of three. I felt more anger than guilt. This was no punishment shooting. From what I was told, the high-velocity rifle was used for the attack because the target was wanted dead. It didn’t matter who was sent to Iveagh Crescent, or who pulled the trigger, Eoin Morley was going to die.

  Later that week, I heard some news that filled me with dread. Morley’s relatives were complaining loudly about the murder, and they had a close family connection to a giant within the Provisionals – Martin McGuinness. McGuinness was head of the PIRA’s Northern Command and enjoyed an unrivalled reputation for ruthless efficiency. He was said to be taciturn and cold. People didn’t know McGuinness, they only had dealings with him. He kept a distance. However, there was one common observation about McGuinness and his curious sense of morality: he would be in church praying one minute, then toughing it the next. He was perversely moralistic. He frowned on boozing and philandering – he could justify killing, though.

  McGuinness was trying to distance himself from some of the violence of Republican activities. In recent years, he had assumed the bearing of a politician. He had removed himself from the day-to-day workings of the Provisional IRA and aligned himself publicly with Sinn Fein, the IRA’s political arm. Sinn Fein saw no future in the armed struggle. The party had realised for some time that the way to bring about self-determination for the people of Northern Ireland was through winning seats, rather than killing and maiming. In reality, though, McGuinness still kept his style of leadership, while maintaining that politics and Republican activity were two separate things. In the late eighties, senior Provos told me that, if it wasn’t for McGuinness, the IRA’s military campaign may have been scaled down, or even brought to a halt.

  When I learned that an internal investigation was being launched into the death of Morley, an icy chill ran through me. This was just the kind of scrutiny I didn’t need. If I got on the wrong side of the investigator, my days would surely be numbered. What if he had contacts within the military? What if the Provos had the equivalent of me working within British intelligence? If I came to the attention of someone like McGuinness, strenuous new checks could be ordered.

  A meeting with the key people involved in Morley’s execution was organised for that week. The word was that Martin wasn’t at all happy about what had happened, and had vowed to the Morley family to get to the root of the matter. I cringed at this news – it sounded like a witch hunt.

  Before then, I had a meeting with my handlers. When I told them how Morley had been killed, their response was straightforward. ‘Nice one,’ they said. ‘Let’s hope they carry on killing their own.’

  I was expecting a more
robust examination of the facts from the internal IRA inquiry.

  The meeting was at a house in Dundalk. A room with a large table had been prepared. Around the table sat Patsy O’Callaghan, a big-shot IRA man from South Armagh, Conor, the man who we know as Johnny, IRA men from Newry and me. I fidgeted. The wait for the man conducting the inquiry, a senior Republican figure, was excruciating.

  When he finally bustled in, O’Callaghan rose to his feet. ‘Sit where you are, Patsy,’ he said in his gruff accent. ‘Right, guys,’ he said, his stagnant eyes surveying us in a slow pan, ‘I’m here to do an investigation into the killing of Eoin Morley. The Morley family say the two men were drunk, or at least under the influence. Is that right?’

  ‘Are you here to stick up for the family?’ said Conor. You had to admire his brass neck.

  The senior man continued to look impassively around. It was like he was looking above our heads. He seemed preoccupied, bored, like he really had more important things to be getting on with.

  I coughed in preparation to speak. He didn’t look at me. Clearly, he wasn’t going to deign to set his eyes on a lowly volunteer.

  ‘I don’t drink or smoke,’ I said matter-of-factly. It was true too. I was never much of a drinker, but I’d packed it in completely two years earlier, around the time the IRA work started getting more serious. It was hard enough to see the angles without being pissed or hungover. I didn’t want anything affecting my judgement.

  My accomplice piped up too: ‘I don’t drink either,’ he said. And it was true.

  ‘That’s good enough for me,’ said the senior figure, and he turned to Patsy O’Callaghan and started a low animated chat. We all looked at each other quizzically and wondered what was going to happen next. Was that the internal inquiry?