Dead Man Running: A True Story of a Secret Agent's Escape from the IRA and MI5 (21 page)

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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.”

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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’

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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.

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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?’

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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.’

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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.’

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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 determined 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.

Ever since I had made the decision to return to Belfast I had tried to push to the back of my mind the possibility that here was a chance to see my boys, Martin, then seven, and Podraig, then six. I also wanted to see Angie but I thought that was unfair even though I knew she would always be precious to me. I had no intention of letting Martin Or Podraig see me though I wanted more than anything to grab hold of them and pick them up and cuddle and kiss them and tell them that I was the Daddy they thought had been killed in a car crash. I knew I was torturing myself even trying to get a peek at them but I couldn’t stop myself. I wondered whether one of the underlying reasons I had returned to Belfast was the fact that I had a desperate need to see them again. Every time I was alone I would think about them, realising that I had sacrificed two wonderful boys for the sake of working for the fucking SB and I knew every time I thought of them how I had wasted my life. But here was a possibility, or at least a faint hope, that I would see them. I told myself that I must make no effort to talk to them or get too close because that would be grossly unfair to them. They had been told that their Daddy had died in a car accident, that I was no more, and to see them face to face would be nothing short of cruel and pernicious.

I also knew that I must make bloody sure that Angie didn’t see me. Angie had been given a raw deal, not knowing whether to throw in her lot with me or stay at home near her family and bring up the kids on her own. She had also been visited by the IRA on her return from England and questioned closely about every detail she knew about me. And she had been warned that if I should ever contact her or, more importantly, visit her in Belfast she was duty bound to tell the IRA immediately. To let Angie see me for even a split second would place her in jeopardy for if she did not tell the IRA she had seen me there was no doubt in her mind that she could face a beating. I had already been grossly unfair to Angie and I had no wish to cause her any more pain or trouble.

I knew they lived off the Springfield Road in the Falls, an area where I also knew many IRA members lived too. I didn’t really care about myself for I had a fast car and a getaway would be quite easy. I decided to make only two runs down the road, for to continue driving up and down in a new Vauxhall would only attract attention from neighbours. I had no idea, of course, whether they were at home, staying with her parents or away with friends. It was a ten to one chance that I would see the lads in any case, maybe a 50 to one chance, but I had to try it. I guessed this was my last chance ever to see them and as I drove down the first time the road was near deserted. At the end of the road I continued and parked a mile away, waiting for five minutes in the hope that on my next run they might, they just might, be out playing in the street or going off shopping somewhere with Angie. As I thought of them tears filled my eyes and I kept wiping them away. I had no control over my emotions and had never realised how powerful such affection for two little kids could be. I knew that at that moment I could walk up to their house, knock on the door and see my two darling lads. But, thank God, my mind told me not even to attempt such a move because that on simple, selfish act could have put their future and Angie’s life in danger.

I drove off again, returning down the road where they lived and saw three kids playing at the end. My heart leapt and I drove towards them, neglecting to look at the house where they lived, praying through my tears that two of the lads I could see were Martin and Podraig. But as I neared them I realised they were neither of my boys and I cursed myself for letting my wishes become too unrealistic. I drove by them and looked at them, wondering what I would have felt if either of them had been Martin or Podraig. And I knew I could have done absolutely nothing. I drove on, forcing myself away from them, telling myself that even if I had seen them I could have done absolutely nothing. And in my heart I felt like shit.

But I wasn’t finished yet. The emotions that had torn me apart that morning were still surging through my mind and my body and I decided to go and see my Ma. It had been more than six years since we had met and I felt an urge to see her once more. Though our relationship had always been distant I felt a strong respect for her. I knew she was a good woman and always had been. We had never been close, hugging or kissing each other, but I had always tried to take care of her though I know she often thought of me as a mad young tearaway who had been difficult to calm or control.

I drove to Moyard Parade at a normal speed, determined not to draw attention to myself and I parked immediately outside her garden gate, just 12 feet from her front door. I left the engine running and the driver’s door open in case we should be interrupted by some unwelcome bastard who happened to be nearby. I ran to the front door and banged the letter-box. I looked through the window in the front door and saw my Ma walking towards the door. She saw me and stopped dead in her tracks. I could see her face go pale before me. For three or four seconds she paused, not knowing what she should do, and then briskly walked to the door and flung it open.

‘
Martin,’ she shouted, before I had a chance to say a word, ‘what the fuck are you doing here? Are you fucking mad or what? Now get the hell out of here at once.’

I was just about to tell her that all I wanted to do was to see her and chat for a few minutes when her lifelong friend Alfie came into the hall still dressed in his boxer shorts. ‘Martin, you stupid cunt, what the fuck are you doing here? Do you want to get us stiffed or something? Just fuck off, will you, and don’t come back.’

I stood and roared with laughter at their response to my appearance at their front door. Within a split second all the emotion that had built up in my heart that morning had disappeared like dust in a wind but as Alfie was saying his piece I looked at my mother and, though her words had been violent and unrelenting, her eyes had betrayed real fear. ‘I’ll call you sometime,’ I shouted as I ran to the car, jumped inside and drove away. I realised we hadn’t even touched.

But those few seconds of harsh reality with my Ma had brought me to my senses. I was once again my old, confident self, not worrying about anything in particular and ready to enjoy life. And for some unknown reason in that moment I didn’t care a damn about the IRA, MI5, the RUC or the Special Branch. At the top of Moyard Parade, the street where I had played as a youngster, I stopped the car to take in the view of my old hunting grounds. For a few minutes I was mesmerised, knowing that this was the place where I really belonged and where people I could trust still lived. Of course I couldn’t and wouldn’t trust everyone but I knew I could put my faith in some of them, trusting them far more than the so-called trustworthy government agencies that had tried to kill me and were now hounding me at every turn.

As I looked down the hill and across the estate, my attention was drawn to a young woman in her twenties as she passed by my car and I realised that I had known her quite well some years ago. Almost involuntarily I wound down the window and called out to her. ‘Arlene,’ I shouted and she turned and looked at the car.

‘
Jesus, I know you; you’re Marty McGartland,’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’

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Just visiting,’ I replied.

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So you’re not stopping?’

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No, only a few hours, then I’m off,’ I replied. ‘Are you still going out with Bob?’ I knew Arlene had been going with him and they had had a baby together.

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Ah, Marty, that was finished years ago; you’re well out of touch.’

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Have you got a new boyfriend?’ I asked.

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I have that, yes,’ she replied. ‘And what about you? I hear you and Angir finished.’

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You know me, Arlene, I still keep myself to myself; there’s no woman who will take me after Angie. She was a diamond.’

‘
Well, Marty, it’s been nice speaking to you; take care of yourself now.’ And she walked off down the road.

It was only after she had gone that I recalled that the person whom she had named as her new boyfriend was a staunch Republican who had close connections with senior members of the IRA. ‘Fuck,’ I thought to myself, ‘I can’t hang around here for long. I’ve only been here minutes and already my past has caught up with me.’

I slammed the car into first gear and began to drive off down the street when I saw a really familiar face, a young man named Sean who used to work with me in the scrap metal business, one of my covers when working for the Branch. Sean was always a cheerful lad, a few years younger than me, who seemed to have a permanent smile on his face. I liked him. I slowed down and shouted, ‘Sean, Sean,’ and he looked round and recognised me instantly.

‘
Fuck, Marty, are you back here again?’ he asked.

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I’m not staying,’ I replied.