Rupert paced up and down his hotel room waiting for a call from McKevitt. Eventually, he got a knock on the door. It was Martin Galvin, the attorney and Real IRA supporter from New York. He tried to hide his disappointment.
“Dave!”
Galvin annoyed McKevitt. He was always talking, always discussing. He called their home every single day from New York to talk to Bernadette. He was also political and McKevitt hated politics – he wanted bombers, not talkers.
Rupert was also getting impatient with Galvin, who “talked and talked and talked” for an hour and a half about republicanism and the internecine politics of the Irish-American scene.
Finally, they were called downstairs. This was Rupert’s big chance to talk about the London bombing campaign with McKevitt, if Galvin would just go away.
McKevitt was still in the hotel bar with some of the Real IRA leaders. He had never greeted Rupert so warmly. He loved him as a brother: they were both blue-collar, smart men who wanted action. Galvin was a soft-handed personal injury lawyer and never a member of the army. Judging by his body language, McKevitt wanted Galvin to leave.
“We thought you were lost,” McKevitt said, of Rupert’s late arrival into the country.
Rupert said that he had gone through Paris to avoid British security forces.
“Good move,” said McKevitt.
He said he had reassured Bernadette that Rupert was fine. “I told her that he’s just doing things the way they are supposed to be done,” McKevitt said.
Galvin was careful to keep his law licence by avoiding any direct talk of bombings. He sensed Rupert and McKevitt were going to talk about London. He asked if he should leave the table.
Rupert didn’t want to look too eager to discuss army business and said it was OK if he got another drink with them. Galvin stayed chatting until 10pm. Rupert was getting more and more tense. He knew he had to find out about the London cell before it was too late.
Eventually, Galvin got up and said he would see them at the AGM the next day.
“All right, good luck,” said Rupert.
As soon as Galvin was gone, Rupert rolled his eyes. The two men got down to talking about the London cell.
McKevitt was elated about Hammersmith. He was really impressed with the London cell.
Hammersmith was difficult, he said, because there were many security cameras around the bridge, so they used Irish republican truckers with legitimate reason to be passing over the bridge to do the reconnaissance over several days, and the truckers helped transport the bomb into place. The truckers had also deliberately stalled on the junctions near the bridge in the aftermath, to maximise the traffic chaos.
McKevitt called over two more drinks.
They had sent over known Real IRA members to wander around London, attracting the attention of the security forces while the real cell, the lilywhites, planned and planted the bomb.
“But the Brits have now caught on to this,” McKevitt said. “We’re going to have to mix up the pattern a bit with something new.” Rupert tried to remember the exact words for filing later.
Most of all, McKevitt was happy with the leaders of the engineering department, whom Rupert had met twice.
They had designed a new type of switch to detonate the bomb and it would be used for bigger targets in London. The engineers had no criminal records, like the London cell, and would keep the gardaí totally confused.
He told Rupert that the AGM would be all day the next day but said that Rupert wouldn’t see much of him for the rest of his trip because McKevitt would be “away on business”.
Rupert felt it was likely that McKevitt would be smuggled by container truck to London to speak to cell members and oversee new attacks.
As always, he was making a big effort to downplay the Continuity IRA, which had recently fired mortars into an army barracks in Fermanagh.
The mortar was “only a little fellow” but the media had overblown it and made it look like it was the size of a truck, he said.
McKevitt also talked about his recent arrest after the London attack and how he was treated very well by the gardaí, who knew that if he was ill-treated, their homes would be burned down. Other arrestees had been very badly treated. A senior garda punched one of their Dublin members very hard in the face, he said.
Rupert briefed him on the situation with James Smyth and the weapon procurement, using IFC money.
When the London situation had escalated, Smyth would be brought in for an assassination, McKevitt said. From hints dropped, it was clear that whatever Smyth’s real name was, he was hiding under at least two layers of false identities.
Then McKevitt let slip an important clue – there were several cells in place in the UK. The first would plant a bomb, then, with London on edge, the cell would make several hoax bomb calls, using the recognised code word, until the second team was ready to set off its bomb and the second team began the hoax calls, causing chaos, and a third team prepared their bomb, in an ever-rotating cycle.
Rupert said he thought it was a really good idea.
The two friends ended their two-hour chat at midnight.
Rupert was happy with the meeting but furious with Galvin for delaying the talk. He still didn’t get enough time to get more details about the London bombing campaign. He never liked to rush conversations – it would take another hours-long conversation with McKevitt to get more details.
In a hotel room just two floors above where the Real IRA leadership were drinking well into the night, Rupert wrote a long email to MI5 and the FBI.
“Kind of a fucked-up meeting,” he wrote, before complaining about Galvin’s unending chattiness.
Rupert was taking his job more and more personally. If the Real IRA managed an atrocity in London, it would be blamed on him.
Paul in MI5 sought to calm him and assure him that the information was very important, especially that truckers did the reconnaissance on Hammersmith Bridge before the bombing and how they had deliberately clogged the traffic afterwards.
It was “very interesting” that McKevitt was going away “on business” after the AGM and M15 would try to figure out where he was going.
That same night, Rupert drove up to Donegal, leaving Dundalk after midnight. The Continuity IRA couple, who farmed and kept a bed and breakfast, had now defected to McKevitt, along with their young daughter, who had a good government job in Dublin.
They had hosted Mickey and Bernie McKevitt for dinner and pledged their support and the use of their house and land for attacks and weapon storage. “They are 100 per cent,” McKevitt had told Rupert.
Rupert had left some of his medicine in their home and wanted to collect it first thing in the morning. As he drove, the pressure of breaking the London cell was having its effect. He was seeing potential paramilitaries and IRA members everywhere.
At 1.30am “exactly”, he saw four or five men with a ladder up against a telegraph pole on the A4 motorway, between Fivemiletown and Enniskillen in Fermanagh. There were no lights or markers on their van and they didn’t appear to be servicemen. One was “about 45 to 50, thick dark hair, about 160 pounds, about 5ft 8 and wearing farmer-type clothing. Looked suspicious,” he wrote to M15.
Was he becoming Mr Security Guard, mall cop of Ireland? His emails at the AGM the next day were littered with talk of his importance within the Real IRA. Regarding Noel Abernethy, now back from the US, he wrote that he didn’t see him because he was lower in the rankings than Rupert. “I am considered way above Noel Abernethy and would have no reason to deal with him,” he wrote, and later referred to “us big guys” having talks.
He picked up his medicine, had a chat with the family and left early for the drive back to Dundalk. That morning was spent at the McKevitts’ house, working on the 32CSM website.
Before they left the house for the AGM, Bernadette very firmly told Rupert that he must address the hall and tell their supporters that they had American backing.
Bernadette wouldn’t listen to
any of his arguments that he didn’t like public speaking.
“Go out there and speak up for us and tell people we have support in America,” she said. For the first time, he saw a flash of anger in her. It was a side she rarely showed, unless she felt her place in the struggle was undermined.
Rupert said he would. When they got to the hotel, there were Special Branch officers in four cars at the entrance. Rupert was stopped, while the McKevitts were waved on. After they took his name and address he was allowed to continue inside.
The AGM itself was a one-day talk shop of republican hot air and rhetoric. The chairman of the committee, Francie Mackie, never offered anything but waffle. “We as Irish republicans have challenged the legitimacy of British interference in Irish affairs…” he said. An undercover BBC Panorama film crew was in the hall to record for a documentary on the Omagh bomb suspects.
They filmed Liam Campbell as he left the hall.
A Real IRA army council member was nearby. “They had a small camera looking up. Nobody noticed it,” he said.
“And now, all the way from the USA, would you please welcome, on behalf of the Irish Freedom Committee…”
Just like counting the votes at the Republican Sinn Féin AGM, Rupert felt this gave him good exposure as a republican. He took the microphone.
“Thanks Bernadette. I’m very honoured to be here, among so many great Irish republicans…”
He spoke for a few minutes, promising that the war against the Brits had the full support of Irish Americans and the movement in America was very proud of the armed struggle.
His speech got a big applause. He waved and sat down.
Delegates came up to him afterwards to shake his hand. Amid the dour northern accents of the Real IRA, he was a colourful novelty.
The 32CSM sent out informal word among members that the post-AGM social drinks were moved to a bar in Dundalk but to make sure the gardaí didn’t find out. Then they deliberately let it slip to the gardaí that the social was in Colm Murphy’s bar, the Emerald, leaving the gardaí waiting outside there all night. McKevitt thought the duplicity was hilarious.
Rupert was still focused on breaking the London cell. He was tired but decided to go to the social and see who was around. The bar, in the centre of Dundalk, was crowded with Real IRA members and their supporters. As soon as he arrived, he heard an English accent. He was immediately drawn to it. Could this be a cell member?
The man’s name was Simon Poot. He was a government social worker from Manchester who helped maintain the 32CSM website and ran their operations in much of England. As a government worker, he had access to very sensitive information, including addresses of police and leading government officials.
It took Rupert several hours to get the man’s full name. He memorised it to pass on to MI5.
Simon, who wasn’t Real IRA but was mixing with its members, was with a man called David, who travelled with a press card.
Rupert was training in on any reference to London.
Someone bemoaned that the Hammersmith bombing got more coverage in America than in Ireland. This other David said that those near the bomb sure heard about it because it was so loud. Rupert began to wonder if he knew more than he was saying about the attack.
He bought a few drinks, then left the event and took a taxi back to the hotel to write up his notes about London.
He was exhausted and fell asleep.
The next morning, Sunday, he came down to have breakfast at the hotel. He was greeted by the ever-chatting Galvin.
As he had breakfast, he got a text from Bernadette. “Did you see the Sunday Times?”
He got a copy at reception. There was a front-page article by Liam Clarke about how Real IRA supporters were stepping up their presence in England after the Hammersmith attack and were planning to picket the home of home secretary Jack Straw.
Then it mentioned that the Real IRA had a prominent American multimillionaire supporter named David Rupert, who owned a trucking company and who had donated a fortune to the cause and was given special access to the Real IRA. It was straight from Mickey Donnelly’s mouth.
Rupert panicked.
Campbell was already calling McKevitt, warning him that Rupert was now “hot” and would draw attention to them.
McKevitt was furious that his US liaison was now exposed in the media.
Meanwhile, Nancy, a neighbour of Rupert’s family in Madrid, was on a coach tour of Ireland with a group of retirees. At her hotel room in the south of Ireland, she picked up a copy of the Sunday Times.
She was stunned to see Joebe was the chief American funder for the IRA. She scanned the article and sent it back to her family. Within a day, everyone in Madrid knew that Joebe was a terrorist mastermind.
Rupert was frustrated. Just when he had to get close to Campbell and McKevitt to find out more about London, his cover was blown.
“I didn’t know it would go like this,” Rupert wrote to MI5. “I’ve got an army council meeting tomorrow, and things just might be fucked.”
CHAPTER 17
Mickey McKevitt and David Rupert stood at the southern side of the inlet looking across at the hated state of Northern Ireland.
Between it and them sat a heavily gunned British navy ship.
It was anchored in the mouth of Carlingford Lough, on the most easterly dividing point between Northern Ireland and the Republic. It was meant as a deterrent to republican dissidents, and as a show of strength. Its presence, just a few miles north of the republican heartland of Dundalk, was a constant irritant for McKevitt.
“What we need is a suicide bomber,” he said.
“I wish we had volunteers like that.”
He turned to Rupert. “We’re working on something to blow that ship to pieces and the Brits won’t come near here again.”
They were going to have an army council meeting the next day. He wanted Rupert to discuss it.
Rupert made a mental note. McKevitt seemed serious about blowing up the ship.
The next day, 26 June 2000, Rupert was told to come out of the side entrance of the Carrickdale Hotel, across from the leisure centre, in front of a line of trees that blocked the view from a British observation tower.
Although the Carrickdale was a few hundred metres inside the Republic, the number plates of cars going in and out could be read from the tower. Locals believed the tower was built there to watch people going into the Carrickdale and the line of republican-controlled bureau de changes and petrol stations that dotted the road.
Today was to be Rupert’s second army council meeting. As before, McKevitt was only letting him meet a few members at a time.
Stephen and Mickey McKevitt pulled up in a brown Toyota Corolla later that day. A Real IRA sympathiser who had a garage gave the McKevitts free use of his vehicles, so they confused the British and Irish security forces almost every day.
They drove into the countryside, up into the mountains to the whitewashed country cottage where Rupert had been for the previous army council meeting. Stephen McKevitt dropped them off at the bottom of the long driveway, which gave Rupert time to study the house.
There was a van from a forestry chainsaw company outside. There was also a Dublin-registered 1994 Toyota Corolla in the driveway. He memorised the number plate as he and McKevitt walked towards the cottage. He said the number over and over to himself as they approached the door.
There was also the same white four-wheel drive that brought him to the army council meeting the last time.
An attractive woman opened the door. Rupert had no trouble memorising her appearance immediately.
Inside the living room was Kieran McLaughlin and Dominic, a dissident republican living in the Letterkenny area of Donegal.
Liam Campbell came in after them. He was smiling about the Sunday Times article. “You’re famous now, Dave,” he said, but made it clear that he would have to keep his distance from Rupert for a while until any extra surveillance had died down.
“Well,” C
ampbell said to McKevitt, jokingly. “What have you done with this big financial contribution that multimillionaire David Rupert gave to us?”
Everyone laughed except for McKevitt.
He was in a rage about the article. He was furious that John McDonagh in New York had contributed to it and he also blamed Donnelly, who should be shot, he said.
He turned to Rupert. His tone was tense. “Listen, you deny any knowledge of this, ever. If anyone asks, you don’t know anything about it.”
Rupert noticed the stark difference in personality – nothing ever seemed to bother Campbell, whereas McKevitt was far more tightly wound and took problems far more seriously.
But he felt that most of the men there were like Campbell: they could see the lighter side of it, and it gave Rupert some battle scars that helped him bond with the army council.
He did worry, he told them, that the IFC in Chicago would see the newspaper article and think that Rupert was claiming their contributions as his own, much as Phil Kent had in the past.
McKevitt said not to worry about it because he would make sure the people in America understood.
He turned to Rupert, angrily. Rupert was to buy no weapons, and James Smyth was to buy NO weapons, without McKevitt or someone from the army council going over there to approve. If they had ideas for good calibre weapons, James Smyth could test them in advance, he said. He was walking up and down the room.
Again, he said that they wanted large Barrett rifles from the US to continue the Provisional IRA’s sniper campaign in South Armagh.
He would go over to America himself, he said. Which did Rupert think was a better way to get into America without being detected – Newfoundland and then the US-Canadian border or El Paso and the US-Mexican border?
Rupert said that, as a trucker, he had crossed the border at El Paso with little difficulty and it would be a lot easier.
“Good, good,” said McKevitt, still distracted. “I want James Smyth based down there, you go test the border for us and then set up with a place for him to live down there.”
The Accidental Spy Page 18