Dead Man Running: A True Story of a Secret Agent's Escape from the IRA and MI5 (8 page)

But after a few weeks I noticed that Angie still had that faraway look in her eyes and the worry returned to haunt me. It was nothing Angie said to me but I saw the fear and felt her slowly but irreparably drawing away from me. I would sometimes drive out alone to Kielder Water during those spring days and go for long walks trying to think of the right words to say to Angie that would persuade her to stay in England. But I always came up against the same difficulty and could find no way round it. I felt that I wasn’t safe in Newcastle and so I didn’t have the conviction to tell, or even try to tell, Angie that she should stay with me. I wanted her to stay more than anything else and I knew that I would miss the boys horribly if they went back. I wanted us to remain together as a family, and so did she, but she couldn’t take the risk; she simply couldn’t risk the lives of the boys. A few nights later Angie returned to the matter that we had both deliberately refused to speak of since the fire-bombing of the MetroCentre, a subject I hoped she would never refer to again. But that had been wishful thinking. ‘I want to go home, Marty,’ she said, speaking quietly as we sat in the sitting-room which we had furnished together. Angie was looking at the carpet as though not wanting to look me in the eyes. I was glad she did that because I was so close to tears. ‘I thought so,’ I told her. ‘I’ve felt it for weeks.’ I didn’t want to tell her that I knew for months past that she would one day give me the news I didn’t want to hear. In my innocence I hoped that by not raising the subject she might, just might, forget about the matter and come to accept that life was quite safe and quite happy in Newcastle, away from the violence of Belfast. But the bombing of the MetroCentre had been the final straw. Then she turned and looked at me and as I looked at her I fought back the tears that were choking in my throat. I felt so vulnerable and so helpless because I knew there was nothing I could say that might persuade Angie to change her mind.

‘
Can I say anything, Angie?’ I asked, feeling wretched and incapable.

‘
No, Marty,’ she said. ‘I’ve made my mind up.’

‘
But we haven’t discussed the issue,’ I said, now feeling somewhat desperate. ‘We must talk about it for Martin and Podraig’s sake.’

‘
There’s nothing to discuss, Marty, nothing left to say,’ she said, speaking quietly. ‘I’ve thought about it for months but I can’t stay here. I feel so vulnerable somehow.’

‘
But you’ve been here seven months and nothing’s happened,’ I said, trying to sound confident.

‘
But they haven’t caught the bombers who live in or around Newcastle,’ she said.

‘
But in Belfast there would be dozens of bombers and loads of gunmen, Angie, but you’ve never seen one.’

‘
I know, I know,’ said Angie, ‘but I can’t help the way I feel. I can’t stop worrying. Every night I finally fall asleep worrying about you and the boys. Marty, you know they’re after you and I just fear that one day they will get you.’

‘
There’s no way they’ll find me. You don’t have to worry about me,’ I said, not meaning to sound selfish but desperate to find any chink in her armour that might persuade her to stay.’ ‘Even when we’ve made love and you’ve gone to sleep,’ said Angie, ‘I lie awake worrying what might happen to you. I couldn’t face seeing you taken out by the IRA and I wouldn’t want the boys to witness such a thing. It would affect them for the rest of their lives. And that’s not fair either, Marty.’ There was silence for a minute and I found myself fidgeting, wanting to find a solution that would persuade Angie to stay. ‘But it doesn’t mean I don’t love you,’ she said. ‘You’ve been a wonderful father since we came over here and I do love you, Marty. You’re always so kind and generous.’ Suddenly I felt her voice break with emotion and I looked across and saw the tears dropping slowly from her eyes on to the carpet below. I didn’t know whether I should pretend not to notice or put my arms around her to comfort her. I decided to hold her, as tightly and closely as I could, to show her how much I loved her and how much she meant to me. But the closer I held her, and the more I kissed her hair, the more the tears flowed. Her body began to shake, gently but uncontrollably, and the tears that had been silent were now more anguished and clearly audible. I knew in that moment, if I hadn’t known before, that Angie truly loved me. In those minutes I knew that I would be capable of facing the fact that Angie was leaving me because she had shown she truly loved me. I hoped too that, once back in Belfast, she might realise she and the boys missed me so much they wanted to return to England. I didn’t want to contemplate anything else for that gave me the strength to stop my tears and dry my eyes. That night together was one of the most emotional I had ever experienced in my life. It was also one of the most traumatic.

The following day I asked Angie just one question. ‘Are you definitely going back?’

‘
Aye,’ she said, ‘I think it’s for the best. You know how much my family fear for the kids if I stay here. Marty, I’ve got no choice. I have to go.’

‘
I’ll arrange everything,’ I said, ‘leave it to me.’ I knew there was no point in prolonging the agony either for Angie or myself. I drove to Kielder Water later and walked slowly around the almost deserted place trying to gain inspiration, hoping that I could think of some magic formula which would convince Angie that it was safer for her and the boys if she stayed with me in Newcastle. But every argument I could think of ended in dust as I came to realise that I was the problem because I had made fateful decisions earlier in my life to try, in my small way, to bring some succour to the lives of the people of Belfast, thwarting the IRA’s attempts to kill and maim innocent people. The evening I drove Angie and the boys back to Scotland was the worst of my life. One hour out of Stranraer and with plenty of time to spare we stopped at a lay-by. The boys were fast asleep in the back seat. Angie became so emotional and asked me, for one last time, to make love to her. Silently we kissed and hugged each other and finally made love. Outside the night sky was filled with stars, the Milky Way clearly visible.

‘
I hate leaving you, Marty,’ Angie whispered.

‘
I know, I know,’ I said, stroking her hair and brushing away her tears.

For most of the time that three-hour journey was dispiriting, unnerving and miserable. Every mile I drove I kept hoping that Angie would change her mind, tell me to stop and turn round, tell me that she could not go ahead with her plan to return with the boys to Belfast. I wanted to beg and plead with her to change her mind but I knew that I had no right to try and persuade her to stay with me in England. And so, though I was feeling despondent and near to tears, I never tried to dissuade her from the path she had chosen. At Stranraer I had said that I would stay at the terminal as she walked with Martin and Podraig the two hundred yards to the ferry. Angie was weeping and wailing, the tears streaming down her face as she kissed me goodbye and turned to walk away, out of my life forever. Podraig was sleeping peacefully, his head on her shoulder, unaware of the trauma that was ripping apart our family. Martin, however, did not want to go, did not want to leave me, and Angie had to drag him along the quay by the hand as he kept looking back, screaming for me to go with them. I don’t know how I managed to control myself for I desperately wanted to run after them and bring them back to the terminal, to plead one last time for them to stay with me. Until that moment I had never realised how much I cared for the three of them and how much I wanted to protect them and look after them. I watched them walk out of sight and on to the ferry and in that moment I felt I had nothing to live for. That wretched feeling of desolation and loneliness never left me during the long, long journey back to Newcastle, driving through the dark, isolated countryside of southern Scotland lit only by the stars that seemed in that darkness to be so very bright. I could think of nothing to cheer myself; could think of nothing to help relive the feeling of despair or to stop the tears that erupted every few miles. And I cursed myself for the stupidity of youth that had led me into this terrible state. Little did I realise then that my troubles were only just beginning.

Chapter Five

Within a couple of weeks of Angie’s return to Belfast the dreaded knock at her front door came early one morning. The IRA demanded that she attend a meeting at Sinn Fein headquarters to answer questions. It was, of course, the same place – Connolly House – from where I was kidnapped by two of Gerry Adams’ henchmen, Paul ‘Chico’ Hamilton and James ‘Jim’ McCarthy. Though understandably nervous and frightened, Angie agreed and went along as ‘requested’. She knew that she had no option but to attend otherwise the next request would probably be far more forceful. She had no idea what might happen to her and she feared more for Martin and Podraig than for herself, for she had no idea what course the interview might take. Angie knew that she would be asked where I was living, my address and telephone number and full details of my car. The man who called at Angie’s front door after her return from England was Joseph Mulhern, a 23 year old IRA sympathiser who was well known in Catholic areas of West Belfast as a ruthless thug and bully, a member of an IRA punishment gang who delighted in terrorising, bullying and beating young Catholic teenagers, sometimes kneecapping them, at other times simply dragging them from their homes and beating them senseless with iron bars and baseball bats. Angie would have known that such an invitation from such a well-known thug could not be ignored. For four long hours Angie was questioned by ‘Jim’ McCarthy and another IRA interrogator before being allowed to return home. She had told them everything she knew of my whereabouts. At the end of their questioning the IRA interrogators told her to inform Sinn Fein headquarters if she should hear from me or, more importantly, if I should return to Belfast for a visit. Before I drove her and the boys to Stranraer for their return journey to Belfast I told Angie that if she was ever questioned by the IRA then she must tell them the truth, hiding nothing and answering whatever questions they asked to the best of her ability. I told her that within 24 hours of her arrival in Belfast I would have moved house, changed my car and changed my identity. In fact, I had no idea exactly where I would be 24 hours later but I had been telling her the truth for I had been told by the Special Branch that I would have to immediately sell both the house and the car, as well as change my mobile phone number. In fact, I stayed in my own home. For to my great surprise Alan, my SB officer who liaised with the Newcastle Special Branch, told me during a conversation in a pub car park only days before Angie left that, having discussed the matter with headquarters, they advised that I should not move house.

‘
Not move anywhere? Stay put?’ I asked, totally perplexed.

‘
Aye, that’s right,’ Alan said. ‘The SB say that they’ve had a word with the powers that be and they believe you’re in no danger; just stay where you are.’

‘
But the odds are that Angie will be questioned by the IRA and I’ve told her to tell the truth,’ I replied.

‘
Don’t let it worry you,’ Alan said. ‘Our SB boys know what’s what. You’re okay.’

‘
How can they possibly say that?’ I asked, amazed at their lack of concern for my safety.

‘
You’ll be okay, Marty,’ Alan said. ‘Don’t worry about a thing.’

The nonchalant attitude to my possible danger shown by the Special Branch surprised and, to a certain degree, alarmed me. The Special Branch knew that I had been moved to the mainland and given a new identity because, according to the IRA, they were determined to kill me. I had been judged guilty of treason to the Republican cause and, accordingly, my penalty was death. But this didn’t seem to have any effect on the SB hierarchy or their advisers in MI5. I couldn’t understand their laissez-faire attitude. Throughout my four years working for the British Intelligence in Belfast I had always been told to take no chances whatsoever, to leave nothing to chance and to always assume that the IRA were a thoroughly ruthless and intelligent organisation which should be treated with respect. It seemed the Special Branch and MI5 thought otherwise, happy to leave me to my own devices even though there was now every chance that the IRA knew of my current home address. Before she left Newcastle I had warned Angie that the IRA men who interviewed her would pull no chances during her interrogation but that she would probably be well treated if she told the truth. However, I also knew in my heart that the IRA would have been capable of taking any action towards her if they thought by doing so they could beat a path to my front door – and kill me. Many people were under the impression that the IRA never ill-treated or tortured Republican women but showed them respect. Nothing could be further from the truth. On most occasions, if IRA interrogators believe a woman is withholding information from them, they will treat her in the same way as a man who refuses to answer their questions. It is a rule that if a Republican man or woman is found to work for the RUC Special Branch or British Intelligence they will be interrogated, tortured and murdered after being branded a traitor to the cause. However, neither Angie or I knew that Joseph Mulhern was also working for the RUC as an informant, running the same risks as I had run during my years as an undercover agent. He tried to cover his work for the police by showing a brutal side to his nature, happy to take part in savage IRA beatings of young teenagers and anyone who dared to cross the path of the petty IRA volunteers. Ten months after summoning Angie to her cross-examination, Joe Mulhern was also called to attend a meeting where he would be questioned by the dreaded IRA Civil Administration Team. Joe Mulhern, whose staunch Republican family was well known throughout West Belfast, was taken for a ride – south of the border – and held prisoner for ten days. During that time he was tortured until he finally cracked, admitting working for the RUC since 1990. Ten days is a long time for a man to be held, even by the IRA’s standards, but immediately after his confession Joe was taken to a lonely spot near Castlederg, and shot. His carcass was found dressed in a khaki boiler suit, his hands tied in front of his body. He was wearing no shoes. He had been summarily executed in the IRA’s traditional way – shot twice in the back of the head. From the day I took Angie and the boys to Scotland to bid them farewell I kept a low profile, ignoring the advice of the Newcastle Special Branch and changing my home from month to month, determined to keep at least one step ahead of any possible IRA assassination squad. I also changed my car on a couple of occasions just in case the IRA had stepped up their efforts to trace and pursue me. I knew full well that if an IRA active service unit was despatched to England to ‘get’ me there would be no question of them kidnapping me. I knew they would simply be ordered to kill me whenever and wherever they found me. There was another reason I stayed out of the limelight. For some months following the fire-bombing of the Metro Centre there had been no further bomb attacks in the north-east. It seemed the IRA bombing team had left the area, presumably returning to Belfast. But, in December 1992, an IRA warning was issued saying that a bomb was to be placed on the Newcastle Metro system. In fact, no bombs were ever discovered but the warning caused chaos for many hours, closing down the system while bomb teams and police checked for possible devices. Four months later, on 23 April 1993, IRA terrorists blew up an Esso oil terminal at North Shields near Howdon on the north side of the River Tyne. Two months later another IRA explosion rocked Dunston, Gateshead, when a bomb blasted the Redheugh gas holder, ripping a huge hole in the side of one of the three gas tanks. Hundreds of residents – many pensioners – were evacuated from their homes. On the same day – Wednesday, 9 June 1993 – explosions rocked another Esso terminal in North Shields but fortunately no one was injured. It was part of the IRA’s strategy to bomb industrial targets on the mainland, hitting places which had never previously been attacked by IRA active service units. The campaign was intended to strike fear into the people who had never been touched by the Troubles in Northern Ireland. It also made me realise how close the IRA squad must have been to my Newcastle home. One year after Angie and the boys had returned to Belfast my troubles with the authorities began to mount. Looking back on those heady days I can now see everything falling into place but at that time I must have been remarkably naive, believing I had friends in the Special Branch both in Belfast and Northumbria who thought it was their duty to keep an eye on me and to protect me. I had no reason to think otherwise. For four years I had been cosseted and protected by my handlers, made to believe that I was a vital, all-important cog in the fight against terrorism and, in particular, against the IRA gunmen and bombers. Sometimes the praise I received made me believe I was a hero, particularly during the two years I was working inside the IRA intelligence wing, providing sensitive material which the Special Branch used to counter the men of violence terrorising Belfast. The fact that my work resulted in saving the lives of many innocent people made the risks I was taking each and every day seem absolutely worthwhile. Understandably, after Angie and the boys had left and I was leading a lonely existence in Newcastle, I would often recall my life as an agent in Northern Ireland. I recalled driving through Belfast, ferrying one or more top IRA activists around the city, and feeling a warm glow as I listened to their conversations, taking a mental note of their ‘hush hush’ plans to bomb and blast shops, offices, factories and RUC and Army bases, not caring a damn how many innocent people died in the process. Within an hour of hearing such information I would have found a way of passing on the intelligence to the SB, ensuring those people’s lives were saved. My handlers were always totally supportive, offering advice and encouragement. But I never needed any encouragement for I knew that the lives of wives and sweethearts, husbands and sons were being saved. As events unfurled throughout 1993, however, I was left with the strong impression that the Northumbrian authorities seemed hell-bent on getting me before a Magistrates Court. They knew that I was living in secret in Northumbria because I had been targeted by the IRA and my life had been threatened. They knew it was their duty to protect my identity to the best of their ability.