Double Agent: My Secret Life Undercover in the IRA

by Kevin Fulton

  Bob was right. I just had to brazen it out. The IRA could prove nothing.

  I rang the doorbell to Liam’s flat. He came out.

  ‘How are you, Kevin?’ he said, shaking my hand warmly. ‘And this must be your wife.’

  He showed us inside the door of his flat, then set about looking for his jacket and his keys. You would think we were away to the park for an afternoon stroll. Finally, he led us out the door, along a drab concrete walkway, up a flight of concrete steps and along another walkway until we arrived at a red front door. It wasn’t locked.

  Inside, the IRA’s premier arbiter of truth, the man we know only as Michael, was sitting on the stairs. He led my wife into one room. I was led by Liam into another. It was a mirror image of the home I had prepared in Omeath for an interrogation. As in the other home, a lone chair faced a bare wall. I was invited to sit down. Suddenly, I heard a door opening and feet scuffing the floor.

  ‘Well, Kevin,’ came the voice. It was Michael. I gulped hard. ‘You do realise that you’re now to be de-briefed by the IRA security unit.’

  ‘I do, yes,’ I said, as firmly as I could. It was a relief to get those first words out. I breathed hard and told myself to stay strong and firm.

  ‘You know who I am, yes?’ said Michael.

  ‘I do, yeah,’ I said.

  ‘OK. I want to ask you about the Martindale operation, all you know about it, any help you gave. Do you understand?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Right then, off you go,’ he said.

  I told him how Jimmy had asked me to get him a basher and a car. I explained how I got the phone in my wife’s name without her knowing.

  ‘She really had no part in this whatsoever,’ I protested. ‘She knows absolutely nothing.’

  I said that acquiring a phone and a used car were my only functions in the operation. I didn’t know anything about the operation itself. This part was easy. I was just telling the truth.

  He moved on to my arrest and to my interrogation in Castlereagh.

  ‘What did you say to the peelers?’ said my interrogator.

  ‘I didn’t open my mouth,’ I said.

  ‘And what did they ask you?’

  I didn’t tell him what had actually taken place at Castlereagh – about how they didn’t ask me any questions because they assumed that I was working for someone – and I regurgitated stories I had heard over the years about the tactics used by officers at Castlereagh.

  They kept telling me I was facing a murder rap,’ I lied, ‘and that my wife had started talking. Of course, I knew this was bullshit. My wife knows nothing about anything.’

  This went on for hours. Finally, Michael said I could go home. ‘But I want you back here in two days’ time.’

  ‘And my wife?’ I asked.

  ‘You can ask her yourself in a minute,’ said Michael. With that, he left the room.

  ‘There,’ said Liam, ‘that wasn’t so bad, was it?’

  I felt like telling him to fuck off.

  My wife stood in the hallway. Her face was drawn and her eyes were red. When we got to the car, she started sobbing. She didn’t have to tell me that she’d been ordered back as well. This was breaking my heart.

  I pulled in at a lay-by and rang my handlers. I demanded a meeting the next day. They agreed.

  The meeting was more of the same. ‘We’re watching,’ said Bob. ‘We’ll know if things go wrong.’

  I explained that I didn’t really care about being hauled over the coals myself. What I couldn’t stand was watching my wife suffer.

  ‘It’s not right,’ I said. ‘She’s a total innocent, yet she’s arrested by the police, then by the IRA.’

  ‘It’s good for your cover,’ said Pete, ‘you both being taken to Castlereagh. And they probably know by now that she knows nothing. They’re making her come back to put pressure on you.’

  ‘They can’t prove a thing,’ said Bob, as usual. ‘I mean, had you been privy to the operation itself, that would be a different story. We’d have pulled you out by now.’

  ‘And will you pull me out if this starts getting too heavy?’ I said. ‘As that was always the deal.’

  ‘It won’t come to that,’ said Pete. ‘Stick to your guns and you’ll be fine.’

  We returned to Unity Walk in Belfast two days later for our second ‘debriefing’. We went through the motions with Liam and were led to the same flat as before. We were split up again, and taken into the same rooms. I didn’t have to be asked to sit down. I was ready for this now. I’d had enough.

  There was no blindfold. That was a relief. Perhaps I was already home and dry. Perhaps the second meeting was just a formality.

  The door opened. Footsteps approached. I heard the record button being pressed down on the ancient tape recorder. The sound of the tape wheels grinding around were deafening. I hadn’t noticed these the day before. Why were they taping it?

  ‘OK, Kevin,’ said the voice, ‘let’s run through the Martindale operation again. Everything you know and everything you did.’

  It was a man named Martin. We had been introduced but I didn’t really know him. I had a sudden realisation: Michael must be with my wife. If that fucker upset her, I’d pursue him to the ends of the earth.

  I ran through my story again. It was even easier than before. I got a phone for Jimmy in my wife’s name. Have I mentioned that she knows absolutely nothing? I got a car for Jimmy from a second-hand-car dealer known to the IRA. Have I mentioned that my wife knows absolutely nothing about this either? That was all I knew.

  I repeated my stories about Castlereagh, but I knew that the only thing that mattered as far as my interrogation was concerned was that I didn’t talk. I could make anything else up – threats, brutality, assault. I didn’t talk so I was in the clear.

  ‘Right, I think we’ll take a little breather there,’ said Martin. ‘We’ll resume in five minutes. Michael wants to ask you about a few other Newry ops that went wrong.’

  Martin left the room and the blood left my body. The tape recorder clunked off. I took a good lungful of tepid air and tried to stop my mind racing. What the fuck was going on? What had they got on me?

  The wait was intolerable. Finally, the door opened and footsteps approached.

  ‘We’ve spoken to everyone now,’ said Michael, ‘and it’s all pointing to you.’

  My heart was banging. My head was rattling. What was going on?

  I felt a finger jab into the side of my face.

  ‘I think you’re a Brussel.’ He spat the words into my face.

  ‘No,’ I said, the vigorous shake of my head shifting my chair closer to the wall.

  ‘It all points to you,’ he shouted, now on my other side. ‘The phone, the car, everything is pointing to you.’

  I knew that if I flinched I was dead. If I gave him a sign, he would seize on it. I couldn’t show any signs of weakness. I couldn’t give him an opening. I had seen it before. Next thing I would be in knots, jabbering away like an idiot, giving away all sorts of things. I had seen men withstand six, eight hours of this for two or three days – only to start talking suddenly. And, once they started, they couldn’t stop. They talked themselves into their graves, as if it was almost cathartic. Don’t let him in, I shouted inside my head, don’t give him any signs. He can’t prove a thing. My heart hammered away at my chest. I suddenly felt like heaving.

  ‘You’re going down a hole, Fulton!’ Michael’s voice was soft now, menacing, his breath tickled my left ear. ‘Which road do you want to close?’ he asked mockingly.

  ‘I told you all I know,’ I shouted. ‘I knew fuck all about that operation. Fuck all. I got Jimmy the stuff he wanted, and that was that.’

  I heard some paper being rustled. Christ, I thought, what now?

  ‘You knew plenty about other operations that went tits up,’ said Michael, ‘didn’t you, Fulton?’

  I really needed to focus now, really concentrate. Like a batsman facing a fresh fast bowler, I had to di
g in. I had to meet it face on, coolly and precisely.

  ‘What about the mortar attack on the courthouse in Newry?’ said Michael.

  ‘That was looked into at the time,’ I said. ‘There wasn’t a tout.’

  ‘What about poor old Sean Mathers?’

  ‘We found that tout there,’ I said.

  ‘Aye, but that tout didn’t know about Jervis Marks’s op,’ said Michael. ‘You did.’

  Fuck, I thought, someone from Newry’s been talking. Someone’s been checking me out.

  ‘There was a milkman who suddenly retired,’ said Michael. ‘You were involved in that, weren’t you?’

  ‘I was,’ I said, ‘but how the fuck was anyone to know he was going to retire?’

  ‘And the cleaner you were supposed to whack,’ said Michael, ‘he retired too. Do you see what I’m getting at, Fulton? Your ops seemed to be dogged by misfortune.’

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘we’ve been unlucky with some things, but I’ve been involved in plenty of ops that went right too. I’m no fucking tout!’

  ‘We’ll be the judges of that,’ said Michael. ‘And the jury. And the fucking executioner. Do you understand?’

  I had seen Michael in action before, switching from reasonable to homicidal in a flash, constantly wrong-footing a suspect. I had seen it but nothing could prepare you for it. I felt utterly disorientated. I felt vulnerable. I felt that, if this went on much longer, I would let something slip.

  ‘And now Martindale as well,’ roared Michael directly into my ear. ‘You supply the phone, you supply the car, and suddenly an RUC unit materialises out of nowhere.’

  He leaned in close now so that I could feel and smell his breath. ‘And you’re telling me you’re not a tout.’

  ‘I’m not a tout,’ I said with real conviction, because I wasn’t. It was an easy charge to deny. I wasn’t some grass who had been turned by the other side. ‘I’m no fucking tout,’ I repeated.

  ‘I want to see you again in forty-eight hours,’ said Michael. With that, he left the room.

  I sat there, shocked into inertia. It took me a full five minutes to pull myself together and get to my feet. Liam put his notes to the ground. ‘Different venue next time,’ he said, as if we were planning a game of cards. ‘Artillery House. I’ll get someone to fill you in on the details.’

  ‘Great,’ I said, as I limped out into the hallway. My wife looked like she needed a blood transfusion.

  Without even a hint of self-consciousness, Liam shook our hands as if we’d just been round for tea and a slice of cake and let us out.

  My legs felt wobbly on the concrete. I clutched her arm and held on to it like a drowning man. She felt as tense as a hair-coiled spring. The tears came, bitter this time. Each sob convulsed her entire frame. ‘He threatened to shoot me,’ she said.

  ‘Who?’ I asked. ‘Michael?’

  She nodded. The feeling that coursed through my body then scared me. At that moment, I could have happily murdered Michael in the most gruesome fashion imaginable. I felt blind hatred and murderous rage.

  There was no way I was going back for another interrogation. I was for the high jump. Michael, the clever bastard, had figured it all out. He was to me. He had done his homework and he knew the truth. He wouldn’t need proof. The fucker would whack me himself if he got half a chance.

  I wanted out, and quickly. For thirteen years, I had played the role of IRA terrorist. Now the game was up. I had been hopelessly compromised by the Martindale affair. If I ever got compromised, I would be pulled out. That was the deal. They owed me. A new home abroad. A new identity. My two hundred grand.

  I pulled up in Dromore, walked into yet another phone box and rang my handlers. I eventually got through to Pete. ‘I want out,’ I said, ‘and I fucking mean it this time.’

  ‘What? What are you talking about?’

  ‘You’ve got to pull me out, Pete,’ I said. ‘Michael is on to me.’

  ‘What do you mean, he’s on to you?’ said Pete. ‘Can he prove anything?’

  ‘He’s on to me. He literally listed the ops that I’ve compromised one by one,’ I said. ‘The fucker’s going to get me whacked, one way or another.’

  ‘I don’t think you understand,’ said Pete. ‘We’ve got the very best information on this. The inside track. They suspect someone else. You’re 100 per cent safe. He’s pulling your wire.’

  ‘You’ll be pulling me dead out of a ditch if you don’t do what I say,’ I screamed down the phone. ‘PULL ME OUT NOW!’

  ‘You’ve got to go back there on Thursday,’ said Pete. ‘You’ve got to brazen it out. He’s bluffing.’

  ‘You weren’t there,’ I said. ‘I’m telling you. He’s already decided that I’m going down a hole. I’m a fucking dead man. You know the deal. I’ve been compromised. Now you’ve got to pull me out. That’s the deal, Pete. That’s the fucking deal.’

  ‘It’s not that easy,’ said Pete.

  ‘Dying isn’t fucking easy, Pete,’ I shouted.

  ‘Look, let’s meet tomorrow,’ he said. ‘We’ll try and sort something out. But I can tell you now, you’re in no danger.’

  ‘Don’t keep fucking saying that,’ I screamed. ‘I’m a dead man! I supplied the phone. I supplied the car. You’ve really fucked me. I want out. That was the deal, Pete,’ I shouted. ‘You owe me.’

  Silence.

  Finally, Pete spoke. He sounded like a teacher trying to explain something to a particularly thick pupil. ‘They’ve got nothing concrete on you. Listen to me. They suspect someone else. You must go back on Thursday. I promise you, that will be the end of it.’

  ‘Fucking right it’ll be the end of it,’ I shouted, smacking down the receiver. Suddenly, after 15 years, I was beginning to see the angles. I took three quick deep breaths. I had to be calm for my wife. I got into the car, gripped her right hand and told her everything was going to be all right.

  That night I packed a bag, and the next morning I booked a flight to London. I told my wife I was going ‘offside’ for a while. As ever, she understood.

  I decided to let things blow over. I was convinced that, in a week or two, my handlers would come to understand why I’d fled. I believed they’d quickly recognise that I’d been hopelessly compromised by the Martindale incident. I believed they’d pull me out and look after me. I truly believed this. This promise had sustained me for 15 years through countless near-death scrapes. Why would they lie to me? I’d done almost everything they’d ever asked. Bob and Pete were not just my handlers, they’d become my confidantes, my conscience, my friends. About a week later, I decided that I had better call my handlers and let them know I was safe. I went into a phone box in Camden Town, North London, and rang my special number. The man who answered insisted that I had got through to a forklift company in Essex. I hung up and redialled. This time the man from the forklift company was less friendly.

  I asked him if he was in any way connected to the security services.

  ‘Are you fucking taking the piss?’ he said.

  ‘No really,’ I said, ‘I’m genuine.’

  The phone went dead. I had a second number, but that was no longer in operation. I rang the operator to check that I didn’t need a special code. But I had rung the right numbers. I decided that there must be some other explanation.

  A week or so later, I rang Scotland Yard and explained my situation to someone. They were courteous but they couldn’t help me. They told me I should ring the British army or the Home Office. Two dozen phone calls and more than fifty pounds in coins later, I was going around the bureaucratic loop for the third time. I realised it was useless.

  Fuck it, I thought, and I rang the RUC in Newry. I asked to speak to one of three officers who had been my sworn enemies for many, many years. When I told him my story, he refused to believe it. I said I didn’t care – I needed to speak with someone from Special Branch. Of course, Special Branch had no record of my handler, or of me.

  Now finally, in a phone box in Lo
ndon, I could see the angles. I’d been compromised by Martindale. I could no longer function as a double agent. As such, I was no longer of any use to the security services. When the IRA investigated Martindale, my handlers tried to lull me into a false sense of security so that I’d go back to that third interrogation and get whacked. I was supposed to get executed so that my handlers – and British intelligence – wouldn’t have to look after me.

  My handlers counted on the IRA executing me. Now I was still alive, they’d resorted to plan B – cut me loose and deny ever knowing me. They could do this easily. It’s not like I had an official employment record to produce. There was nowhere for me to turn.

  I felt betrayed. However, I had underestimated British intelligence. It took many years, but eventually I discovered the full extent of their betrayal of me. My handlers didn’t just want me dead to save money, they wanted the Provisional IRA to whack me for an altogether more dark, devious and – to me at least – shocking reason.

  They wanted to sacrifice me to protect another double agent operating within the upper levels of the Provisional IRA. This secret agent had made it to a higher level within the IRA than I had and so – in the dog-eat-dog world of intelligence – he was worth preserving at my expense. Indeed, my execution would have significantly boosted this double agent’s standing and power base within the IRA. To my horror, I discovered that this double agent was none other than Michael – my interrogator and tormentor-in-chief and the IRA internal security’s most ruthless interrogator. Like me, he too was working for British intelligence. My handlers were setting up one British double agent, Michael, to expose and execute another one, me. Of course, this would have boosted Michael’s cover and reputation within the IRA while I would have been found dead in a ditch. The news bulletins would report the discovery of my body as the execution of a known IRA man. They’d probably speculate as to the motive for the hit. They’d most likely opt for an internal feud or because I’d been suspected of informing. In short, I’d have been another anonymous victim of internal paramilitary ‘housekeeping’.