Dead Man Running: A True Story of a Secret Agent's Escape from the IRA and MI5

by McGartland, Martin

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ I asked him.

  ‘Not at all,’ he replied. ‘They knew details of your background in Northern Ireland. They wanted to show that they were top dog.’ It seemed extraordinary that those police officers should not only try to take the piss out of me but that they were prepared to go to court! In court they would allege that I had been swearing, pushing and kicking them, distressing passers-by with my behaviour. Many other Northumbria cops continued to target me, almost on a weekly basis. It went on for years and cost me hundreds of pounds in fines and court costs though for much of the time I was totally innocent. On some occasions, of course, I did exceed the speed limit but not on all occasions. During those years I was taken to court more than a dozen times for speeding, and the fines would range from £100 to £250. When I was stopped by police during the hours of darkness I was sometimes speeding, but for a reason. I did fear that the car tailing me could well have been IRA hitmen intent on pursuing me. At night, the police cars following me would only flash on their blue lights and sound their sirens after they had been tailing me for a few miles, putting the fear of God into me. But during those few miles I had not the slightest idea they were cops. In Northern Ireland I had been advised by my SB handlers to take evasive action if I found a car had been tailing me for some miles, with the driver making no effort to overtake. When you know you are a targeted man you don’t wait around, driving slowly; you get the hell out of the way as quickly as possible, not waiting until those tailing you open fire. Within weeks, however, I found myself being tailed. A car would usually follow me at night, driving close behind me. When I speeded up and tried to lose the chasing vehicle the car would tailgate me for a few miles, forcing me to drive faster. Only when I had exceeded the speed limit for a few miles would the cops pull out, sound their siren and order me to pull over. Even then I wasn’t sure they were cops. I would wait while they got out of their vehicle and walked towards me, keeping the engine running and the revs high, in case, just in case, they were IRA gunmen and I needed to make a rapid getaway. For people whose lives have never been threatened, for people who have never been targeted by a terrorist organisation, all this may seem far-fetched and over-dramatic. It isn’t. In such circumstances one is struck with deep fear at the thought that someone chasing you in a vehicle could well be a gunman hell-bent on killing you. And I had a major problem to contend with. When the cops did stop me, usually for speeding, there was no excuse that I could offer. I could not explain the reason why I had been speeding; I could not pour out my history, telling them that I was in permanent danger because I had spent four years working undercover in Northern Ireland. So I would simply produce my driving licence and say nothing. In a bid to lay a false trail for the IRA, however, I had taken the precaution of obtaining two licenses at two addresses, one in Northumberland, the other in Durham. So, because of the extraordinary number of times the police were stopping I decided to make use of both licenses. I would offer first one and when stopped the next time, hand over the other licence. In this way I escaped a driving ban for almost two years. Of course, I realised that technically I was breaking the law but I believed the extenuating circumstances heavily outweighed the offence. However, my luck could not last and because of my constant fear of being targeted and my numerous speeding offences I did eventually exceed the 12-point tally and, in 1995, served a statutory six-month driving ban. During that appearance at North Tyneside Magistrates Court I simply pleaded guilty, offering no excuse or reason to the magistrates as to the real reason I had been caught speeding so frequently. At that time, I did not want to attract attention to myself or reveal the circumstances behind my frequent breaking of the speed limits. As soon as I regained my licence, however, the motor-patrol units continued to follow me, making driving a real problem. And though I presumed it was traffic cops following me I could never know for sure. So I adopted a new technique, though a far more risky one, which would not have been approved by Special Branch officers. Instead of speeding away I would draw into the side of the road and stop whenever I felt a vehicle had been tailing me for too long, though making no attempt to overtake me. In that way the cop cars either had to stop behind me or overtake, permitting me to continue my journey. But it was a real hassle. In January 1995, however, my troubles escalated when the police discovered that I held two driving licences. It seemed they had been waiting patiently to throw the book at me and now they had found the opportunity. I had learned during my time inside the IRA that it was possible for IRA computer experts to hack into the DVLA computers in Swansea to gain names, addresses and car registration numbers. I knew that if the IRA were determined to try and get me such information on the DVLA computers could expose me to attack. Two officers came to my home and asked me to accompany them to Blyth police station in Northumberland. They escorted me to the station and put me in an interview room.

  ‘What are you arresting me for?’ I asked.

  ‘You’ll find out at the station,’ replied one of them.

  ‘Why can’t you tell me now?’ I asked.

  But the officer simply repeated his statement that I would learn everything at the ‘nick’. At the station I was put before the custody sergeant and then taken to an interview room to await questioning. After a few minutes two officers came into the room, asked my name and address which I gave them and then proceeded to question me. ‘We have reason to believe that you have two driving licences,’ one officer told me. ‘Have you anything to say?’ I looked from one to the other, wondering if they knew of my background or whether they were genuine. I realised that perverting the course of justice was a very serious offence and I had no wish to face a jail sentence. I realised that if I tried to argue my way out of this accusation the police would simply apply for a search warrant to my home and would then discover I did indeed hold two licences. I decided the time had come to tell the truth.

  ‘That’s true,’ I replied, ‘but there is a reason why I have two licences.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said one of the officers, ‘pull the other one.’

  ‘It’s true,’ I told them, ‘and I can prove it.’

  They simply accused me once more of ‘trying to pervert the course of justice’, asking me if I had anything to say in my defence. We were in a police interview room and, of course, a tape recorder was running. I asked them to stop the recording as I had something of extreme importance to tell them, something that would satisfactorily answer all their questions. After some further discussion, they finally agreed to turn off the recorder and listen to what I had to say. I spent the next ten minutes explaining in some detail my background, my real identity and the fact that Northumbria Special Branch knew of my history and the undercover work I had carried out in Northern Ireland. I told the patrol officers the SB would be able to verify my story. Seemingly my undercover work in Northern Ireland made not the slightest difference and I was served notice to appear at Newcastle Magistrates Court in July 1996 charged with attempting to pervert the course of justice. I was surprised and angry. I attended the Magistrates Court and, as I expected, was then sent for trial at Newcastle Crown Court. The hearing was scheduled to go ahead in May 1997. This meant that from the date the case was forwarded to the Crown Prosecution Service in July 1995, I had to wait one year for the case to come before the Magistrates Court and a further ten months for the case to be heard in Newcastle Crown Court. I began to wonder why my case had taken so long to come to court – a total of 22 months. It was, allegedly, the Crown Prosecution Service that had taken the final decision to prosecute me, for my solicitor received a letter in June 1996 from D.K. Hyland, a special case worker for the Crown Prosecution Service, saying that I would be prosecuted for attempting to pervert the course of justice. In talks with my solicitor later, Mr Hyland admitted that the case was ‘both complicated and sensitive’. Looking back on that episode it seems unbelievable that the CPS should demand I stand trial, for I assumed that the CPS, part of the British Government’s legal system, would have
been aware of every detail of my life and work as an undercover agent. I also assumed they would have known that I had no intention of perverting the course of justice but had been taking such action to ensure I kept ahead of any assassination squads. I couldn’t understand why if they did know they should want to expose me in such a public way, by dragging me into a Crown Court, a place where members of the public could gather to listen to the evidence, thus exposing me to possible IRA retaliation. But later I would understand only too well. My Belfast SB mate would put everything into perspective when he told me of MI5’s plot to have me kidnapped and killed by the IRA.

  I discussed my forthcoming trial with my Special Branch contact in Newcastle, who knew all the details of my work in Belfast. He advised me; ‘Plead guilty, man, and no one will know anything about your past life.’

  ‘But if I plead guilty,’ I told him, ‘there is every chance that I will be sent to jail.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that man,’ he said. ‘If you have to do time that’s the penalty you must pay to keep your background under wraps.’

  I told him, ‘My solicitor has warned me that if I don’t fight this case and win it the Crown Court judge is bound to send me to jail and not just for a few weeks. I’m not prepared to go to jail when I had very good reasons for what I did. I’m innocent and I don’t see why I should plead guilty.’

  ‘Have it your way,’ he told me, ‘but I’m telling you that the only way to escape exposure is to plead guilty and do the time. It might only be a year or so inside; you can take that.’ I was flabbergasted. It seemed extraordinary at the time but my contact continued to press me, always urging me to plead guilty and never suggesting that I should fight to clear my name. ‘But if I plead guilty,’ I told him, ‘no evidence will come out. And I want the judge to hear the way the traffic cops her have treated me over the years. I want a jury to know all the facts, including my undercover work in Belfast, so that then I will get a fair hearing. If I just plead guilty I will be seen as nothing but a toerag. I won’t do it.’ I knew, of course, why the police wanted me to plead guilty. They were scared that the jury would find in my favour. They also didn’t want the ignominy of being seen to be singling out someone who had served his country in a dangerous, life-threatening job for four years. The magistrates committed me to Newcastle Crown Court for trial on indictment on 14 May 1997. Under my new identity, Martin David Ashe, I was charged with ‘Doing acts tending and intended to pervert the course of public justice between June 8, 1993 and April 29, 1994, in that he surrendered two or more separate driving licences for endorsement with a view to avoiding disqualification.’ But in December 1996 my book Fifty Dead Men Walking, the story of my life as an undercover agent, was published. It seemed that because I had decided to come out into the open and tell my story the authorities had taken the decision to make my life as difficult as possible. Also the Northumbria Police were taking me to court seemingly every other week or so for offences which I claimed I had not committed. I talked to journalist friends and former Belfast SB friends and they all told me that the actions taken against me were typical of the authorities doing all in their power to create problems for me; to make my life as difficult as they could. It also seemed that senior RUC officers were determined to downgrade the part I had played in Northern Ireland, fearing that I would take the limelight that they believed rightly belonged to them. Initially, there was nothing that I could do but, in a matter of months, the difficulties being put in my way escalated to such a degree that I could hardly step outside my front door without fresh problems confronting me. In late December 1996, nearly one month after my book was published, I was informed by a friend whom I was staying with at the time that two men were knocking on the front door of his house looking for me. They asked him where I could be contacted and he told them that he had no idea. They asked what car I was driving at the time and my friend surprised them. ‘Lately he has been riding a bicycle around. He hasn’t got a car at the moment. Can I take a message?’ he asked, but they refused point blank to give their names or where they were from. My friend, who knew nothing of my past in Northern Ireland, thought the two men wanted to give me good hiding, especially when they told him they would be returning later. When he informed me what had happened I went immediately to the local police station and asked if any officers were looking for me. The police officer on duty checked and informed me that no officers had been to my house. He tried to reassure me that he didn’t think I had anything to worry about. I wasn’t so sure. I then called at the local council offices and the DHSS but was informed that no one had been wanting to see me. Later, I would learn that the Northumbria Police were also concerned. They made their own checks within the force, with the DHSS and North Tyneside Council but all checks proved negative. I never discovered who my two mysterious visitors were and neither did the police. I was fearful that my unwelcome visitors could well have been IRA hitmen who had learned of my whereabouts and so I decided to phone my SB mates in Belfast to see if they had heard if any IRA team were actively searching for me. ‘We’ve heard nothing to alarm you,’ an SB man named Chris told me. ‘But keep your head down and your eyes peeled. Trust no one, Marty, because they will never give up. If you want us to help in any way just call, night or day.’ Despite the SB assurances I decided to move out of my friend’s house that very night, going to stay with another acquaintance. But my problems with the Northumbria Police continued unabated. One example of the way I had been hassled occurred in January 1995 after I had driven home and parked the car as usual at the back of my house. As I did so, half-a-dozen or more police officers leapt out of the bushes where they had been hiding and ran to my car making me feel like some armed terrorist. They snatched the keys from the ignition and ordered me out of the car. Then one of them opened the bonnet and after checking the engine number told me, ‘We are arresting you for being in possession of a stolen vehicle.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ I told him. ‘This is my car and I can prove it.’

  ‘This car has been stolen,’ he replied, ‘and you are under arrest.’

  I replied, ‘Don’t talk rubbish. I bought this car months ago and it was in a terrible condition. I’ve spent the last few months rebuilding it myself with the help of some mates. I don’t know what you’re talking about; you need your fucking head examined.’

  ‘You will still have to accompany us to the police station to make a statement, you little bastard,’ he said.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I replied, ‘I can prove this car’s mine.’

  ‘Don’t come that one,’ said the officer in charge, ‘that’s bullshit. We know you’ve nicked it.’

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ I demanded, ‘inside the house I’ve got photos taken at different times showing how I rebuilt the vehicle from scratch after it had been involved in an accident. Perhaps that will persuade you that I’m telling the truth.’

  ‘Okay,’ said the officer in command, ‘show us.’

  Once in the flat I found the photographs and showed them to the police. The photographs seemed to calm them and they agreed that perhaps they had been misinformed. In the meantime, however, the officers were poking around my flat as though looking for other things to embarrass me with.

  Suddenly I heard a yell from my bedroom and I ran in. ‘Don’t move,’ one shouted at me. ‘Stay exactly where you are, don’t move a fuckin’ inch.’

  To the officers he shouted, ‘Arrest him; cuff him; this place is full of fuckin’ guns and ammunition.’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ I asked, half laughing at this officer who seemed to have lost his senses.

  ‘Don’t talk, don’t say a fuckin’ word. Just shut up,’ he shouted.

  I tried to intervene to explain everything but he wouldn’t even allow me to say a single word.

  ‘Cuff him, handcuff the fucking Irish bastard,’ he yelled at one of the officers standing next to me.

  I went to move forward to pick up one of the guns to explain everythin
g to the screaming officer but before I had moved one foot forward he leapt towards me, pushing me away from the arms and ammo, shouting, ‘Get back, get back, don’t move; stand still; you’re under arrest.’

  To one of his officers, he yelled, ‘Grab him, arrest him; don’t let him near the guns.’

  On his police radio he called his Operations Room and urged them to send specialists from the Northumbria Police Fire Arms Team as a matter of urgency. He explained that an IRA arms dump had been discovered in the bedroom of a private flat.

  ‘Will you listen to me?’ I said when he had finished his conversation. ‘This is no IRA arms dump; these guns aren’t real; they’re only replicas,’ I insisted.