Within a few weeks, however, I was asked to drive IRA punishment squads around the area. It was 8.00pm when I drove up to the tiny brick building that was the office. Three young men who had lived in the Ballymurphy area all their lives walked up to my car and got in.
‘Hi, Marty,’ said their boss, Martin, an overweight man in his 30s with short dark hair and a strong Belfast accent. ‘We’re on a job.’
One of the men, called ‘Fra’ (short for Francis), talked openly. ‘I hope we get this little fucker tonight,’ he said, ‘he keeps giving us the slip. The other night, I got one of his young mates and after we dragged him out of the club, I got a milk crate and put his leg across it. We began to smash the leg with the iron bar and he was screaming for mercy.’
I tried not to listen but, as Fra continued, he began laughing so much that he was hardly able to finish the story. ‘Suddenly we saw a piece of his bone sticking out the side of his leg,’ he said. ‘God, it looked funny, and we were pissing ourselves laughing and he was screaming blue fuckin’ murder. It was one of the best ones we ever did.’
Fra was a skinny, young-looking man in his early 30s, a coward who would run from any fight, but who acted brave as part of a gang. The other man, Joe, was in his late 20s, a very skinny man with carrot hair. They were all IRA sympathisers who would swagger around Ballymurphy wearing black gloves, scarves covering the lower part of their faces and baseball caps. They hoped one day to become members of the IRA, and to that end they were happy to throw their weight around and to carry out the IRA’s dirty work, not caring a jot for the poor, defenceless young men they would pick up and beat with their baseball bats and iron bars.
Martin told me to drive to the Whiterock Road and stay in the car. Within a few minutes, they returned carrying a holdall. I wondered whether it contained the dreaded tools of torture or guns.
‘Drive to the Rossa Bar on the Falls Road,’ Joe said as I started the engine.
They told me to park around the corner and wait for them. I knew what would happen next, because I had heard about it so many times.
They would walk into the bar, their balaclavas pulled over their faces so they could not be identified. One would go to the DJ and tell him to stop the music and turn the lights on. The boss would stay by the door in case anyone tried to make a run for it, while the other two would walk together around the room, searching for the intended victim. When they found him, they would pounce, pin his arms behind him and frog-march him out of the club. Sometimes they would beat the poor man there and then, at other times put him into their car and take him away to some isolated spot where they would hang him on a fence and then belt him with their staves and their iron bars. Usually, the beatings continued until the thugs tired, and they would usually leave the man, who would be unable to walk or even crawl, until some passer-by heard his cries for help.
That night, I sat in the car shaking with rage, frustration and humiliation, not knowing what to do, hoping and praying that the poor bastard wouldn’t be found. Within minutes they were back.
‘Little fucker fucked off,’ Fra said as he got into the car. ‘Just wait till I get my hands on the little cunt.’
As I drove them back, I was relieved that their intended victim had not been found, but I feared what would happen to him when they eventually caught up with him. I vowed that night that I would never take another punishment squad in my taxi.
I told Dean about the incident and he urged me to continue working as a taxi driver because it was a wonderful cover for someone in my situation, becoming more involved with the IRA and being led from one to another, learning of their arms dumps and their meeting houses, their members and, occasionally, their targets.
Quite often during the following weeks, the same three men would call me and tell me that they had a job. I knew that all they did was carry out punishment beatings and so I devised a plan. I would tell them to meet me in an IRA bar and when I arrived I would insist on buying them all a pint of lager. When they had downed the first, I would buy them another. After two or more pints, it seemed that their urge to smash the hell out of someone had passed and I would tell them that I had to go on another job.
But I knew that, one day, I would be forced to drive them on one of their operations and I wanted no part of their nauseating business. I had always been violently opposed to punishment squads, both IRA and loyalist, because they were cruel, unfair and unjust. I knew of several occasions when totally innocent people were beaten, paralysed and sometimes crippled for life for absolutely no reason. Others were ‘punished’ simply because someone had a personal vendetta they wanted to pursue. I wasn’t prepared to help these bastards carry out their evil work so I quit my job and moved to another taxi firm.
I joined another depot on the Falls Road which I knew paid no protection money to the IRA. I worked for this firm for almost a year, earning around £200 a week tax free for a five day week.
Dean and Coco were happy with me working for the taxi firms because they realised it gave me a great opportunity to ID far more people than I had done in the past. Now, I was driving across all republican areas and would report back to them whenever I managed to identify a targeted suspect.
Dean encouraged me to continue my friendships with both Micky and Harry Fitzsimmons. My handlers had taken my Vauxhall into one of their high security SB garages and fitted it with a tracker device so they could pinpoint the whereabouts of the car 24 hours a day. At the same time, they handed me a radio to keep at home. It appeared to be an ordinary AM/FM radio but it concealed a device which alerted my SB controllers that I needed to meet them urgently. Whenever I pressed the secret, silent alarm it meant that I would meet them in exactly one hour’s time at a pre-arranged rendezvous.
One evening, in the summer of 1989, I answered a knock at the door of my mother’s house and a woman was standing there.
‘May I speak to Martin McGartland?’ she asked.
‘I’m Martin McGartland,’ I said. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’ve got good news for you,’ she said. ‘I’m from the Northern Ireland Housing Executive. I’ve found a flat for you that may suit; a nice, one-bedroom flat in Beechmount Pass.’
‘What?’ I said, ‘A flat, for me?’ I must have sounded incredulous.
‘Yes,’ she said, unfazed by my apparent ignorance, ‘if you would like to go over and see the place we could go now.’
As she spoke, I suddenly realised that this must have been organised behind the scenes by the SB. I had never applied for a flat for I had always been happy staying at home, being looked after by my mother, yet enjoying total freedom to come and go whenever I wanted.
I arranged to see the woman an hour later at the address and went to collect Angie.
‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ I told her, ‘I’m getting a flat.’
‘What do you mean?’ she said. ‘Are you daft, or something? You never told me anything about a flat. Tell me, is this flat for you or for us?’
‘It’s for us, of course!’ I told her, knowing I was telling a white lie. ‘I arranged it as a surprise.’
Angie threw her arms around my neck and gave me a hug and a kiss. I felt something of a fraud but that didn’t concern me.
I could not, of course, tell Angie that the flat had come as a total surprise to me. She knew nothing of my work for the Special Branch. She believed I earned all my money from driving taxis. And there was something else. Angie had always been a staunch Republican and whenever we talked of the Troubles she made it plain to me that she had often considered joining the IRA.
Angie and I met the woman at Beechmount Pass and looked around the flat in a four-storey block. It needed some decorating but was clean, and I realised that by living here Angie and I could spend as much time as we wanted together. The location was also handy for Angie as she was studying at another YTP only half-a-mile away.
‘I’ll take it,’ I said. ‘When can I move in?’
‘Now,’ she said, handing
me the keys with a smile.
During the next two weeks, we painted and decorated and bought the bare necessities we needed for the flat. My sister gave me a settee and I bought a new carpet and a bed.
Days later, Angie told me, ‘Ever since we met we have had nothing but surprises, and I’ve got another surprise.’
‘What’s that?’ I said, only half thinking what she was saying as we lay together naked on the bed, cuddling each other.
‘I’m pregnant,’ she said, looking intently at me, watching for my reaction.
‘Shit!’ I thought instantly, but I said nothing. My mind raced as I thought of my life. I was now a fully-fledged British agent who had almost succeeded in infiltrating the IRA. I had no idea what was going to happen to me or where my life would lead over the next few months, let alone the next few years. The last thing I needed at the moment was a young woman and her baby to become totally dependent on me.
Now, it was too late; too late to back out of my involvement with the IRA and too late to tell Angie anything of the work that I was doing with the Branch.
Slowly, I raised myself on one elbow and kissed her on the lips, slowly and passionately, as my mind raced, wondering what I should say to her when the kissing stopped.
‘That’s wonderful,’ I lied to her. ‘Finding this flat at this time was perfectly timed.’
‘Are you sure you’re happy?’ she asked, seeking reassurance.
‘Of course I am. Have you told your ma?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m too frightened. I don’t know how she will react.’
‘Are you sure you’re pregnant?’ I asked.
‘Yes, of course I am,’ she said. ‘I did one of those home tests and that showed positive so I went to the hospital. They confirmed it.’
Two days later, Angie came bursting into the flat a great smile on her face.
‘What’s up?’ I asked her.
‘I told my ma and she was brilliant,’ Angie said. ‘She didn’t have a go at me or anything. She just asked me if you were the father and if I was alright. And do you know what? Before I came here tonight she kissed me. Isn’t that wonderful?’
I was happy for Angie, who seemed to think that everything was going brilliantly for us. We had met, fallen in love, found a flat and now were living happily together, waiting for the birth of a little baby. I, on the other hand, had become deeply concerned at the sudden turn of events, though I tried not to show it.
Some weeks before, I had read of the murder of Joe Fenton, a 35-year-old father of four, an estate agent who lived in republican West Belfast. He had been found shot dead, with four bullets in his head, in an alley not far from his home.
Within hours of his death, the IRA said it had carried out the killing, claiming that the dead man had been a ‘British Agent’.
Generally, it is suggested that a murdered man might not have been an agent, but on this occasion Fenton’s father said that he had been provided with evidence by the IRA and ‘accepted’ that his son had been working for the Special Branch.
The day before his funeral, the IRA issued a lengthy media statement detailing Joe Fenton’s alleged work for the Special Branch based, it seems, on a lengthy interrogation carried out by his captors. Though unstated, most people fully realised that Joe Fenton’s interrogation would also have included prolonged and appalling torture.
As a result of such incidents, I believed in my heart that I would never survive beyond the age of 25 and yet I was about to become a father again, involved with a girl whom I loved but who could not hear anything about my secret life. I also kicked myself for falling in love with Angie, because I realised how unfair it would be on her and her child if I should die at such a young age. I tried to put such thoughts behind me, as I remembered the advice Dean had given me during one of my briefings.
‘Marty,’ he told me, ‘there is one important lesson you must learn. Whatever happens, you must remember; never, but never, look back. Always look forward. That way you will survive much longer in this business. Some people worry about what has happened. That is silly because it’s history, it’s over. Only look forward, always plan ahead. It is probably the best piece of advice I can offer you.’
Within a matter of weeks, it became common knowledge in the IRA clubs that Marty, the taxi driver, would be prepared to lend his car to friends. I would phone Dean or Coco and inform them who was borrowing it and when they were using the vehicle. Usually, of course, I had no idea why they wanted to borrow the car nor where they were planning to drive. But I knew that my handlers would be able to track precisely the whereabouts of the vehicle at any time. Dean was very happy with the plan and encouraged me to lend the vehicle to my new friends.
One day, in the summer of 1989, Harry Fitzsimmons asked me if he could borrow the car and I readily agreed, informing my controllers exactly what was happening. As ‘Fitzy’ borrowed my car more frequently we became mates, and on many occasions he would ask me to drive him, visiting different places around Belfast. I suspected that he was viewing potential bombing targets and I would tell Dean to which buildings and places he would pay particular attention.
At one of my SB briefings, Dean and Coco told me that they had tracked Fitzy when he was using my car and discovered that each time he was driving to Comber in County Down. They believed he was planning an operation and they wanted me to find out anything I could. They suggested that I should propose to Fitzy that he and I should buy an old car together from the weekly car auction that took place at Carryduff, not far from Comber, spend some money tarting it up and then sell it, sharing the profit. They hoped that during journeys to and from Carryduff, Fitzy would want to take the opportunity to check out the unknown target.
Fitzy and I went to the auction and bought an old Mark V Ford Cortina for £200. On the return journey, Fitzy did not head straight back to Belfast but made a detour to Comber. I followed in my car and opposite a large house in the town he stopped and spent perhaps 30 seconds surveying the building before continuing the journey home. The following day, I phoned Dean and told him the news.
‘I knew you were in Comber last night,’ he told me, ‘because we tracked you. Did you see anything unusual?’
‘Well, he stopped outside a large house there.’
‘Did you get the address?’ he asked.
‘Not exactly,’ I replied, ‘because it was too dark. But I could take you there.’
‘Can we meet you in an hour?’ he asked.
‘Aye,’ I replied, ‘but it looks different in daylight.’
‘Not to worry.’ Dean got out of the van and walked round the corner. Five minutes later he returned to Coco and me with a piece of paper in his hand. We drove back to Belfast.
Nearly a week later, Dean told me that the house in Comber was home to one of the Blues – a police officer – and his wife who was an RUC woman who worked in West Belfast, perfect targets for an IRA bomb squad.
I noted that on most occasions, whenever he asked to be driven somewhere, Fitzy would take plastic supermarket shopping bags with him, and I informed Dean that I believed the bags probably contained bomb-making equipment. I would make a note of the houses he visited, memorise the addresses and inform Dean the following day.
But Dean and Coco began asking non-stop questions about Fitzy, asking me to detail his exact whereabouts at all times of the day. I felt that Dean and Coco were trying to lay a trap for Fitzy and I didn’t like that. Fitzy had been a pal of mine for most of my life and I believed that he would never intend to kill innocent people, either Catholics or Protestants, not even Loyalist unless they were actively involved in trying to kill him and his IRA mates.
Dean and Coco had always told me that my principle role would be to save innocent lives, that the information I gave them would be used to save lives. I decided to challenge them.
‘Why do you keep on about Harry Fitzsimmons?’ I asked them one day.
‘What do you mean?’ Dean replied.
�
��You know what I mean. Every time we meet lately all you ask me about is Fitzy. Where he goes. Who he meets. What he does.’
Warming to my argument, I continued, ‘You know what I think. I think that you’re planning to trap him, take him out, and I don’t like that.’
‘What do you mean?’ Dean asked, wanting me to spell out my thoughts.
‘Dean, you’re smart, you know exactly what I mean. I’m not prepared to put myself in a position where I am responsible for Fitzy going to jail, or maybe for his death, unless I believe he really is a man prepared to kill innocent people. And I know he’s not that sort of person.’
‘So,’ said Dean, ‘what are you saying?’
‘I’m telling you that I’m not going to give you any more information about Fitzy unless you promise he will not be targeted, or arrested, or whatever.’
‘So you don’t want to work for us anymore?’ he asked in a challenging voice.
‘I didn’t say that,’ I protested. ‘I’m saying that I am one hundred per cent with you, but I believe that my role is to save people’s lives – not to lay traps for you to arrest or kill people who I believed are involved in the IRA for all the wrong reasons.’
Dean blanked me, testing.
‘I think that people like Fitzy, who have a wife and kids, are often involved with the IRA for other reasons. Sometimes it’s to be macho, but deep down you must know that many people in the area where I live look to the IRA for security and protection when necessary. Many people living in republican areas have no faith in the system or the police or the Army. They have grown up seeing them as the enemy and the IRA are the only people who will protect them.’
But Dean didn’t seem to want to hear my argument. He responded, a hardness I had not heard before entering his voice.
‘Listen, Marty,’ he said, ‘Harry Fitzsimmons is a member of a highly professional, devious bombing team who will stop at nothing to destroy this city and sometimes take the lives of innocent people. These people must be stopped.’
Fifty Dead Men Walking Page 10