The blue pick-up with its open flatbed turned the corner of the street that Jack was parked in and headed towards his car. As it drew alongside, it stopped, a tarpaulin was thrown back and four men stood up in the back holding M16s. They opened fire, blasting through the roof and front windscreen at point-blank range. Several operatives were close enough to hear the firing streets away. Jack was hit thirty-six times and died instantly. The pick-up sped away and as usual the weapons were quickly handed over to couriers who hid them. The weapons were located, but the killers got away.
Days later, we learned from a tout why the IRA had changed targets so abruptly. A PIRA member had seen Jack arrive in his car, park up on the street and simply sit there. Suspicious of any new face in the neighbourhood, the PIRA member moved to where he could get a closer look. He watched as Jack fiddled with something in his ear – the one-size-fits-all radio ear-pieces never did quite fit inside Jack’s large ears. The PIRA member walked past Jack’s car to get a closer look and saw Jack flicking through a map book of the city. The Dets made their own map books by cutting up maps into pages, marking them with coded grids and coding obvious landmarks, and placing them into the plastic sleeves of ordinary folders. Jack’s most damning mistake came when, having dropped his ear-piece on the floor, he switched on the internal car speaker to his radio to hear what was going on. The speaker is intended for emergency use only. The radio must have been set too loud and before Jack could turn it down the PIRA member heard the English voices and the slick radio procedure of the other operatives. This confirmed that Jack was either a cop or, better still, a highly prized undercover man. The PIRA member quickly reported what he saw to his commander. The target was verified and the order went out to the ASU in the pick-up to change direction. An undercover man was a much greater scalp than any police officer.
Journalists received the official Army report of a soldier’s death in Londonderry giving Jack’s name but not his confidential duties. After investigating the circumstances of his death, including details such as that he was in an unmarked car and in civilian clothing, the newspapers assumed he was in the SAS and reported that much along with his full name, where his family lived and where he was to be buried. For months after, Jack’s family received hate mail from IRA sympathisers, and his grave was defiled.
My own first operation was a set-up, for me that is, and by my own people.
A year or so before I arrived at the Det an operation had been activated to sow the first seeds of a ‘technical attack’ against an up-and-coming IRA intelligence officer (IO). The new IO was visited by IRA security personnel whose job it was to advise him regarding British undercover procedures and how to guard against them. One of the best deterrents, he was advised, was a big dog, and the meaner the better. To ensure its viciousness, he was advised to rear it himself from a puppy and never be friendly with it or allow anyone else to be. Also, while it was growing up, to have someone climb over his security fence now and then and beat it. This would ensure the dog was exceptionally aggressive towards anyone trying to enter the property.
The IRA man bought himself a Rottweiler puppy and immediately started treating it badly. About the time that he bought the puppy, the Det began its long-term operation against him, starting with a preliminary late-night recce of his property.
When the team first encountered the puppy crouched in a filthy corner of the yard, they knew from experience it would grow to become a problem on future visits. If they took the puppy away it would simply be replaced, and if they did anything to incapacitate it, such as dose it with drugs, suspicion would be aroused. Therefore it was decided that as the puppy was growing up, a couple of operatives would travel at least once a week to the property at night, pick the lock to the gate and make friends with the dog by feeding it luscious chunks of meat and petting it. Most operatives were encouraged to take part in this task so that the dog would get to know them all.
As the dog grew up it came to look forward to the only care and attention it ever received. Sometimes the operatives would take it out of its ugly surroundings to a nearby field where they would play with it for hours. One night, when they saw it had been severely beaten, they took care of its wounds to protect it against infection and treated it every night until it was out of danger.
Many operatives had dogs in the Det – the place sometimes resembled a zoo more than an intelligence detachment. Some were characters. One of the dogs had a bizarre ongoing sexual relationship with an armchair in the television room.
It all started one evening when the dog, a cocker spaniel, came in to have a seat while we were watching TV. It was a lazy hound and did everything at a slow, easy pace. This particular evening, when it raised one of its hind legs to climb on the armchair, it caught its penis between the frame and the main cushion. As it pushed off with its hind legs, its penis was jammed in further but the sensation was obviously a pleasant one and so it eased back and repeated the push. It did this repeatedly, getting faster, fully screwing the armchair until it stopped. We knew it was achieving orgasm because after several months an investigation revealed that the cushion was solidly adhered to the frame. It became a daily ritual for the dog, one that we eventually grew to ignore. Since the dog always used the same seat, this rancid, disgusting piece of furniture was avoided by the operatives. Visitors were never informed and as it was at the front of the room many naturally chose to sit in it. In that event the dog waited patiently in front of the guest until the seat was vacated.
North Det had an unusual and highly popular pet of their own. As they were based close to open sheep-grazing land, it was their fancy to barbecue one now and then, during celebrations or farewell parties. Of course they did not buy them, and a stretch of lonely road through the mountains called the Glenshane Pass was the best area to poach. It was a bleak and desolate place that reminded me of Dartmoor whenever I drove across it, day or night. It was damp and misty more often than not and the traffic was always light. But acquiring a sheep exactly when it was needed was always hit and miss. It was only possible to catch one if it got itself trapped behind the fence that ran along part of the road, otherwise they would gather miles away up on the moor. The operatives would never shoot the sheep, that was far too overt. They had to corner one and grab it, then wrestle it into the trunk of a car, and smartly too, in case a farmer happened by. After several failures at getting a sheep in time for a particular barbecue, it was decided to capture one the very next time the opportunity presented itself and keep it in the camp, fattening it up until it was needed.
It wasn’t long before a spry young sheep was caught and brought back and released into the compound. Within a few days, with ample food and petting, it settled in to its new friends and surroundings, including the dogs. The sheep was cordial, well-mannered and a good listener to troubled operatives who’d had one too many, but was appreciated mainly because it developed a taste for beer, which ultimately broke the barrier to full and complete acceptance. It soon took part in all camp activities and piss-ups, along with the dogs, and was even allowed to attend the occasional operational briefing – an honour bestowed only on animals that could keep quiet for long periods and not fidget. On one particular boozy night, it was announced that the sheep was to be made an honorary operative, given the non-substantial rank of lance corporal (the stripe was shaved and coloured into its front legs) and a
nom de guerre
of Harry, even though Harry was a she. (There were no women in 14 Int North at that time, so Harry was its first female operative.)
The day before the next official barbecue, the chef, who was not privy to the goings-on of the operatives, came looking for Harry to prepare her for her leading role in the feast. He found Harry sharing a couple of pints and a packet of crisps with some operatives who’d been on the ground all the previous night. The chef walked in wearing his apron and a leather belt from which hung his butcher’s tools and explained he’d come to take the sheep away. The lads were a little slow in understanding quite where the chef wanted to take Harry, who still had a couple of pints in the wood. When the penny dropped, the chef was lucky to get out of the bar with his own life. That evening one of the operatives was back up on the pass looking for another sheep for the barbecue. Harry was still there when I left and to my knowledge lived a full life in the Det and died of natural causes many years later.
The Rottweiler, on the other hand, was confused when the occasional visitor arrived, not to pet or feed it, but to beat it senseless. It soon learned to tell the difference and was indeed mean and vicious to everyone except its pals in the Det. By the time I arrived the dog was fully grown. At the end of my orientation phase a recce of the IRA intelligence officer’s home was planned. I was brought in on the briefing, but was not informed of the relationship between the Det and the dog. I was simply told it was a vicious man-eater that hated every living thing. My orders were to be the first man in, let the dog out and wrestle it to the ground and hold it down until the team had completed their task. I thought this was a bit much and asked why we couldn’t just drug it. I was told this might cause suspicion. The Det commander explained that other operatives had done what I had been asked to do in the past and that he had every confidence I was up to the task. If that was the case, I thought, so be it. The dog was obviously not as vicious as I had imagined.
The storeman gave me a heavy padded wrangler’s arm and instructions on how to use it against a savage dog – this training had not been covered on the course. For practice I was shown one of the Det dogs, a fifty-pound boxer, a playful thing and the only one willing to play the stupid game of pulling on the padded arm and growling. By the time we left that evening I was quite blasé about the whole thing.
We arrived at the house a few hours before dawn. I was to lure the dog around to the side of the compound while the lock-picker did his work on the gate. I set off and the dog slowly walked up to me from the other side of the fence, looked me straight in the eye and started to growl gently.
‘Fuck me,’ I said to myself. It must have weighed 150 pounds easily. Its head was as big as a pumpkin and great globs of mucous and saliva hung from its huge, fleshy mouth. The lock-picker signalled he was done and moved back into the shadows. I walked around to the gate. The dog followed me inside the fence. The others stayed out of sight. As I prepared to open the gate I stopped myself. This was utterly insane. No amount of padding was going to save me from that thing. A net and trident was what I needed. I gripped the gate and planted my legs ready for the attack. As I flung it open and stepped back I braced myself to the take the charge.
At that moment, one of the operatives called out, ‘Here boy. Come on, Paddy. Scran time. There’s a good boy.’
The dog’s ears and eyebrows instantly pricked up as it recognised the voice and it ran right past me, wagging its rump excitedly, and started to play and rough-house with the others.
Bastards!
Within a few weeks of the girls arriving in Belfast one of them, Helen, was selected for their first operation, which was to take place inside a church. Her task was to witness a meeting between two members of PIRA and act as a trigger so that operatives outside could follow the targets away. A trigger allows the other operatives to remain out of sight until needed. As it was inside a church it was regarded as a ‘safe’ operation; however, a couple of operatives stayed close by just in case. The Det was not prepared to take any risks with the women operatives until they had proven themselves. The reverberations caused by the loss of a female operative, especially on her first operation, would be damaging to the organisation.
While Helen waited in a car with an operative, the targets were ‘housed’ inside the church. The Det commander in the operations room the other side of the city gave the ‘go’. Helen was armed with a pistol, wore the standard communications system under her clothes, and was thoroughly briefed for every eventuality. She seemed OK when she left the car – a little nervous, but workable. She carried out a radio check as she mounted the steps and entered the church.
Helen confirmed the meet over her radio and everyone waited.
Half an hour later the church started to empty. The operatives outside stood by for Helen’s trigger. But it never came. The last of the congregation left the church. Helen was not amongst them. Something was wrong. Helen was given a radio check but she did not respond. Concern rocketed. The Det commander ordered a team to move in.
Two operatives hurried into the church and saw the back of Helen, sitting alone in a pew, still as a statue. One of them walked up to her and saw she was alive. Her hands and legs were shaking. She was uninjured. He touched her gently and whispered her name. She nodded, but couldn’t talk. She was catatonic. He talked her into letting him help her to her feet. Her jeans were soaked where she’d had an uncontrollable bladder movement. He guided her down the aisle and out of the entrance.
Nothing had happened inside the church. No one had suspected her or communicated with her. All the exercises and simulations during selection had not prepared her mentally for the real thing. That was Helen’s first and last operation. She fully recovered within a few days and served out her term with the Det, but doing administrative work. The lesson learned that day was that where London might get away with playing the numbers game with men, they were going to have to reconsider the selection process for women.
Since that first women’s selection course, several notable female operatives have emerged, though few have been permitted to go out alone, ‘one up’, if for no other reason than a woman alone in a car attracts attention, especially at night. This was demonstrated recently by the shooting of an RUC member who gave chase to what he thought was a suspicious female alone in a car at night. It all got out of hand when she mistook the men, who were in plain clothes and following her in their unmarked car, for IRA. The woman, an inexperienced operator, crashed during the high-speed pursuit and as the plain-clothes officer ran to her she shot him through the window. He died.