A couple of days later I passed all this detail to Felix as he debriefed me. He also told me what the likely consequences would be if ever I was picked up by the RUC, detained, questioned and then freed. ‘A special IRA security team is assigned to every IRA man freed from custody,’ he told me. ‘It’s their task to follow him, night and day, for the first few days following his release, taking note of where he goes, whom he meets, what he does. A couple of days later he is told to report for questioning. The man goes as ordered to an IRA safe house. Inside is total darkness, no lights whatsoever. The man is taken to a room and told to sit down while men in balaclavas question him, asking him a hundred questions about his time inside, details of the police questioning and the answers he gave. The man is made to feel like a leper, a traitor. They question him harder than the CID ever did. If they think he’s talked or betrayed the cause, then he’s fucking had it. And if they think he’s been turned and become an informant they will beat the shit out of him, torture him and whatever. And before they’ve finished with him, they will have discovered every tiny piece of information that he gave about members and IRA operations. If he ever admits to being turned, then he’s fucked – just a bullet in the back of the head’ All of these thoughts raced through my head, and the more I thought of the IRA operations I had succeeded in ruining the more I felt a chill running down my spine. I decided to try and cheer myself up but it was difficult. The more the minutes ticked by the more I thought I was nearing the time when questions would be asked by the Civil Administration Team and I wondered if I had the guts to deny them. I knew only too well that a number of other informants had been arrested by PIRA, questioned and tortured, but I didn’t know any who hadn’t ended up taking a terrible beating as well as a bullet in the back of the head. I knew that in these circumstances the IRA always demanded a confession to deter others from working for the RUC. But while these two stooges and their underling stood guard over me I recalled some of the successes when we had thwarted the IRA. One of the most successful operations began as I was driving Davy Adams across Belfast. He asked me if I would become involved in a major operation being planned by an IRA active service unit, in which they hoped to trigger a massive bomb beside the main road leading from the Larne ferry terminal. The IRA had discovered that every other week a convoy of 15 British Army trucks would cross from Scotland to Larne bringing supplies to the troops stationed in the Province. More importantly, the IRA had learned that the last two army trucks leaving the ferry on arrival at Larne were usually full of British soldiers. To the IRA this was the perfect target, a spectacular massacre which would shake the British Army to its core. An IRA intelligence unit had managed to plant one of their young volunteers, a lad named Martin, on the ferry, working as a ship’s hand. I met Martin outside a cafe in the centre of Larne and he gave me the details of the fortnightly crossings of the army supply vehicles. He also told me that the RUC, responsible for checking security at the ferry port, would drive a van to the port and leave it unattended while they checked the ferries arriving at Larne. The following Saturday I drove down to Larne again and counted 15 British army trucks leaving the ferry. The last two were indeed full of soldiers. Having reported back to Davy Adams I was sent to discuss the operation with a highly experienced IRA explosives officer named Tony. This man had a formidable reputation and he would be responsible for many of the huge IRA bombs that devastated the centre of Belfast during the late 1980s. After explaining the mission to him, and the roadway leading from the ferry, he decided to visit the area with me to see how best to plan the bombing. On the way into Larne Tony noticed a lay-by on the main road used by the British convoys. ‘This is brilliant, fucking fabulous,’ Tony said enthusiastically rubbing his hands together. ‘If we can’t stiff at least a dozen Brits in this operation we’re real wankers.’ After passing the lay-by a second time Tony said he planned to park a caravan packed with explosives in the lay-by and run a command wire from a vantage point from which to trigger the bomb. He also wanted to ensure that the bomber would be able to make a quick and safe getaway. We circled round again so that Tony could check the best place from which to trigger the bomb. As we drove back to Belfast Tony went on chatting to himself; ‘To carry out this job we need 1,000lbs of mix [home-made explosives made from fertiliser], enough to blow at least one of those lorries off the road. But this is a chance in a lifetime so I think we’ll up the mix to 1,500lbs. That should really blast the fuck out of the last two vehicles. If both those trucks are full of soldiers, hardly any will get out alive. Marty, an opportunity like this only comes about once and you have to get it right.’ The following day I reported all to Felix and Mo, two of my handlers, and they took the information with some alarm. I could hardly recall them looking so serious. ‘If Tony’s involved that means this is a serious job,’ said Felix. ‘He is one of the IRA’s top bomb makers; he’s organised some of their most spectacular bombings.’ I urged Felix and Mo to keep the information secret because very few people knew of the bomb plot and if anyone became suspicious I would be one of the first to be suspected of leaking the intelligence. They agreed to my request and decided, in an effort to protect my identity, to speak directly to army intelligence and tell them of the bomb plot, urging them to stop using the Stranraer-Larne ferry and find another way of transporting men and supplies across the Irish Sea. Not knowing what was happening, I was on tenterhooks wondering if the Branch would accidentally leak the bomb plot. Weeks passed and I heard nothing so I decided to call on Tony to see how the bomb plot was going. As I walked into his garden, Tony said, ‘Hey, Marty, did you hear about the Larne job?’ My heart leapt. ‘No, why?’ I asked, trying to keep cool. ‘It seems the bastard were only using the Larne ferry for a short while, because they don’t go there anymore. We had the gear all ready, the mix prepared and packed in a caravan. As usual, before the operation we took one last look on Saturday afternoon and there were no army trucks to be seen. I don’t think they’ve used the port since.’ ‘Fuck,’ I replied, ‘from what the lad told me it seemed the convoy was a regular event.’ ‘I was devastated when I heard there were no more trucks,’ Tony said, looking particularly miserable. ‘I thought that job was too good to be true.’ As I lay on the sofa, bound hand and foot, I knew how guilty I was in the eyes of the IRA and I knew exactly what that would mean if I ever confessed to working for the Branch. Even the thought of what would happen made me turn cold. I shivered and yet I was hot as hell under a blanket on a hot August day. I realised I had to face whatever was coming to me and do all in my power to come out alive at the end of the ordeal. But the thought of saving the lives of those two truck-loads of soldiers actually brought a smile to my lips though I knew they would never know that the young man responsible for saving their lives was now facing torture and almost certain death. By now it was 5.30 p.m. and I wondered how much longer I would have to wait until confronted by the IRA Civil Administration Team. Suddenly I realised that I had to go to the toilet. I was bursting and I knew they wouldn’t want me peeing all over the sofa. I asked the young lad to untie my hands so I could go to the toilet. As I hopped into the bathroom I noticed the bath, full to the brim of crystal-clear water. I knew exactly what that meant and my stomach churned and my mouth turned dry as fear gripped me. I knew that one of the IRA’s favourite tortures was putting a man’s head underwater and keeping it there until the poor bloke was barely conscious. Then they would bring him out, gasping for breath, question him again and then force his head back into the bath, keeping the ritual of torture going until the man passed out completely or gave them the confession they demanded.
I knew as I looked at the bathwater that if I did not escape from the flat I would be face with the water torture and, probably, many others just as horrific. I doubted whether I would have the courage or the mental willpower to withstand such treatment and such interrogation, to keep denying that I had ever worked for the Branch or provided any information to the RUC. I knew that the interrogation unit would arrive at
any minute and I also feared that by the time they had finished with me they would either have a confession or I would be dead. The thought frightened the shit out of me. I told myself that if I stayed in that flat, death was a near certainty and I convinced myself, in my terror, that I would be unable to take the beatings, the cigarette burns or the water torture without confessing. I knew that the moment I confessed I would be taken out of the flat, bundled into a car, taken somewhere outside Belfast and unceremoniously shot in the back of the head. Then a great idea struck me – I made my monstrous plan. I looked at the sitting-room window wondering exactly how far I was from the ground. I had no idea what was below the window – concrete, grass, parked cars, trees or shrubs. Suddenly, it didn’t seem to matter. Here was a possible avenue of escape. At that moment I preferred to take the odds of leaping through the window rather than face the IRA’s bully boys. I glanced into the kitchen and saw the three of them talking quietly amongst themselves. ‘This is your only chance, Marty,’ I said to myself. ‘Go for it, go for it, go for it.’ My feet were still bound together so I hopped out of the bathroom, across the hallway and into the sitting-room, not daring to look into the kitchen. Ten feet in front of me was the window and I hopped faster and faster, frightened that the yobbos might twig what was happening and stop me leaping out of the window. When I was within a couple of feet of the closed window I leapt as high as I could hurling myself head-first through the window pane. I don’t even remember hitting the glass ... Those memories seemed like only yesterday so fresh were the details. I had somehow survived, spending a month semi-conscious in hospital, before being taken out of Belfast and flown to the mainland to a new home and a new life. I knew that one day I would return to Belfast to discover the truth about what had happened to me; to find out once and for all who had betrayed me and why. There had to be a good reason for MI5 to arrange a kidnap and orchestrate my death at the hands of the IRA. But that trip to Northern Ireland would have to wait. Other events and circumstances were arising almost weekly in Newcastle-upon-Tyne where I now lived, worrying events seemingly set up to make me feel insecure and vulnerable. I felt that I was being harried and chased by the authorities including the Northumbria Police, the local Special Branch and the Crown Prosecution Service. I wondered if I was being paranoid but realised that was not the case because there was no arguing that the authorities did appear to be conspiring against me. Before returning to Belfast I had first to sort out my problems in England and try to determine if everything that had been going wrong in my life in England had anything to do with my abduction in Belfast.
Dead Man Running: A True Story of a Secret Agent's Escape from the IRA and MI5 Page 5