Ten-Thirty-Three
Page 1
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TEN-THIRTY-THREE
The Inside Story of Britain’s Secret
Killing Machine in Northern Ireland
Nicholas Davies
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licenced or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Epub ISBN: 9781780571348
Version 1.0
www.mainstreampublishing.com
Copyright © Nicholas Davies, 1999
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author has been asserted
First published in Great Britain in 1999 by
MAINSTREAM PUBLISHING COMPANY (EDINBURGH) LTD
7 Albany Street
Edinburgh EH1 3UG
ISBN 1 84018 343 8
Reprinted 2000 (twice)
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a newspaper, magazine or broadcast
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Contents
List of Abbreviations
Author’s Note
1. The Conspiracy
2. The Recruit
3. The Force Research Unit
4. Enter MI5
5. Thatcher’s Baptism of Fire
6. Violence and Murder
7. Partners in Crime
8. The Killing Machine
9. Shoot to Kill
10. The Murder of Patrick Finucane
11. Saving Gerry Adams
12. Kill, Kill, Kill
13. Out of Control
14. The Cover-Up
List of Abbreviations
14th Inc 14th Intelligence Company
ASU active service unit
COPs close observation platoons
DUP Democratic Unionist Party
FRU Force Research Unit
HMSU headquarters mobile support unit
INLA Irish National Liberation Army
IRA Irish Republican Army
JIC Joint Intelligence Committee
JIS Joint Irish Section
MISR Military Intelligence Source Report
MIU Military Intelligence Unit
MRF mobile reaction force
NICRA Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association
QRF quick reaction force
RPG rocket-propelled grenade
SDLP Social and Democratic Labour Party
TCG Tasking Co-ordination Group
RUC Royal Ulster Constabulary
UDA Ulster Defence Association
UDR Ulster Defence Regiment
UFF Ulster Freedom Fighters
UPVF Ulster Protestant Volunteer Force
UVF Ulster Volunteer Force
UCBT under-car booby-trap
E4A the RUC’s covert surveillance unit
Author’s Note
This book has taken five years to research and write. I heard the basic outline from a member of the security services several years ago but needed to verify and substantiate the facts and the details surrounding each and every killing and attack which allegedly involved Brian Nelson. After much research and many meetings, three former members of the British security and intelligence services, with intimate knowledge of the Force Research Unit, agreed to talk to me of their experiences with that organisation. They did so only in the strictest confidence, after I had given assurances that their names would never be revealed. Even so, two of those officers have since been threatened with ‘executive action’ – the customary expression for murder.
After I had completed eight chapters, the British government discovered I was writing a book about the work of the Force Research Unit. They brought a High Court action against me, forbidding me from carrying out any further work on the manuscript. After ten months of legal argument, the High Court gave me permission to continue. Ten-Thirty-Three is the result.
Nicholas Davies
July 1999
Chapter One
The Conspiracy
The rain lashed down on the Belfast rush hour that September evening in 1987, making driving conditions hazardous and drenching the men and women making their way as quickly as possible across the rain-soaked streets to the partial protection of the bus shelters. The wind made it worse, whipping across sheets of gusting rain from the west, rearing at their raincoats, causing all to turn their backs, shielding their faces in a useless effort to avoid the deluge.
From the secure safety of his warm car the man laughed to himself as he sat in comfort, the heater clearing the windscreen inside while the wipers tried to keep pace with the water cascading down outside. He took surreptitious glee watching the women wrestling with their umbrellas, only to see them blown inside out by the force of the gale. Slouched in the driving seat, puffing on his cigarette, he inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs, but kept his eyes peeled for the ‘Q’ cars expected at any moment. Though he had the good fortune to be out of the bad weather, the man was far from happy, fucked off with having to sit and wait every time your man had to be escorted from the pick-up to the safe-house in the suburbs of Belfast.
‘Fuckin’ little waster,’ he mumbled to himself with venom in his voice as he saw no sign of the two vehicles he was waiting to escort, ‘fucking my life up for that cunt.’
He didn’t mince his words, never did; and he knew that was probably one of the reasons he was still on escort duty, following ‘touts’ around Belfast after seven years with the Force. He never even got to drive the touts around the city, always working as tail-end Charlie, out of sight and out of mind. But he kept hoping that one day, just one day, something would go wrong and he would be there with his .38 ready to blast some fucker to pieces. He hoped that man would be a tout because he despised them, always had, always would, no matter which side they were on. The vague thought that one day he might use his .38 in vengeance brought a smile to his lips and he patted his shoulder holster. The only consolation in his desolate, lonely, boring life was the thought of gunning someone down and, of course, the monthly pay-cheque and the overtime that came with the job each and every moment he sat in his Ford on escort duty. To him, overtime meant drinking money and the occasional tart, because he never told the wife about those extra earnings. He believed his overtime was his reward for sticking the fucking awful job day in, day out. He loved a drink. He never went straight home but would always stop for a couple of pints, or more, of Murphy’s before walking home for the inevitable ear-bashing from the wife. He knew he wasn’t a good husband, wasn’t a good NCO either; but he had found himself a cushy number with long hours working for the best security squad in Northern Ireland – the Force Research Unit (FRU).
Well-built, in his forties, and with a bulging waist-line, the man, born and bred in Northern Ireland, appeared to be paying little or no attention to the nose-to-tail line of traffic passing his stationary vehicle. But while watching the world go by, he was listening for the loudspeaker concealed under the dashboard, waiting for the signal that Ten-Thirty-Three was on his way.
He knew that this Ten-Thirty-Three was some important tout, be
ing picked up two or three times a week and treated like fucking royalty. He had seen him a few times and he didn’t like what he saw. Ten-Thirty-Three appeared shifty, shabby and sharp, a man not to be trusted. Some of the touts he had seen he had quite liked, especially the ones who enjoyed a drink, the occasional plausible rogue, but not Ten-Thirty-Three. When he was around, the man felt uneasy but didn’t really know why.
‘We’ll be with you in a couple of minutes,’ a voice said quietly and concisely from the loudspeaker.
The driver made no reply but sat up, adjusted his position and threw the half-smoked cigarette out of the window. Time for him to wake up, pay attention to what was going on and concentrate on the job in hand; his hour of day-dreaming was over.
Three minutes later he saw the two vehicles he had been waiting for, approaching in convoy. He put the car in gear and moved out into the line of traffic immediately behind the second vehicle. The three cars were now in line as they moved away towards Ballynahinch in north Belfast.
Fifteen minutes later the two front cars pulled into the drive of a suburban house and the escort driver drove past and away to his favourite pub. His day was done.
The occupants stepped smartly out of their cars and into the protective cover of the porch before greeting each other in muted tones. One used his key to the front door and once inside one of them went immediately to the kitchen to put on the kettle. ‘Tea or coffee?’ he shouted.
Both men opted for tea with sugar.
When they were all comfortable in their armchairs, Ten-Thirty-Three, the small, lean man with straight black hair and dark-rimmed glasses, was the first to speak. ‘Fuckin’ weather,’ he said in his broad Belfast accent, ‘no fuckin’ good for my lads.’
‘It’ll pass,’ came the measured reply from the well-built man in his forties who seemed to be in charge. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘Have you got any photos for me?’ said Ten-Thirty-Three, trying to sound calm but giving away some impatience in the tone of his voice, as though wanting to get on with the job. Sometimes he would speak as if he were in charge of proceedings, the important person who gave the orders to his bosses, the contact men who were his constant handlers.
‘Yes, one,’ replied the well-built man.
‘Only one?’ complained Ten-Thirty-Three, sounding somewhat irritated, ‘Who the fuck is that?’
‘The man you asked for, Patrick Hamill,’ came the reply, and the photograph of Hamill was handed over. The mugshot showed a man in his late thirties. He was looking straight at the camera and it was obvious the photo had been taken officially, either for a passport or for police files.
‘Any address?’ asked the little man.
‘Yes, he lives in a council house not far from Beechmount off the Springfield Road in west Belfast. He has a wife and two kids, but although he has lived here for some years he is originally from Leicester in England.’
‘Anything else? Any job, any precise address, any haunts?’
‘Yes,’ replied the man in charge, ‘He spends a lot of time at the Felon’s Club, the Republican club on the edge of Milltown cemetery in Andersonstown. Do you know the place?’
‘Not exactly,’ replied Ten-Thirty-Three, ‘it’s not the sort of place I’d be invited,’ and he laughed at his own joke.
‘Suppose so,’ came the reply, ‘but you have heard of it?’
‘You mean the cemetery where the IRA bury their dead? Aye. What else can you tell me?’ he asked.
‘Well, not much, actually. Hamill was an active member of the Belfast Brigade of the Provos some years ago,’ replied the well-built man, speaking in a matter-of-fact, unemotional voice. ‘He’s someone we would describe as a political activist, nothing more. He was jailed in the Maze for conspiracy to murder, possession of weapons and membership of the IRA. He was released a few years ago. We don’t think he’s very active in the Provos any more, a man of little or no significance as far as we’re concerned. What are your plans for him?’
‘We just want to check him out, see if he’s active any more,’ replied Ten-Thirty-Three, picking up his black briefcase and tucking the photograph inside. ‘Have you got a P-card on the man? They’re always useful.’
P-cards were an invaluable ID used by Military Intelligence as a quick reference guide to suspects. These cards – the P stood for ‘personality’ – would state the suspect’s name, address, telephone number, family details, car make, colour and registration number, and if the suspect had a job the card would carry his work details, his tax reference and national insurance number. More importantly, the P-card would also include details of his immediate and extended family, alleged friends and acquaintances, even people he visited, the places he was seen drinking or visiting and the people he talked to and drank with. Everything that was known of a suspect, his life and his friends, was filed on the cards so that relatives, friends and acquaintances could be checked and cross-checked.
‘You’ll get it next time,’ he was told. ‘Until then, work on what we’ve given you. See if any of your fellas can find out anything more about this Hamill guy – it could be useful.’
‘Okay, have it your way,’ replied the little man, ‘but those P-cards save a whole lot of time, you know.’
‘We know,’ said the man in charge with a chuckle, the first time he had shown any emotion during the conversation. ‘Remember, we put them together.’
‘Aye,’ the other man replied. ‘Is that it, then?’
‘That’s it; what else would you be wanting? That’s a target for you to check. Remember, though, keep us informed. Don’t leave us in the lurch, okay?’
‘Okay,’ replied Ten-Thirty-Three, ‘understood.’
And, after downing their cups of tea, the three left the room, flicked off the lights, double locked the front door with a Chubb and a latch key, and drove away. Two miles away Ten-Thirty-Three was dropped off near his home and the two ‘Q’ cars went their separate ways.
Ten-Thirty-Three, the thin, unattractive little man with the slicked-back dark hair was Brian Nelson, the chief intelligence officer of the Ulster Defence Association, the principal Protestant paramilitary organisation which, in August 1992, would be proscribed by the British government. The other three men were officers of the Force Research Unit, a secret wing of British Army Intelligence, the 180-strong organisation set up in 1979 specifically to collate intelligence-gathering in Northern Ireland on behalf of the army. The Force Research Unit was not the usual military intelligence-gathering organisation, however, but designed rather to be hard and aggressive, to carry the undercover war raging on the streets of Belfast to the enemy within, the Provos.
For ten years, Britain’s Ministry of Defence never admitted the existence of the Force Research Unit. The FRU was never included in any Defence Ministry reports or pamphlets; never included in any British Army listings, never included in any Ministry budgets. Officially, the FRU did not exist and the officers, handlers and back-up staff who worked in the secret organisation were allegedly attached to the 14th Intelligence Company (14th Int), known to the security services in Northern Ireland as an undercover unit working with the British Army. But the FRU also had its own budget and was represented on the Tasking Co-ordination Group (TCG) – the group including MI5, the SAS, the RUC Special Branch and the army – which co-ordinated all the security and intelligence services in Northern Ireland.
Nelson and his two handlers would meet perhaps twice or three times a week to discuss intelligence-gathering between the army and the UDA, and they would keep each other informed of what was going on. The escort back-up driver was never seen by Nelson; in fact, Nelson didn’t even know there was a back-up vehicle. That was straight-forward army practice, in case someone had tailed Nelson and discovered his secret meetings with British Intelligence in one of the numerous safe-houses dotted around Belfast.
Two months later, at another safe-house outside the city, the three would meet again at Nelson’s request because on this occasion he want
ed exact details of Hamill’s home, his whereabouts, and a copy of the army’s P-card. At that meeting the FRU handlers were left in no doubt that Nelson’s UDA bosses intended to take out Hamill and they had asked Nelson to find out every possible detail about the man’s life, his work place, his favourite pubs and clubs and any other haunts.
As they sat and talked, Nelson checked the P-card he had been given. ‘Is that everything?’ he asked petulantly. ‘Nothing else?’
The two FRU handlers looked at each other but only one replied: ‘That’s your lot, okay?’ he said with not a little impatience in his voice.
‘Okay then, if that’s all you’ve got,’ said Nelson rather cockily, ‘I’ll be on my way.’
‘Any plans for Hamill?’ he was asked.
‘That’s not up to me,’ replied Nelson, ‘I just supply the intelligence and others make the decisions.’
‘But you will hear something? You will hear what’s going down?’
‘I don’t usually,’ he replied, ‘but if I hear anything I’ll let you know.’
‘Good, make sure you do. Okay?’
‘Don’t get shirty with me,’ said Nelson, somewhat belligerently. ‘If I hear anything I’ll let you know. In the meantime, can you take me for a drive? Show me Hamill’s house, the Felon’s Club and anything else which might help us identify the man?’
‘Well, you’ve got his photo, it’s up to date,’ he was told, ‘so you shouldn’t make any mistakes.’
‘It’s not me,’ he repeated, ‘I just supply the information. It’s down to others. You know that.’
‘Aye, we know that,’ said the officer with heavy sarcasm in his voice, ‘we know that.’