DEAD MAN RUNNING – © MARTIN MCGARTLAND
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Sam Cushnahan of FAIT – Families Against Intimidation and Terror – who has not only given me help and guidance in preparing this book but who has worked tirelessly to bring peace to Northern Ireland. Thanks also to Jack McKee, a highly valued community worker, and MP Robert McCartney whose advice I freely sought. I wish to thank certain members of the press who have supported and assisted me, including Chris Thornton of the Belfast Telegraph, John Cassidy of the News of the World, Liam Clarke of the Sunday Times, and writer Kathy Johnston. I want also to thank my hard-working barrister, Glenn Gatland, and my solicitor Nigel Dodds, two men who gave me the courage to fight the authorities. There are others, in the Security Services and on both sides of the sectarian divide, whom I also thank but whose identities I can never reveal. And, of course, there is Mike whose honesty began my search for the truth. Most importantly, a big thank you to my best friend and my partner, Jo, who has supported me during these difficult times when striving for the truth and justice has sapped my strength and my patience. To her I owe a deep sense of gratitude.
Martin McGartland, 1998
Summer 1998
Chapter One
I awoke with a start in the cold, soft dawn that was Ireland in an autumn mist. The events of the previous night came rushing so my mind and I lay still, not daring to move, listening to the rustling of the grass and straining to hear whether army foot patrols were on the move. But all seemed silent. I lay under the hawthorn hedge giving my mind time to think through what I must do that day, to plan my movements carefully and to avoid any of the traps which I felt sure were waiting for me. I could hear my heart thumping, feel my hands sweating and yet my whole body shivered like a jelly, for the night had been cold and damp and I was wearing nothing save for my everyday clothes, a light zipped jacket, sweatshirt, a pair of jeans and a baseball cap. I shut my mouth to make sure my teeth wouldn’t chatter and wrapped my arms around my body in a vain attempt to keep warm. It was too early to move, just minutes after five o’clock. I knew I had to wait for an hour or two until there were more people about, more activity, more travellers giving me protection in numbers as they headed towards the ferry which would be my sanctuary. Only when I was safely aboard and the ferry had slipped its lines and was heading for stranraer would I begin to relax. I guessed I was only a mile or so from the docks at Larne, a place I knew well, but also a place which I knew was under 24-hour surveillance by the RUC. As I lay in the damp grass I kept making plans for the final lap of my escape, trying to forget the pangs of hunger in my stomach, and wondering what the future would hold. The meadow where I had sought cover that night seemed strangely silent and before me I could see the myriad of colourful flowers so beautiful, innocent and peaceful. And then I saw the poppies, somewhat taller than the other flowers, their pale red petals grabbing my attention. They seemed to mesmerise me. I watched them waving gently in the early morning mist and thoughts of death filled my mind. I looked at them, almost hypnotised, thinking of the funerals I had attended, the poppies I had seen, always so beautiful and fragile and always recalling the most horrible and tragic deaths. I tried to think of poppies as appealing, as beautiful flowers, but every time my eyes were drawn back to them my mind filled again with images of death and horror, of tears and sadness. I thought of the shootings, the bombings and the mayhem that I had witnessed and mind recalled the times that I had seen the shocked and scarred children, all but lost amid the funereal black dresses, coats and suits, placing posies of poppies on their daddies’ graves.
Buttercups and daisies, hawkbit, harebell, ball flower, knapweed, St John’s Wort and a host of other meadow flowers, whose names I didn’t know, I saw that morning as I tried to take my mind off the cold and the fear of what possibly lay ahead. It had been my supervisor in the Youth Training Programme, a gentle, kind Orangeman, who had taught me the names of the wild flowers during the time I was training to become a gardener. With others, we would take walks together across Black Mountain, the wild and beautiful hills at the edge of the Ballymurphy estate, the heart of Republican West Belfast. And I had never forgotten them. That morning the time moved so slowly I thought 6.30 would never arrive. I tried not to look at my watch and deliberately hid it under the sleeve of my sweatshirt. But every time I treated myself to a peek the hands on the watch seemed barely to have moved. At one point I even put the watch to my ear, checking whether it was working. Then I smiled, realising my battery watch made no noise. To pass the time I dreamed of bacon and eggs, hot sausages and buttered toast all washed down with cups of hot tea and promised myself if I ever made the ferry I would treat myself to the biggest fry-up of my life. But every time I came to my senses I would squeeze back against the prickly hawthorn hedge, making sure the soft rain couldn’t reach me and trying to make myself as inconspicuous as a sparrow. More importantly, I scanned that field every few minutes in case, just in case, an RUC or an army foot patrol was out and about. I wondered whether to try and hitch a lift in a passing car but realised that would be a stupid idea. I probably looked more like a scarecrow than a respectable young man on his way to catch a ferry. And then, of course, I hadn’t even taken into consideration the fact that early in the morning many of the people driving to the Larne ferry would have been peelers driving to work or, worse still, plainclothes Special Branch men. ‘Fuck,’ I thought to myself sternly, ‘get a grip of yourself and start thinking straight.’ Every plan I thought of seemed hopeless. Somehow I had to make my way from this God-forsaken sodden meadow along the open road to the ferry without being noticed by any peelers or Special Branch men. It seemed strange, however, for now I was desperately trying to escape the law having spent most of my adult life desperately trying to keep one step ahead of the IRA who had sworn to kill me on sight. I had, according to the IRA, betrayed the cause and there was only one penalty for traitors – a bullet in the back of the head. Shortly before 6.30, when the day was light and the rain had stopped, I hit on a plan. I knew it was useless to try and walk the mile to the ferry, not only because of the way I must have looked after a night sleeping rough but also because I had to presume that the RUC, and maybe even the British Army, were looking for me. I could take no chances. Already I was deeply suspicious that MI5 had tried to get me killed and now they had been made aware that I suspected them, despite my innocence and my trust, of trying to get the IRA to kill me. In my youth on the Ballymurphy estate I had learnt the art of hijacking cars. By the age of 14 I had learned how to get into a locked car without damaging the lock and ‘black box’ the vehicle – starting the car by by-passing the ignition – within a minute. In those carefree early days when our great sport was baiting the British troops we would have competitions among ourselves, seeing how quickly we could open and start a car as a dare. As a teenager I loved cars and my ambition was to own a really fast car but not some high-speed expensive vehicle, just an ordinary car with a powerful engine. When I became 17 and had passed my test I loved doing spectacular spins, screeching the tyres on the asphalt road while the kids from the estate roared and cheered their appreciation. And now, I decided, those tricks that I had learned in my teenage years would be put to good use. Carefully I stood up, my whole body aching from my night beneath the hedge, and peeked through the hawthorn, checking the lie of the land and seeing if many vehicles were about. Over the past hour or more I had heard increasing numbers of cars and lorries heading towards the ferry and knew that the world was awake and
about its business. I watched as seven or eight vehicles, mostly cars, roared past my hiding place at about 40 to 50 miles an hour. I knew they would be slowing shortly as they approached the docks but those few hundred yards would be too dangerous to risk. I thought of walking alongside the hedge but that was impossible for the hedge soon became a wall, a low, three-foot-high dry-stone wall which would offer little or no protection. Worse still, if someone did indeed see me creeping along a wall towards the docks, the peelers would be alerted and, within minutes, I would be in a police station answering questions I did not want to hear. So I decided to nick a car instead. On the way to my strange refuge beneath the stars that night I had seen a number of houses only a couple of hundred yards from my hiding place and I convinced myself that I would find a car there which I could ‘borrow’ for the run to the ferry. I realised, technically, that I would be stealing and taking away the vehicle but I had no intention of actually stealing the car, just borrowing it for a matter of minutes. I felt in my pocket, found a ten pound note, and vowed to leave that on the driver’s seat as payment for the petrol and use of the car. I hoped that the owner wouldn’t be too angry and I felt convinced that he wouldn’t mind at all if he realised the pickle I had landed in. Before venturing out I inspected myself, straightening my jacket, checking that my jeans were passable, pulling out bits and pieces of grass and shrub and wishing that I had a mirror to check my hair and face. For all I knew my hair, naturally unruly, was sticking up and my face could have been smudged with mud from the ground where I had slept. I rubbed my face as though I was washing it and looked at my hands. Clean. That was something. The rest I would trust to luck. I walked gingerly down the side of the hedge to the five-barred gate and, when there was no traffic passing, nipped over. As I landed on the other side I checked again. Still no traffic. So I quickly ran across the road and began to walk away from the ferry, back towards Belfast. I tried to appear nonchalant, as though I walked along this stretch of road each and every morning on my way to work. A car went by and suddenly I didn’t know whether I should wave or not. My training had always emphasised that I should aim to melt into the background on all occasions, never draw attention to myself or whatever I was doing, act naturally and, above all else, stay calm. That morning I consciously thanked my handlers and remembered all they had taught me. I put my head down and pretended not to notice anyone driving along the road. I felt sure that’s what my handlers would have advised. And that gave me another idea. I decided to think of their advice before I did anything risky that morning. I pretended I was on an exercise, a training exercise given on occasions by my Special Branch handlers in which they would ask me how I would react or behave in certain circumstances and I would give the answers. I learned a lot that way because, in the beginning, most of the answers I gave were wrong. But this would be one of my biggest tests. And I had to succeed. It was no exaggeration that at that moment I was convinced my life depended on it. As I walked along the rain-soaked footpath I kept looking surreptitiously hither thither, hoping to see a car parked in a drive or the roadway. I wanted something ordinary, like a Ford or a Vauxhall, something that I knew would be easy to open and start, and a car which no one would notice or remember. I saw a Rover 800 and decided against that. I saw a couple of small trucks but thought they might be more difficult to start because I had only concentrated on cars. Then, on the right, in a driveway I saw a dirty blue Vauxhall which looked about five or six years old. I looked up and down the road and saw no one about. I looked up at the windows and saw the curtains drawn which, I hoped, meant the people living there were still in bed and, hopefully, sleeping peacefully. There was another great plus. The drive was on a slight gradient, which meant that I could open the car, get inside, let slip the brake and roll out of the drive and perhaps a few yards down the road before needing to start the engine. I crossed over the road and checked for people and vehicles as I approached the drive. Nothing coming. I took a deep breath, wished myself luck and took a few steps up the short drive which was not much longer than the car. I quickly glanced up at the window and, to my astonishment, realised the curtains were now open. At the same time I realised the front door was opening and I stood stock still, half in panic, half in fright, as I wondered what the hell I should do. ‘Good Morning,’ I said to the man who looked somewhat astonished to find a total stranger standing in his drive shortly after 6.30 in the morning. ‘How are you today?’ I continued, not realising what I was saying, having not thought through my plans for such an eventuality. I cursed myself, realising that I had not planned well enough. ‘Idiot,’ I thought. Somehow, my brain had come to my rescue, gone into automatic and the right words were coming out of my mouth. But what to do next? ‘Good Morning,’ said the large, middle-aged man as he tried to come to terms with my presence in his drive. I guessed he was a Protestant, a true Ulsterman, and I decided to slightly alter my accent so that he would think I was a God-fearing young Protestant and not a young nationalist tearaway from West Belfast.
‘Are you going towards the ferry?’ I asked, trying to sound as if I was asking for the time of day.
‘Aye,’ he said, looking at me in a strange way. ‘Why?’
‘Could you give me a lift?’ I asked.
‘Sure I could,’ he said. ‘What’s the matter? Has your car broken down?’
‘Aye.’ I lied. ‘I couldn’t get the damn thing to start this morning. Must have been the damp. I have to be at the docks for 6.30 and it’s late now.’ ‘Get in,’ said the man as he opened the door to let me clamber into the front seat beside him. For a minute I wondered whether he was playing with me. If he suspected that I was an IRA man he only had to drive to the nearest RUC station and I would be done for. I must have looked a sight, scruffy, unshaven, my hair a mess and my clothes dirty. I just prayed that he didn’t suspect that I was on the run but I must have shown all the signs of a young man up to no good. I looked at him more closely as he walked across the front of the car towards the driver’s door. He didn’t look like a peeler or even a Special Branch man but I knew from experience that SB men can adopt the most extraordinary appearances. I looked at his jacket to see whether I could detect a bulge at his shoulder but I could see no sign. I examined his clothes – a pair of dark brown trousers, white shirt, plain tie and brown leather jacket – and thought that he might even have worked at the docks. But I would take no chances.
‘Where are you heading?’ he asked, casually enough.
‘I’m catching the ferry,’ I said. ‘Seeing some relatives in Scotland.’
‘Well, by the looks of things you shouldn’t have too rough a crossing. There’s not too much wind about this morning.’
‘Fingers crossed,’ I replied.
‘Are you a good sailor?’ he enquired.
‘Not bad,’ I replied, hoping that the inquisition wouldn’t go on much longer.
‘Where’s your suitcase?’ he asked. ‘Did you forget it?’ and he laughed.
I didn’t know what to reply. I searched my mind not knowing how to answer. So I decided to say nothing, to change the subject, pretend I didn’t hear the question. ‘We’re nearly there,’ I said as the docks loomed ahead of us out of the early morning mist.
‘Where do you want dropping?’ he asked.
‘At the passenger terminal if that’s not out of your way,’ I replied. ‘That would be grand.’
‘Not at all,’ he replied. ‘It’s a pleasure.’
As he drew up at the passenger terminal I clambered out, wondering if I was in a daydream. I could not believe that this man had been the genuine article, straight and honest and ready enough to believe my preposterous story. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said as I stood on the road by the side of the car. ‘Thanks a million.’
‘Think nothing of it,’ he said. ‘See you around.’
‘Aye. Look after yourself and good luck,’ I replied and slammed shut the door. I walked quickly into the terminal and turned as if to wave but he had gone. I went back to the
door to check that he was in fact driving away and not searching out some peeler to tell of the scruffy young man he had found in his driveway acting suspiciously. I watched as he drove his car away to the other side of the docks and I lost him.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said to myself, ‘remember you’re a lucky bastard. You’ve been in worse scrapes than this and you’ve always come up smelling of roses.’ I was dying for a hot cup of tea and, before checking in, went to the cafeteria. I could smell the hot food, the sizzling bacon, the hot toast but I had this nagging suspicion that if I ate now, rather than on the boat, I would tempt fate and never make my escape. So I sat in a corner, with my back to the wall watching the entrance to the cafe, checking in case the peelers had been alerted and were searching for me. I sat there for 15 minutes, drinking the sweet, hot tea slowly, relishing every sip. After ten minutes I guessed that the coast was clear for if I had been reported to the peelers as a suspicious character they would have been there with their guns in minutes. I was clean, carrying no weapon, and if they had come for me there was nothing I could have done but gone quietly. A smile crossed my lips as I finished my cuppa, gaining in confidence every second, knowing that my luck had held. If luck had gone against me I knew that I would now be in police custody replying to questions I had no wish to answer. I checked through my pockets, searching every one, pulling out the linings to make sure that I had no incriminating evidence on me; nothing bearing my old name, address, driving licence or credit card other than my English driving licence bearing my alias, Martin Ashe. But I was taking no chances. Throughout the 48 hours I was in Northern Ireland I kept the Ashe driving licence hidden in my waistband. If I had been stopped and taken in for questioning by the peelers I had no wish for them to discover my alias. I was clean. I just had £50 in notes on me and nothing else. It was time to go. Forty-five minutes later I stood in the shadow of the ship’s funnel and looked back at Larne docks as the ferry moved out into clear water, the seabirds squawking overhead, and a wonderful relief, a sense of freedom, surged through my heart. I went down to the cafe and ordered the meal I had dreamed of in the early hours of that morning as I lay beneath the hedge. Every mouthful tasted like heaven. As I drank my second cup of hot, sweet tea that morning, however, I became more serious, more sombre, as I realised that I was almost certain that an attempt had been made by British Intelligence to have me kidnapped and murdered by the IRA.
Dead Man Running: A True Story of a Secret Agent's Escape from the IRA and MI5 Page 1