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

by McGartland, Martin

  Indeed, three of Pete’s young friends had been badly beaten by punishment squads, one dragged out of a Ballymurphy pub and smashed unconscious with baseball bats in front of his girlfriend because they claimed, incorrectly, that he was involved with crime. Another friend had his car taken away from him by some IRA thugs and when he refused to co-operate with him they grabbed hold of him and beat the shit out of him; and the third was beaten for taking the side of nine-year-olds whom IRA thugs decided to beat up for allegedly stealing from parked cars. Sometimes when I spoke to Pete from the safety of Newcastle I would feel guilty at having fled from Belfast, leaving others to face the thugs of the IRA punishment squads while I lived in peace across the water.

  After leaving Belfast in August 1991 I had talked frequently and openly to Pete, telling him of the dangerous life I had led in an effort to help the people of Northern Ireland. Finally, I arranged for him to meet my Branch handlers because I knew how much he hated and despised the way the IRA thugs were then operating. Some months later I learned he was in fact working for the Branch in the same way that I had but he had never joined the IRA as I had done. Many IRA commanders did, however, trust him and would frequently ask him to help out in various ways.

  But a year later a worried Pete called me on my mobile phone number which I told him to use only in an emergency if things were really becoming dangerous. On this occasion he called to tell me he was coming under increasing pressure from his SB handlers to join the IRA. I advised him strongly never to join the IRA, as I had done, because by doing so he would risk hi very life. I recalled telling him, ‘Listen to what I have to say and listen very carefully. If you join, Pete, I will guarantee that within a couple of years you won’t be around’ cos the IRA will make sure of that. When you’re inside the IRA there are only a few people who know what’s going on and everyone is under suspicion especially when operations start going wrong. You just can’t win because the Special Branch are always pushing for results but that causes you to take risks, sometimes stupid risks. And, in truth, the Special Branch won’t help you and often can’t help you when the chips are down. Then you’re on your own and no one will stick their neck out for you. And one last point; if the IRA discover you are an informant then you’re no further use to the Special Branch. I can guarantee to you, Pete, that if you do go ahead and infiltrate the IRA you will end up with a bullet in the back of the head.’

  Shortly after 9 a.m., when I was some miles from Belfast, I stopped and phoned Pete, greeting him as I usually did. ‘How is it going, Kid? What’s happening?’ I asked.

  ‘Fine,’ he replied. ‘What do you want me for?’

  ‘Can you do me a big favour?’ I asked. ‘Are you doing anything in the next hour or so?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Would you be able to go and meet a close friend of mine?’

  ‘It depends,’ he replied. ‘But it should be okay.’

  ‘I want you to take a private taxi down to Balmoral and my friend will be waiting outside the King’s Hall,’ I said, deliberately selecting a place Pete knew well.

  ‘What’s he look like?’ Pete asked. ‘Can you give me a description?’

  ‘Yes, of course. He’ll be on foot and he’s going to give you some papers. He’ll be wearing a beige sweatshirt and jeans. Have you got that?’

  ‘Aye,’ he replied.

  ‘And Pete, listen to me. Make sure you get out of the taxi at the corner of Harberton Drive and walk back to King’s Hall. And before you go, there’s one more thing. Tell no one, not a soul. Okay?’

  ‘Marty, you know me better than that,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘But I’ll talk to you later. Okay?’

  ‘Okay, kid. Bye.’

  Thirty minutes later I arrived at King’s Hall and saw Pete standing as arranged. I saw him look at the car but he didn’t recognise me. Then I gently tooted the horn and he came over, still not recognising me. I threw open the passenger door as he walked up to the car.

  ‘Jesus, Marty,’ he said, turning pale at the sight of me back in Belfast, ‘What the fuck are you doing here? Are you trying to get me stiffed or something?’

  ‘Get in,’ I said. ‘It’s good to see you. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you the truth on the phone but you know how it is.’

  ‘Jesus, Marty, aren’t you taking a terrible risk coming here like this?’

  .Maybe, but I had no option. I’ve got a problem, Pete, and you might be able to help.’

  ‘You know me, Marty. If there’s anything I can do to help I will. Just say the word.’

  ‘That’s great, Pete,’ I said. ‘You’re a real pal. We had better go somewhere else to talk. We might become a bit too conspicuous if we stay here chatting.’

  And we both laughed. I put the car into gear and drove off down the Upper Lisburn Road to Derriaghy near Lisburn. We pulled into a shopping centre and decided to stay in the car to talk.

  ‘What’s it all about? He asked.

  I explained to Pete how I had been visited by an SB officer in England who had told me that my abduction by the Provos had been no accident but appeared to be carefully planned by MI5.

  ‘You’re joking,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you’re not going mental?’

  ‘Pete, listen,’ I said, ‘I’m deadly serious. I promise you. I’m only speaking to you because you’re the only person I can really trust. Do you understand?’

  ‘Fuck me,’ he said, ‘I had better watch my arse because I’m working for the cunts.’

  I explained in some detail exactly what had happened to me on the day of my kidnap, the way I had been closely watched by the SB on my way to the meeting at Connolly House; how I had walked out of the main entrance to the Sinn Fein headquarters in full view of any surveillance unit. I explained how minutes later the two IRA bastards had been able to drive away without anyone noticing; and that despite the SB and other surveillance units boasting the most sophisticated high-tech tracking equipment they had been unable to trace the car.

  But I didn’t tell him that MI5 had instructed the TCG to withdraw the Branch officers watching my back and leave me to my own devices.

  ‘How can I help you?’ he asked.

  ‘I need to know everything you can tell me about any rumours or gossip about me and my kidnapping. Anything, anything at all.’

  He burst out laughing and I looked at him wondering what the fuck was so funny.

  ‘Jesus, Marty,’ you’ll never the shit you caused those two bastards who had you held in that flat. In fact I will go so far as to say that I nearly felt sorry for the two cunts.’

  ‘Why, why, why?’ I said. ‘Spill the beans, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘After you escaped Chico and Jim fucked off across the border, shit scared that the RUC would get them. After the dust settled they returned to Belfast believing they would receive a heroes’ welcome having kidnapped you, Marty McGartland, the traitor. In fact it was the opposite. Everyone gave them dog’s abuse. Even now they’re still getting abuse about it. For a while Chico and Jim were kicked out of the IRA because the leadership believed at first that one of them had actually helped you to escape. They couldn’t believe that three men holding anyone at gunpoint in a third floor flat, whose hands and feet were bound together, could have let him escape. It sounded unbelievable. Some people were calling them “Mr Bean” after the TV character famous for making cock-ups.’

  ‘Fuckin’ brilliant,’ I said. ‘I love it.’

  ‘And those two are still in shit,’ Pete went on. ‘There’s stories going about now how they are involved with protecting drug dealers in return for money, saving them from getting beatings from the punishment squads. And both of them are still involved in punishment squads.’

  After we had both had a good laugh at Chico Hamilton and Jim McCarthy’s expense I again asked Pete whether he had heard any reliable information about my abduction.

  ‘Listen, Marty,’ he said, ‘you know “Spud” Murphy who is a commander in the
IRA? Well, he told me and a few others that if he ever comes across you he will put a bullet in your head and no questions asked. Steve, who had been a good friend of yours when you were in the IRA, also told a few people that he would love to put a couple of bullets in you.’

  ‘But, Pete,’ I went on, ‘did you not hear anything about my abduction?’

  ‘People inside and outside the IRA were confused about the kidnap. They thought it odd that you were asked to go to the Sinn Fein headquarters and then have Chico and Jim sent to collect you. People in the Republican pubs and clubs were asking why Chico and Jim, two people who had nothing to do with the IRA’s security team, were sent to abduct someone whom the IRA obviously knew was an informer. It’s never done like that. Usually, senior members of the IRA will trick an individual, who they believe is working for the Branch, into a false sense of security, like asking them to go fishing, where they can be easily abducted. But trying to kidnap someone like you in the middle of Andersontown where the Brits and the RUC patrol regularly is suicidal. And I can tell you here and now that no one believes the IRA would invite you to go to a meeting at Connolly House and then kidnap you. They may as well have phoned the Special Branch and told them they were going to kidnap you the following day. It just doesn’t make any sense. Most people who knew you well believe there was something deeply suspicious about all the events surrounding your abduction and your escape.’

  ‘And what’s the general consensus of opinion then?’

  ‘People just don’t know what to believe,’ Pete replied, ‘but they know there was something really fishy about the whole affair. There had been no other kidnap like it.’

  ‘Did you ever hear any rumours that the whole business was a set-up?’ I asked.

  ‘Most people thought there was something odd about it,’ he replied.

  ‘But did you pick up anything definite that I could use in evidence?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ he replied. ‘Only the IRA leadership would know that, Marty.’

  ‘I thought so,’ I replied, somewhat disappointed. ‘But thanks anyway. There’s one more question you might be able to answer. Do you think the IRA have any idea where I’m now living and, if they did know, do you think they would take any action against me?’

  ‘Funny you should say that, Marty,’ he replied, ‘because just before all this shit about you and your court case in England over the driving licences I honestly couldn’t believe half of the places you were meant to be living. There were rumours you were still living in the south of Ireland and then some said you had been sighted in Scotland. Now, due to the recent press coverage, everyone knows that in reality you were living in Newcastle all the time. Jesus, Marty, those fuckin’ cops over there are worse than they RUC and that’s saying something. Did they go out of their way to drop you in the shit by revealing your name or was it an accident?’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it, Pete,’ I told him. ‘It took them almost two years to bring the case to court. The Crown Prosecution Service actually contacted several different agencies including MI5 and the RUC Special Branch, seeking advice on whether I should be taken to court. It was only after my so-called friends in MI5 or one of the other Crown agencies, told the CPS to go ahead that the decision was finally taken to prosecute me. Only then was I charged. Now you see, Pete, that someone, somewhere was determined to take me to court and they knew, they must have known, that as a result of taking me to court my true identity, McGartlandm as well as my new identity, Ashe, would be revealed.’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ said Pete. ‘That’s going over the top. I didn’t think the fuckers would go to those lengths to expose you, would they?

  ‘Don’t you fucking believe it,’ I replied.

  ‘How do you know?’ Pete said.

  ‘Listen to me, Pete, listen carefully.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘One day, months before the case came to court, another of my solicitors, Philip Hindson, held a meeting with a special case worker for the Crown Prosecution Service, and expressed concern that as a result of bringing this case to court the only outcome would be to reveal my true identity. My solicitor explained that was the only defence I had to offer otherwise I would have to lie in court. My solicitor also made the worker aware that I would most certainly plead not guilty and he asked whether the CPS were aware that by taking me to court they would be putting my life at risk.

  ‘Immediately after that meeting Philip Hindson phoned me and reported what had occurred during his meeting. He told me, “The CPS have shown me a letter they received from the Special Branch but I didn’t catch the address at the top. The letter stated that the SB had consulted with another agency which the CPS assumed was either MI5 or MI6. As a result of those consultations and subsequent recommendations the CPS were told there was no reason why they should not proceed with the prosecution.”

  ‘My solicitor continued, “I told the CPS that you [Martin McGartland] would plead not guilty and a lot of shit would come out in court. The CPS representative replied that if it appeared things were getting very embarrassing for the Government he might back off. He waved a letter in the air, telling me that he had been instructed to continue the prosecution with the words, ‘Don’t worry, just prosecute. Do him’

  ‘My solicitor presumed that the letter must have been sent from MI5 or some other government agency because he was aware that the police are not permitted to interfere in a case once the file had been handed over to the CPS for consideration.

  ‘What my solicitor didn’t know, however, was that, as usual, I taped the conversation. Since my problems over my two identities had come to light I had taken the decision to tape each and every conversation I had about all these various matters. I would tape them not only during phone conversations but also during face-to-face meetings. As a result, I now have hundreds of hours of taped conversations with everyone involved. I have deposited these tapes in safe places.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Pete, ‘that’s shit. I never thought the authorities would play that game. If they treat people who work for the Government like that, what would they do to ordinary fuckers?’ Then he changed tack, saying, ‘Marty, what the fuck have you done to be treated like this? Is there something you haven’t told me?’

  ‘Hand on my heart, Pete, I’ve done nothing that you don’t know about,’ I replied. ‘I thought all this aggro had been thrown up because I wrote a book about my experiences but now I think there’s something more sinister going on, I really do.’

  ‘Now you’ve told me all this shit I agree with you,’ he said. He went on, ‘Marty, take some advice. You must watch your arse; you might be involved in something of real importance, something of which you are unaware, that you know nothing about.’

  I replied, ‘I’ve thought of everything, Pete, and I’m at a loss to know what the fuck I’ve done to deserve this treatment. What the fuck this is all about I just don’t know. I’m nearly getting sick wondering why the fuck all theses government agencies, the RUC, the SB, the Northumbria Police and even the Home Secretary are getting involved in it. I don’t know, I honestly don’t know what hornets’ nest I’ve disturbed.’

  ‘We had better get out of here,’ said Pete, ‘we’ve been here too long already.’

  ‘Before we go I must tell you two things. I know you now work for the SB but you must tell no one of this conversation. Pretend it never took place; that you haven’t seen me since I moved to England in 1991. And then there’s something else. You see what’s happened to me; well, remember this shit could happen to anyone. Trust no one; not the RUC, not the Special Branch, no one. Nor any fucker in the IRA.’

  After dropping Pete on the outskirts of Andersonstown from where he planned to take a taxi back home I drove around Ballymurphy and Moyard, the places where I had lived. I know it might have been crazy to take such a risk but I couldn’t help myself. That was my home, where I had grown up, and all my memories were on view to me. Something inside me made me determi
ned to see them again and I thought ‘what the heck’ and drove through the area. The traffic was quite heavy which was good for me because I had more time to take a look round and much of the time I was looking at the people seeing if I recognised anyone, but I didn’t. I wondered if my memory had gone or the people had changed so much in six years but I realised I was being stupid. In the days that I had spent around West Belfast I thought I had grown to know hundreds of people but in reality, of course, it was hardly more than a handful. Despite the risk I was taking I felt a warm glow, a feeling of happiness and contentment at being back home. I realised how much I had missed everyone.