Dead Man Running: A True Story of a Secret Agent's Escape from the IRA and MI5 (3 page)

‘
Thanks,’ I said.

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But I didn’t come over here to tell you that,’ he went on. ‘I came to tell you what wasn’t in the book.’

‘
What do you mean?’

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The ending,’ he went on. ‘It wasn’t like that, wasn’t like that at all.’

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Like what?’

He breather in deeply and looked at the ground as he explained what he was trying to say. ‘It wasn’t like you wrote in the book. You thought that the IRA kidnapped you, that two of their well-known henchmen somehow took you from underneath the very noses of the Special Branch, spirited you out of Sinn Fein headquarters, somehow managed to drive you undetected and unnoticed the mile or so to Twinbrook, walk you into a block of flats and hold you prisoner for most of the day.’

‘
That’s right,’ I said. ‘That’s exactly what happened.’

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Well,’ he said, pausing and peering into my eyes, a look of anxiety across his face. ‘It wasn’t like that, Marty, it was nothing like that at all. What I’m about to tell you might shock you but I think you should know what happened. I’ve talked it over with the others and they think we owe it to you to tell you the truth, so that you won’t be taken unawares if anyone tries to have a go at you. It’s only fair that you should know what the fuck is going on.’

‘
You’ve lost me,’ I said. ‘But go on.’

‘
Before I continue, however, I want to tell you that no senior officers know I’m over here talking to you. And I wouldn’t have come over if I hadn’t read your book. One or two people who care for you, who know you risked your life time and again for the Branch, know I’m here but no one of authority knows that. And certainly no one in MI5 or the RUC.’

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Why wouldn’t you tell them?’ I asked in my innocence, not knowing what the hell he was talking about.

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Because if they knew I had planned to visit you, to tell you the truth of what happened, they would have found a way of stopping me. I don’t know what they would have done but I do know they would have found a way of preventing me seeing you.’

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But why?’ I asked, now eager to know what the hell Mike was talking about.

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Because, Marty, it was a set-up,’ Mike explained, speaking slowly. ‘You were set up, deliberately set up by the intelligence services because they wanted you out of the way. You weren’t meant to survive the kidnapping.’

‘
What!’ I said in disbelief. ‘What the fuck are you telling me?’

I felt myself go pale and began to shake, not knowing how to answer, not knowing what the hell to say to such a suggestion. I could not believe for one moment that my pals Felix and Mo, my handlers who had taken such care of me over four years, could possibly have arranged to have me kidnapped and killed. My mind raced back to that day in August 1991 and I thought through the whole journey from the moment I drove away from my home in West Belfast to make the fateful trip to the Sinn Fein headquarters in Andersonstown. Now I wanted to know more.

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How do you know this?’ I asked, my voice a mixture of anguish and bitterness, as I thought of the trust in which I held Felix and Mo. ‘It can’t be true, it can’t,’ I said, feeling a sense of emptiness, of anxiety.

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Listen,’ said Mike, ‘calm down and let me explain. You knew from the moment you left your home in that green Nissan that the SB were following you, keeping an eye on you. You spoke to Felix when you stopped for a couple of minutes and phoned Castlereagh asking if there had been a change of plan; making sure that SB wanted you to go ahead with the meeting with Podraig Wilson at Sinn Fein headquarters. And remember, Felix joked with you, describing your driving that day, dodging here and there in case you were being followed by the IRA. You carried out the plan as instructed, leaving your car some distance from Connolly House, a place kept under regular surveillance by various branches of the RUC. Then you walked out of Sinn Fein headquarters in broad daylight in the custody of two well-known IRA men. You walked to their car nearby and were driven away to Twinbrook, right?’

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Right,’ I said.

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But just think for one minute,’ Mike went on. ‘Doesn’t it strike you as extraordinary that no SB man, no surveillance unit, not even E4A, the RUC surveillance unit, followed you? No one intervened, no one moved a muscle to stop the kidnapping. Marty, you weren’t some two-bit tout [informer] but one of the most successful agents the Branch had in Northern Ireland at that time. Your book was right. You saved countless lives, probably far more than the 50 you claimed. You were a vital cog in the intelligence set-up for more than four years, taking the most extraordinary risks but, nevertheless, coming up with great material which helped trap IRA men and save people’s lives. You were someone the Branch would have done all in their power to protect. But they didn’t. The SB allowed two well-known IRA men to loft you, drive you away and hold you prisoner for a day. You must have known how east it would have been for the SB, using either a vehicle or a chopper, to track that car. They do it every day. But on this occasion they did nothing.’

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But why? Why did they not raise a finger to follow me?’ I was interjected, now desperate to hear more, though my heart was pounding at everything Mike was telling me.

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Yes,’ he replied, ‘that’s why I’m here. I thought you should know the truth. The British Intelligence Services, the guys who really control the Government’s anti-terrorist machine in Northern Ireland, were supposedly protecting someone else, a very senior intelligence agent who had managed to infiltrate the highest echelons of the IRA. They were fearful his identity might have been accidentally revealed if you were ever caught at some future date. They maintained they couldn’t take that risk. The Joint Irish Section – you know, the intelligence chiefs – believed that the IRA were on your trail, that you had become too much of a security risk and so the decision was taken to sacrifice you.’

I sat there on the rough, wooden bench facing the church with the cold wind whipping at my jacket, and suddenly I felt very lonely and helpless. I put my head in my hands and stared at the patch of bare earth beneath me. I wondered what the hell I was hearing. I wanted to cry, to scream, to stamp around and swear and yell at what had happened, realising for the first time in my life that those people whom I counted as my friends had simply used me for their own ends and were then prepared to cast me aside as someone of no consequence. It was worse than that; it wasn’t that they thought I was no further use to them but that during those four years of working together I had meant nothing to them. I couldn’t believe that the camaraderie they showed had all been a sham; I couldn’t believe that the relationship we had enjoyed, the jokes we had share, were nothing more than a ruse, an affectation, a deception to encourage me to keep risking my neck. And for what? For their glorification, their next pay rise, their next rung up the fucking RUC ladder. Maybe they hadn’t known of the plot to have me kidnapped; maybe they too had been kept in the dark about the evil machinations going on at a higher level in the Government’s intelligence set-up. I took out a handkerchief and blew my nose hard, trying to rid myself of the painful thoughts racing through my mind.

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But you don’t know whether Felix and Mo were responsible for the kidnapping?’ I asked tentatively, not knowing if I wanted to hear Mike’s answer or not.

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I’m sure they weren’t responsible,’ replied Mike. ‘In fact I’m sure they had no knowledge that you had been set up. We at the SB believe that your kidnapping was arranged by the Joint Irish Section, probably in collusion with the most senior SB officers in Northern Ireland. They would sacrifice their own grandmothers in their fight against terrorism.

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So Felix and Mo may well not have known about it?’ I asked with some enthusiasm, desperately hoping that they knew nothing of the betrayal, giving me something to hold on to, something to believe in.

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That’s true,’ Mike replied. ‘From the way they behaved afterwards I am convinced they knew nothing of the plot to have you kidnapped and murdered.’

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So why did you tell me?’ I asked.

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For two reasons. Firstly, because I thought you should know. And secondly, to put you on your guard, to make you aware that the IRA might not be the only people looking for you. To make sure you keep eyes in the back of your head and trust no one. Take it from me, Marty, in this rotten game you can’t trust a soul, not even those that are meant to be protecting you.’

‘
Do you really mean that MI5 would have sold me down the river?’

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Without a doubt,’ he replied, not waiting a second to confirm my worst fears. ‘They’ve done it before and they’ve done it since. And I’m sure they will do it again. This is a rotten, dirty game, Marty, and you were right at the centre of it. We suspect that MI5 may even have arranged your kidnapping directly with the IRA.’

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What!’ I said, disbelief in my voice. ‘I don’t believe you. That’s impossible. That’s fucking treachery.’

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I know it is. I agree with you,’ replied Mike, ‘but that’s the way they work. MI5 have their contacts with the IRA at the highest level and they always have had. We suspect they gave the IRA the wink, told them where to arrange a meet and then told your SB handlers to make sure you attended that meeting at Sinn Fein headquarters.’

‘
But I thought the SB were watching over me,’ I protested. ‘Felix told me that they would make sure I was kept under constant surveillance because they feared I might be kidnapped by the IRA. The last words Felix told me were to take care but not to worry because he was keeping me under constant surveillance.’

‘
They were,’ said Mike. ‘But as soon as you parked your car and walked into Connolly House the SB were called off the operation by the TCG who took over the responsibility. Remember, Marty, the Tasking Co-ordination Group comprised members of MI5, the SAS and military intelligence. Remember that the SB have to take their orders directly from JIS and the TCG, and the Special Branch were simply pulled off the case, leaving you to fend for yourself .’

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But that’s wicked, despicable,’ I said, stumbling over my words in my frustration and anger. ‘That’s betrayal; in fact it’s worse than that, Mike. Basically, they were arranging my kidnapping, knowing I would be murdered. In essence those officers in JIS were guilty of conspiracy to murder. What shits, what cunts. Are you sure, really certain that everything you’re telling me is true? I find it hard to believe that MI5 officers would treat people like that.’

‘
Well, they can and they do,’ said Mike. ‘There have been others too, Marty, touts, informers and agents who have worked for the Brits during the Troubles and then, when JIS believe they might have passed their sell-by date, they just arrange a convenient kidnapping or so-called accidental death. You must remember that MI5 officers and senior IRA men do talk to each other. These things are arranged on both sides. Let me ask you a question; when did you last hear of a senior IRA man or an MI5 officer being murdered? Not for years. And I’ll tell you why. Because sometimes they find it necessary to talk to the IRA.’

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Really?’ I said. ‘Do you mean they conspire together?’

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Sometimes, yes, of course, but it’s not really a conspiracy,’ said Mike. ‘Officially, of course, it is always denied but it certainly goes on.’

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Do you know, Mike,’ I said, ‘I feel sick, physically sick, at all you’ve told me. I just didn’t believe things like that went on.’

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Marty,’ Mike said, ‘if you hadn’t had the courage to leap out of that window I don’t think you would have been tortured. I think the IRA would have just taken you away somewhere and shot you in the back of the head, probably leaving your body in West Belfast, so that some Catholics would have found you. Then the IRA would have issued a statement saying that you had been a traitor, working for the RUC. They would have painted your name as black as possible so even your own mother would have been ashamed to visit the shops or walk out on the streets for fear of what neighbours and friends would say to her.’

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That’s horrible,’ I said. ‘I gave my all for the fuckers. I risked my neck to save other people’s lives and they repaid me by arranging for me to be kidnapped by the IRA. That’s fucking great isn’t it?’

‘
Come on,’ said Mike, ‘let’s go and have a cup of tea.’

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Aye,’ I said, getting up from the hard wooden bench as though I had the weight of the world on my shoulders. ‘I feel deflated, empty,’ I said. ‘Now everything’s gone out of my life. I thought I had done a good job, I felt that my work in Belfast had been worthwhile, that I had contributed something to Northern Ireland. Now it seems the powers that be thought I was nothing but a piece of shit. They had their pound of flesh from me and nothing else mattered to them. They treated me like a bit of scum. God, it makes me angry.’