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

by McGartland, Martin

  ‘But isn’t that suspicious?’ I asked.

  ‘I agree. I agree absolutely,’ said Mike. ‘There was no reason at all why those two men should not have been question at the very least. And from what we know happened they should have been charged and probably convicted.’

  ‘Doesn’t that scream to you that my abduction was not simply an IRA attempt to see whether I was guilty of betraying the cause but some sort of inexplicable, devious plot?’ I went on, now more determined than ever to drive home my point in an effort to persuade Mike to open up. ‘From what I knew, Mike, whenever the IRA wanted to interrogate one of their own members they would tell them to attend a meeting at someone’s house. They were then grabbed, interrogated and usually tortured. But I was asked to see the head of the IRA discipline at the Sinn Fein headquarters which was always kept under surveillance by one or other of the security agencies. Don’t you agree that in itself seems an extraordinary place to kidnap someone?’

  ‘Aye,’ Mike replied. ‘I agree.’

  ‘And you might not know, Mike, but when I was interviewed by the RUC detectives following my plunge from the flat a Special Branch Superintendent told me that under no circumstances must I tell the investigating officers that Chico Hamilton and Jim McCarthy were the two men who had abducted me. At the time I thought I was given that order to protect myself but now I can see that in fact they were protecting Chico and Jim and who knows who else. But why would the Special Branch want to protect two well-known IRA thugs who had kidnapped one of the Branch’s loyal informants? It just doesn’t make sense unless I was just some tiny cog in a much bigger MI5 plan of action of which I am still totally unaware.’

  ‘The more we examine what occurred that day, Marty, the more complicated and impossible it is to unravel the reasons behind your kidnap,’ said Mike.

  ‘Tell me,’ I asked, ‘do you think I would have been killed if I hadn’t jumped?’

  ‘Aye,’ he replied, ‘there’s no doubt about it.’

  ‘Now you know why I can’t let this pass. Now you know why I’m risking my neck once more coming over here to try and find out what the fuck really went on.’

  ‘I understand, Marty, but you must look to the future. Right now there’s a ceasefire in operation. But who knows whether it will last. That’s what we’re now doing, trying to keep the peace. We’re working harder now, putting in more hours than at the height of the Troubles.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ I said. ‘Don’t give me that. Pull the other one, Mike.’

  ‘I’m serious, Marty,’ he said. ‘After this chat I have a meeting on the other side of Belfast with someone who is now doing the job you did. The IRA is in fact up to more shit now than they’ve ever been but it’s behind the scenes. The bombings and the shootings may have stopped but the IRA are working flat out, gathering intelligence, working the protection rackets, taking money from the drug dealers, making sure the money is coming in like never before. They believe they may only have a few more years of dreaming in the money before the taps are turned off. They might even have to become respectable but now, right now, they are controlling West Belfast with an iron fist, using every means available to them to keep control and bring in the money. That’s why there are so many punishment beatings going on. Most of it is all about money. That’s why we’re working so hard. Just because there are no bombs those politicians in Westminster think everything is fine but let me tell you it fucking isn’t.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said. ‘You’d better be on your way then.’

  ‘Marty, I’m sorry I couldn’t be of any more help to you but truly I don’t know any more.’

  ‘I understand,’ I told him. ‘If I do find out anything more can I phone you?’

  ‘Yes, you can,’ he said, ‘but only if it’s really essential. Is that a deal?’

  ‘That’s a deal, okay.’ And we shook hands.

  He opened the car door. ‘I’ll be seeing you then, mucker. Be good and keep your head down.’

  ‘You told me there’s no need now,’ I replied.

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ he said. ‘If the IRA got half a chance they would have your guts for garters tomorrow. And despite what I’ve told you today, trust no fucker.’

  ‘I never do,’ I replied, and he was gone.

  As I drove away I wondered why Mike had been so reluctant to talk about the affair this time, having taken the trouble to come to England and relate in great detail what had happened. I wondered if there was a hidden agenda in his visit to Birmingham, something that I didn’t fully understand. Then I thought that maybe his reluctance this time was his fear that I might have been taping our conversation. That would have made sense. Little did he know that in fact I had taped our first conversation when he had revealed everything quite happily. Now there was only one more person for me to press for information, someone very close to the IRA leadership in Belfast.

  Chapter Eleven

  I felt I had known Mary K... most of my life. I suppose we first met on the streets of West Belfast during a night of rioting when we were both teenagers. We often talked about those times, when we, along with scores of other young kids, felt we were taking on the might of the British Army and the batons of the RUC, who all seemed to take a delight in knocking shit out of us. At that time we felt the nightly street battles were more like rough and ready games rather than a serious escalation of sectarian violence. In the heady atmosphere of teenage enthusiasm we didn’t realise that on most nights we had been egged on by the men who stood some way behind the barricades cheering our efforts; those faceless IRA leaders who wanted us kids to cause as much mayhem as possible to the forces of law and order, though they took no part themselves in the street rioting.

  I remember on one occasion all of us being given bricks and stones from which to pelt the British troops on the other side of the burning barricade we had built across the Springfield Road. This happened hundreds of times for we would be handed the stones by the older, more experienced IRA men who intentionally kept out of the firing range while we youngsters kept up a barrage of stones in a deliberate effort to entice the soldiers to charge the barricades. Only then would the older men, who were in fact only in their twenties and early thirties, come from behind walls and cars and wait for the troops or the RUC to charge, scattering us as they ran through the burning barricades. Then those lying in wait would let fly, not with stones, but with petrol bombs and empty milk bottles which the troops hated for they landed on their heads and in their faces, splintering into a thousand shards. As the rioting became more intense some IRA men would take up positions with rifles and hand-guns, firing off a dozen or more rounds before turning and running as the army and RUC tried to ascertain who had been responsible and give chase. I can hardly ever remember a single IRA gunman being captured in those circumstances

  Mary grew up faster than I did and for a while we hardly ever met but I always enjoyed chatting with her even though I felt she was more sophisticated than me. I thought she didn’t fully approve of my wild life, rioting at every possible opportunity and provoking the RUC into retaliation. Mary had told me that after a few months of almost nightly rioting she had grown tired of the constant action, fearful that by her behaviour she was bringing problems to her family, her friends and her neighbours. Of course I disagreed because I enjoyed the thrill and the action of taking on the might of the British Army and the hated RUC in a bid to help the down-trodden Catholic minority who had been given such a rough deal by the Protestant majority.

  But whenever I saw Mary the talk would inevitably turn towards the Troubles and the problems caused to everyone by the more drastic actions to which the IRA were resorting, such as indiscriminate bombings and shootings which often ended in death of innocent people. Mary and many other Catholics didn’t approve of such a policy. Slowly, I began to share that view and when the IRA punishment squads began their evil work I found myself in open conflict with such cruel treatment.

  For a while I lost contact with Mar
y and when we met a couple of years later she told me that she had fallen in love and was living with a man whom she had later discovered was a fully fledged member of the IRA.

  ‘When I discovered he was a member of the IRA I didn’t know what to do,’ she told me. ‘For weeks and months the realisation worried me that I was in love with someone capable of planting bombs and killing people and I didn’t approve of that. I had a real problem coming to terms with that, Marty. I would go to bed at night and fear making love to him because everything that had happened that day in Northern Ireland, everything that I had seen and heard on the news, came rushing back to my mind and I realised I was making love to a man capable of killing people, all for politics.’

  ‘Why didn’t you leave him?’ I asked her.

  ‘Because I couldn’t. Part of me loved him and I couldn’t alter that. But I would have to push the other thoughts to the back of my mind and try to forget what he and his IRA mates were doing day in, day out; organising bombings.’

  ‘But you used to be so anti-IRA, Mary,’ I went on. ‘You would be really angry and upset whenever you heard young kids were being given terrible punishment beatings by the IRA for trivial matters.’

  ‘I know, I know, I know,’ Mary said in an agitated manner, putting her hands over her ears as if trying to block out what I was saying. ‘Marty, you don’t realise what this had done to me. I feel ashamed at living with such a man but part of me still loves him. I try to block out whatever he does because I never know any details. I never ask and he never speaks about it. But I know in my heart what’s going on and I don’t like it and I certainly don’t condone it.’

  As she recounted all this Mary looked at me quizzically, wondering how I would take the fact that she had turned her back on her anti-IRA views and had even thrown in her lot with the hard-line Republicans to the degree that she was happily living with one. She knew from my questions and the disappointment in my voice that I didn’t approve. And I could tell she was full of guilt, living with a man whose political activities she loathed but whom she found impossible to leave.

  Mary had moved back into West Belfast and, despite our disagreement over her relationship, we began to see each other from time to time. I sensed that she needed to confide in me, to rationalise the life she was now leading and, as a result, our friendship became even closer. Mary would want to talk to me about every facet of the IRA’s campaign of terror and violence saying, ‘Marty, you’re the only person I can confide in because all the other people I meet and mix with nowadays are committed Republicans who believe everything that they are doing is right, even when it involves the killing of innocent people.’

  On one occasion in 1989 I had bumped into Mary in Castle Street, Belfast, while she was out shopping. She seemed to lack her usually chirpy, happy personality and I sensed something was deeply wrong so I invited her for a bite to eat.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, coming straight to the point after we sat down.

  ‘I’m worried, Marty,’ she said. ‘I’m scared out of my wits. I’ve recently moved out from the flat I’ve been sharing with Tom and I’m living with my Dad.’

  ‘Did you have a row or something?’ I asked, hoping to find the reason for her black mood.

  ‘Not really,’ she explained. ‘What I’m going to tell you now I don’t want you to repeat to anyone. Tom’s been hiding semtex in our home and he now spends hardly any time in the house. I’m left there in my own most of the time and if ever the RUC raids the place I’ll be in deep trouble. I’m worrying myself sick. I can’t eat and I can’t sleep at night but I know if I say anything he’ll fly into a temper. I don’t think I can last out much longer, Marty, but I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Have you spoken to anyone else about this?’I asked.

  ‘No, no one at all,’ she said. ‘Most of my old friends disapprove of me living with him and I can’t talk to them; they wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Is that it?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ she answered, looking more nervous and apprehensive, as though on the verge of tears. ‘One or two of my girlfriends have told me that they’ve seen Tom at a number of clubs and local pubs drinking with his mates and flirting with some of the local girls. I’m sure he’s seeing someone else.’

  ‘What the fuck are you thinking about, Mary?’ I told her. ‘Just get rid of him. If you go on like this and with him being an IRA member the odds are that he will end up in jail and so might you.’

  I advised Mary to get out of the flat at least until all the arms and Semtex had been removed and she said she would think about it but when I looked into her eyes it seemed to me that she had no intention of taking my advice. After I left her that day I realised that I had been put in a very difficult situation. I was working for the Special Branch who spent most of their time searching for IRA arms and explosives and now here was Mary telling me she had arms and Semtex hidden in her flat. I knew that I could not and would not tell my handlers what I had just learned but I decided to keep in contact with Mary and try to persuade her to move out or, better still, to persuade her IRA man to move the arms cache out of their home.

  Mary told me later that she had moved out of her flat for a few weeks but then had moved back again. She also told me that Tom was still a very active member of the IRA.

  After I left Northern Ireland and Angie had decided to return to Belfast with the boys, I would occasionally phone Mary simply for a chat. There had never been any suggestion of Mary and I being romantically involved but, nonetheless, there was a strong mutual relationship between us which had lasted for more than ten years. Whenever we had bumped into each other in the village that was Belfast we would always chat and exchange gossip and we both knew that we could turn to each other in times of trouble. I had enjoyed phoning Mary from my new home in England, asking her for all the latest gossip, finding out what was happening back in West Belfast and I felt a need to keep in touch, my way of wanting to feel I was still a part of the community where I grew up. She understood that and was happy to talk despite the fact that her live-in lover Tom was still in the IRA. But we never discussed my role as a Special Branch source, nor the fact that I had infiltrated the IRA and fed information to the authorities.

  Before returning for my flying visit to Belfast I had thought long and hard about calling Mary. But I needed to talk to her and I hoped that it would be possible to find a way of meeting her without Tom finding out. I felt that because Mary and I had been such good friends throughout the years and the fact that I had never informed the Branch of the arms that her lover had stored in their Belfast flat, there was every probability that Mary might hold some information about my abduction. I just knew that if ever my name came up in conversation Mary would automatically have taken a mental note simply because of the friendship we had shared over so many years. I felt she could have been, in fact had been, my eyes and ears over the intervening few years and would know more than most of the tittle-tattle that members of the IRA spoke about me and my time with the Branch.

  I decided not to phone her home but call her at work, something I had never done before. But this time contacting her created a far greater risk than ever before. I looked up the number of the shop where she worked as a sales assistant in Belfast city centre and called her on my mobile. Eventually she came to the phone.

  ‘Mary.’ I asked tentatively, ‘can you talk?’

  ‘Who’s that?’ she asked, obviously not recognising my voice.

  ‘It’s Marty, your old friend,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, Marty,’ she said, somewhat relieved. ‘What are you doing phoning me here at work?’

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ I said.

  ‘What about?’ she asked.

  ‘I can’t tell you over the phone. I just need some advice.’

  ‘When are you coming over?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m here now,’ I replied.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Marty, are you fucking mad?’ she said.

  ‘No, I
’m not. Are you still living with Tom?’

  ‘Aye, of course; what makes you ask?’ she said.

  ‘I’ll tell you everything when I see you,’ I replied. ‘Can you get away from work a little early?’

  ‘Aye, I think I could,’ she said. ‘Why can’t you meet me in my lunch break?’

  ‘Mary, are you crazy?’ I said. ‘I can’t just walk around that area. Could you come to Belfast central station and I could meet you there? It’s not so open. How about 4.30 at the entrance, is that okay?’

  ‘That’s fine,’ she said.

  ‘Mary, not a word to a soul.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ she said. ‘See you later.’

  I drove into Belfast, my heart in my mouth, hoping that Mary was still the same trustworthy girl I had known all my life. I was glad I was driving a reliable and quite fast car, just in case I needed to make a quick getaway. I drove around the area for ten minutes checking if I could see any suspicious characters hanging around. I saw nothing to arouse my fears. Mary was standing just inside the entrance and at first I didn’t recognise her. As soon as I did see her I drove over and she jumped in, throwing her arms around me and giving me a hug and a friendly kiss on the cheek.