Dead Man Running: A True Story of a Secret Agent's Escape from the IRA and MI5 (18 page)

‘
Here, Marty,’ he said smiling, handing me the gun, giving me the pistol grip while he held the barrel.

I thought it was a friendly gesture; a light-hearted joke, knowing that I spent most of my life amongst IRA men. ‘Thanks,’ I said, a smile on my face as I went along with the joke, pretending to take the gun from him.

Though I am naturally right-handed I stretched out my left hand to take the gun. He snatched it away, a look of ferocity on his face, and rushed out of the room shouting to my SB handlers who had been in the room during the meeting, ‘Come here, come quickly.’

‘
What’s the matter?’ I heard Felix shout as he ran back towards the room he had just left.

‘
He’s that gunman, Marty’s our man,’ Inspector John shouted.

‘
What gunman?’ Felix asked, unable to grasp what the hell was going on.

‘
You know, you know,’ screamed Inspector John, seemingly in a state of frenzy. ‘The fuckin’ PIRA one, the baby-faced left-handed one, the gunman with red hair who shot those boys in Belfast centre.’

I recalled two appalling shootings in the centre of Belfast in 1990; two officers shot in the back of the head as they passed through security gates near the Falls Road in broad daylight and another two RUC officers, dog-handlers, who were shot dead as they sat in an unmarked van in High Street, Belfast, three months later. RUC investigations had led them to believe the same PIRA gunman had been responsible. I knew the Special Branch put a priority of tracing gunmen who shoot RUC officers in daylight in the centre of Belfast.

‘
No, no, no,’ shouted Felix, ‘you’ve got it all wrong . . . calm down . . . for fuck’s sake calm down . . . you’re talking a load of fuckin’ nonsense . . . have you taken leave of your senses . . . I know Marty . . . I know him well . . . he’s no PIRA gunman.’

I was surprised to hear Felix talking to a Chief Inspector in that tone of voice for the Inspector was a higher rank. I had never seen Felix in such a rage but I admired him, and was very, very happy that he was sticking up for me.

But Inspector John kept interrupting Felix, telling him to shut up, screaming at him to listen to what he had to say. Raising his voice again, he kept shouting, ‘I know he is . . . he took my gun with his left hand . . . and his hair . . . it’s red . . . it’s like that PIRA man. Jesus, don’t you realise that we’ve been using a fuckin’ PIRA gunman as an informer?’

As the Inspector continued to rant and rage, convinced that I was the left-handed PIRA gunman, Felix grabbed him roughly by the arm and pulled him away from the room and down the corridor, helped by other SB officers who had come running as the shouting match had raged on. Within seconds the Inspector was out of the house. I would never see him again. Felix came back into the room a couple of minutes later and apologised for what had happened.

‘
I’m sorry, Marty, I don’t know what got into him,’ he said. ‘I honestly think the poor bastard’s cracking up. He was more like a madman than the rational, sensible RUC officer I’ve known for years.’

I heard later that Chief Inspector John had been reprimanded by a senior SB officer and told never again to attend SB briefings with informants without permission. The extraordinary fracas had upset me more than I realised at the time. I could not believe that such a senior officer would react in that way towards me when I had been working for the SB for nearly three years. I took Felix’s advice and out it down to stress but it still seemed crazy that such a senior officer should be permitted to continue his work in that frame of mind.

The nearer the Sea-Cat came towards Belfast the more tense I became until I saw the big office blocks and major buildings of Belfast fast approaching and then, for some unknown reason, the view gave me a sense of safety, of returning home and seeing all the old familiar haunts and faces around West Belfast. Then as I saw the armed RUC officers with their black flak jackets standing on the quay my former life came hurtling back to me, wiping the smile off my face. I wondered if I would have any difficulty disembarking because I knew the terminal was always guarded not only by RUC and SB personnel, only some of whom patrolled in uniform. I knew also that an array of security cameras were constantly watched by police inside the terminal building. I understood it was common practice for Special Branch officers to ask people to step aside to provide an ID or a current driving licence to prove their real identity. On this occasion, however, it seemed that no one, including me, was stopped and asked to produce an ID. I was confident that I would have passed any checks because the only identification I was carrying was my English driving licence in the name of Martin David Ashe, the new identity given to me on my relocation to the mainland. Indeed, I would never have thought of returning to Belfast to undertake the task I was now facing if I had not had the protection of a new name and new ID. It would have been suicidal.

I walked off the ferry, holding the little baby once again, and handed the child to a woman who was waiting to greet her friend. I happily handed over the baby and the woman, who had a Belfast accent, thanked me. I walked to a car rental office less than ten minutes from the terminal and drove away in a nearly new red Vauxhall Vectra. I told the girl in the office that I expected to be in Northern Ireland for a few days but did not know the exact date I would return the vehicle.

‘
That’s all right, sir,’ she replied. ‘Bring it back whenever. If you’re going to keep it more than a week though, will you phone to let us know?’

‘
Aye, of course I will,’ I replied, ‘but I can’t see me staying more than a week.’

I drove out of Belfast on the M2, past Antrim and on to the A6 heading towards Derry. I was driving towards a little farmhouse where I hoped and prayed an old friend of mine still lived. Peggy was a dear friend, well past 60 years of age, a woman who lived alone off the beaten track with only two cats and a few chickens for company. She was small, even petite. Her hair was grey, going on white, and her face was lined. But she had a ready smile and was the sweetest natured woman I had ever known. I had met her some years earlier, around 1990, when I was working for the SB and driving my IRA alleged ‘mates’ around Belfast trying to win their confidence. I had been driving from Derry back to Belfast when I saw Peggy standing at the side of the road by an ancient Ford Escort. She didn’t flag me down or make any sign but I guessed she was in trouble and needed help and so I drove past, stopped and walked back towards her.

‘
Are you okay?’ I asked.

‘
My car’s stopped,’ she said, ‘and I can’t get it going again.’

‘
What happened?’ I asked.

‘
I was driving along and suddenly the engine slowed and the car began chugging along until it finally cut out and I pulled into the side. I’ve tried starting it but nothing happens,’ she said. ‘Do you know anything about cars?’

‘
Aye, a little,’ I said. ‘I’ll take a look but I can’t promise.’

‘
Oh don’t put yourself out,’ she said. ‘You must be far too busy.’

‘
Don’t be silly,’ I replied. ‘I might get it to work enough for you to get to a garage.’

As I opened the bonnet to see what I could do she went on, ‘Are you sure you don’t mind? You’re very kind.’

I tried to start the engine but to no avail. After looking under the bonnet for a couple of minutes I decided to take off the distributor cap. Inside I discovered damp and presumed that was the problem. I told her it seemed the cap must have been cracked and damp had seeped in, and advised her that I might be able to get the car started but that she must immediately take the car to a garage and get it checked. In the meantime, I took a cloth from the car and dried the inside of the distributor cap, fixed it back on and turned over the engine. It sparked to life and I knew it would survive a short journey.

‘
That’s very kind of you,’ she said. ‘It’s not many people who stop to help old people nowadays.

‘
Will you be all right now?’ I asked, sensing that she still seemed a little uncertain whether my mechanical skills would survive for long.

‘
Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked.

‘
No, that’s all right,’ I said, ‘I’m fine.’

‘
Could you spare a few more minutes?’ she asked. ‘I only live a few miles down the road but it’s along a lane where no one goes. I wouldn’t want the car to stop down there.’

‘
Do you want me to follow?’ I asked.

‘
Well, if you’ve got the time,’ she said. ‘I would feel better. You know, just in case it stops again.’

‘
Aye, come on,’ I said. ‘You drive ahead and I’ll follow.’

We drove in convoy a few miles further down the road towards Derry and turned off left, driving down some country lanes until finally driving more than half a mile down a dirt track. At the bottom, almost hidden by trees and shrubs, was a small single-storey cottage which had seen better days. Outside in a small field sheltered by trees and broken down fences were a dozen or more chickens pecking around in the dirt, searching for food. As we parked and got out of the cars two black and white cats came up to the old woman, rubbing themselves around her legs as she made a fuss of them, chatting away to them as if they were human.

‘
Now, you come in and have a cup of tea or a drink of water,’ she said. ‘I’m not having you drive away with nothing after helping me.’

I sensed she was feeling lonely and somewhat vulnerable, having lost some confidence when her faithful old Escort had let her down. So I decided to stay for a short while and have a cup of tea.

‘
Do you live alone?’ I asked.

‘
Aye,’ she replied, ‘I’ve lived alone for more than ten years since my husband died. I live here with my cats and the chickens. It gives me something to keep me busy and my little cats keep me company. It can be very lonely out here.’

‘
Do you have any children or any other relatives who come and visit you?’ I asked, trying to make polite conversation.

‘
I used to.’ She said as she pottered about the kitchen merrily chatting away to her cats at the same time as making the tea, taking out her best china, milk and sugar and putting them on the kitchen table. ‘But they moved away and I hardly ever see them. There’s not enough room for them to stay here because my daughters have children of their own.’

She asked, ‘Do you often come this way then?’

‘
Sometimes,’ I said. ‘I’m all over the place.’

We sat down in the kitchen and had a cup of tea and a few biscuits which she kept in a multi-coloured cake tin which looked more than 20 years old.

‘
What’s your name?’ she asked.

‘
Marty,’ I replied. ‘I live in Belfast; born and bred there.’

‘
I can tell that from your accent,’ she said. ‘Everyone who lives in Belfast has such a strong accent, so different from country people like me.’

‘
Do you think so?’ I asked.

‘
Just listen to yourself,’ she said. ‘It’s the life you all lead in Belfast. It’s so fast and furious.’

‘
And what’s your name?’ I asked.

‘
Peggy, just call me Peggy,’ she said. Everyone does.

‘
How much room do you have here?’ I asked, a thought crossing my mind.

‘
Just two bedrooms, a living-room, this kitchen and a bathroom,’ she said. ‘Come with me and I’ll show you.’

This little house seemed in some need of repair and more than a lick of paint both inside and out. It seemed no redecoration could have taken place for nearly a generation and yet the rooms seemed clean and the furniture old but comfortable. I thought what a wonderful place this would make for me as a hideaway. Sometimes I had felt like escaping from the pressures of working for the SB while living my life among Republican sympathisers and mixing most days with leading IRA activists. Leading a double life can sometimes drive a man half-mad remembering never to make a mistake, ever. Sometimes, of course, I had made the odd remark which had been out of place, which could have betrayed my double life, but I had managed to cover up the mistake, often with a laugh, though I must confess they had been nervous laughs which I hoped and prayed had not been detected by the people I was with. And there had always been the worry of Angie, for she had no idea of the double life I was leading and that worried me. The last thing I wanted was for the IRA to discover my double life and that would mean there would be no one to look after and care for Angie and the baby she was expecting. But here, in this little tumble-down cottage I had felt instantly safe away from the hurly-burly of Belfast, the SB, the IRA and the madhouse of bombs and shootings and the impossible devious life I was leading, deceiving everyone but myself.