Dead Man Running: A True Story of a Secret Agent's Escape from the IRA and MI5 (13 page)

But all that had been in the past. They must have known that I needed police protection if I was to visit Belfast in broad daylight. Fortunately I had a number of friends who came forward to argue my case. I knew that my friends in the Special Branch would be unable to assist me in receiving police protection because of the constraints placed on them by their senior officers. One person who came forward was Pastor Jack McKee, a community worker in Belfast who had never met me but heard of my predicament. He was appalled that I should be left to hang out to dry by the RUC and immediately wrote to Secretary of State Patrick Mayhew and Sir Hugh Annesley, the former Chief Constable of the RUC, urging them to bring pressure to bear on the RUC to provide protection for me during the 12 hours I was expected to be in the Province. The lobbying worked to a degree that surprised me and set me wondering why I was suddenly treated like a VIP.

On Monday, 7 October 1996, I flew heavily disguised on a scheduled flight from Manchester to Belfast. I wore a new suit, spectacles, a beard and a wig as I had been advised by the RUC. When the aircraft came to a halt two armed Special Branch officers boarded the plane and told me to stay in my seat until everyone had disembarked. I wondered why they were taking such remarkable precautions. We eventually descended the steps to an unmarked RUC police car. Pastor Jack McKee sat beside me in the rear seat while the RUC driver and the other armed Special Branch man sat in the front of the vehicle. Immediately behind our car was another unmarked RUC car with two armed officers. We drove from the tarmac directly through Customs without stopping all the way to Lisburn. Police in cars, on motor-cycles and standing by the roadside lined the route, on occasions nodding and giving a surreptitious wave to our driver as we passed by. I kept wondering why the authorities were going to such lengths. Did they know something that I didn’t? And if so, what?

While we drove the eight-mile route to Lisburn County Court I chatted to the Branch officers and for most of the time we talked of the remarkable 18-month-long IRA ceasefire which had surprised many government officials and security service chiefs. Those who accompanied me explained they were keeping their fingers crossed, hoping the ceasefire would continue and maybe, maybe, become a permanent reality.

Once inside the court building I was taken immediately to a private room where two armed officers stood outside, acting as bodyguards. We arrived at the court building sometime after 11 a.m. but our case was not called until shortly before 4 p.m. I was not permitted to leave the safety of the room and sandwiches were brought in for lunch. Sitting with me was Pastor Jack McKee and my solicitor, Frank Roberts, from a Belfast law firm. I was giving evidence to the court, explaining to the judge ‘You must always remember that the IRA are a very professional organisation . . .’ When suddenly my evidence was interrupted by a massive explosion which rocked the building. The judge turned white and looked to the police officers but they turned on their heels and raced outside, ready to help in any rescue operation. Fifteen minutes later another huge explosion stunned everyone in the court, with people looking at each other, checking whether the court should be adjourned. These bombs announced in the most spectacular fashion the end of the IRA ceasefire, blasting the biggest army base in Northern Ireland. The bombing was not only the IRA’s signal for a full return to violence in the Province but was also organised to create the maximum political affect, exploding on the eve of the Conservative Party conference. The two bombs, the first estimated to be a large 500-kilo bomb, the second an estimated 250 kilos of explosives, had been driven through the main entrance of Thiepval Barracks in Lisburn, and were a huge embarrassment for the British Army. The bombs exploded within 15 minutes of each other, causing extensive damage and reminding the British Government, the RUC and all the security services that the IRA could successfully target even the most well-protected and vital military camps.

It was a callous act for two reasons; firstly because the second, smaller bomb was designed to explode at a site inside the barracks which they obviously knew would be used as an evacuation point. Such despicable planning fitted a long-established IRA pattern of maximising the carnage and confusion at an attack site. Secondly, no warning had been given by the IRA. As a result, 20 people were injured, five seriously, including an eight-year-old girl. The first blast was close to the administration building manned mainly by civilian staff; the second appeared to have been designed to catch casualties being taken to the medical centre which was badly damaged. A nearby hospital neurone unit which looks after severely disabled adults was also caught in the blast. Prime Minister John Major described the bombing as ‘wicked beyond belief’. The bombing was also seen as a direct attack on the Province’s Protestant community, for Lisburn is a staunchly Protestant town.

In court, the first blast brought my case to a quick resolution, the judge telling me that as the law regarding compensation was set in stone he had no authority to grant me compensation for the injuries I had received escaping from the IRA. However, he suggested that my solicitor should approach the authorities asking for a discretionary award to be made. By offering such advice it seemed to me that the judge believed that I should receive compensation for the injuries I had received and from which I was still suffering.

‘
Let’s go,’ said one of my Special Branch bodyguards only seconds after the case had finished. ‘Just do exactly as I tell you, okay?’

‘
Okay,’ I replied.

‘
Right, follow me,’ he said. ‘Keep right behind me.’

He called to a number of other SB officers who were outside the court, telling them we were ready to go. ‘We’re going out the back; that should be safe,’ he said as though talking to himself.

At the door we stopped and officers, all carrying hand-guns, moved outside checking if the way was clear. ‘Don’t move,’ I was told, ‘and keep back.’

I could see a number of RUC officers with hand-guns, army personnel with assault rifles and sub-machine guns, guarding the rear entrance to the County Court used by judges, court officials and police officers attending the court. Twenty yards away I could see two unmarked police cars and officers checking underneath them for fear of UCBT’s, one of the IRA’s favourite methods of assassination.

‘
Okay,’ someone shouted.

‘
Run,’ said my officer. ‘Follow me.’ And we took off, sprinting the 20 yards to the cars. Other officers took up positions, checking the entrance and the perimeter walls. No one was permitted to enter the car park.

As we clambered into the vehicles the RUC man told his driver, ‘Airport, and don’t stop for anyone. We’ve got to get him on the next flight out.’

The eight-mile drive to Aldergrove was one of the hairiest I have ever experienced. The entire area around the court and across Lisburn seemed chaotic and confused. Army personnel and police officers were struggling to control the traffic as well as hundreds of people who had spilled out into the streets following the two explosions. I saw scores of children who had just been let out of school running around not knowing where they should be going, or what they should be doing to escape the mayhem. There were mothers herding children away from the town centre, police officers carrying young children and babies.

I saw one young soldier, dressed in combat gear, body armour and a camouflage helmet, carrying two small children who must have both been under five. Slung over his shoulder was an assault rifle. He was following a young mother who was carrying a third child. She seemed distraught as she ran away from where she believed the bombs had exploded. As we sped past them I turned to check if they were all safe, worried in case they should have been running in the wrong direction, perhaps towards another IRA bomb. There was a look of fear in the young mother’s eyes and I wondered if all this terror had taken place because I had returned to the Province.

‘
Were they after me?’ I asked my RUC bodyguard, feeling guilty and full of regrets that I might have been responsible for the bombs which I prayed had injured or killed no one but which I feared may well have done so.

‘
I don’t know,’ he replied, ‘but we do know they’re after you. Did anyone know you were coming over here today?’

‘
Not as far as I know,’ I said, ‘I told no one. In any case I don’t think I’m that important. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.’

‘
Let’s hope so,’ he replied.

I will never forget that drive from Lisburn. The roads around the town were choked with cars, all going in different directions but causing snarl-ups and long lines of vehicles at a standstill.

‘
Take no notice,’ my RUC officer told the driver. ‘Switch on the sirens and the lights and make sure we keep moving. We don’t want to be caught in a road block or at a standstill because then we would be sitting ducks. If the road ahead is blocked then use the footpaths.’

And we did. We would be driving on the roads and the footpaths, bouncing up and down kerbs and pavements and, when the road cleared, driving at speeds in excess of 70 miles an hour. Throughout the trip the back-up unmarked police car was driving only ten feet behind us, manned by four armed police officers. They were taking no chances. There were about eight police and army road blocks along the way, all heavily guarded with the police and army personnel in full body armour and all armed, most with assault rifles and Heckler and Koch sub-machine- guns. We were automatically waved through while all other vehicles were being stopped and many searched, details of the occupants noted and many drivers searched and passengers checked and asked to explain the reason for their journey. I had been struck at how impressive and speedy the army and police reaction had been to the explosions. It seemed that within minutes police and army personnel had flooded the centre of Lisburn and road blocks had been set up. But I knew that the authorities would have been angry, perplexed and extremely concerned that the IRA had managed to infiltrate the British Army’s most important location in Northern Ireland and blow the place to bits. I also believed that the blasts were a dramatic declaration by the IRA that the ceasefire was at an end and that they were intent on bringing their campaign of violence back to Northern Ireland.

Back in Newcastle the following day I read that one soldier from Newcastle had been seriously injured in the bomb blasts and subsequently died. It seemed poignant and frightening that I should have been in Lisburn that day and that the poor man who died, carrying out his duty, should have come from Newcastle. But I would return to Northern Ireland in my quest for the truth and my next visit would prove even more dangerous for I would be on my own with no protection whatsoever.

Chapter Seven

Back home all seemed so peaceful and life so ordinary, but it would not stay that way for long, for my battles with the various authorities were proving difficult and complex. My court case victory in May 1997 did not go down well with the powers that be and I felt under an increasing threat. Following my court victory I did not know where to turn, or whom to turn to, for I felt exposed and vulnerable.

While MPs, my solicitors and other kindly Tynesiders took up my case, demanding I be given a new identity and new accommodation somewhere else in Britain, I decided that the safest course for me to take was to disappear. I talked to my former SB friends in Belfast and they advised me to get as far away as possible from Newcastle.

‘
If you stay there, Marty, you’ll be a sitting duck,’ said one. ‘Take our advice and get the fuck out of it. Remember the IRA got hold of you once and you managed to escape, next time you might not be so lucky.’

‘
Do you think I’m that much at risk?’ I asked.

‘
Think?’ he said, raising his voice. ‘I
know
you’re at risk. Now get the hell out of Newcastle till this thing’s blown over.’

‘
Okay, I will,’ I replied. ‘Thanks for the advice.’

‘
And whatever you do, don’t sleep at your own home for the next few weeks,’ my former handler went on. ‘Don’t take the risk even for one night. You remember the way the IRA gunmen and bombers keep one step ahead of us all the time. They never sleep in their own beds more than two nights a week. Now take the hint and get the fuck out of there. If you’re in any trouble you can always call. And one more thing.’

‘
What’s that?’ I asked.

‘
Keep your head down at all times and keep a low profile, you never know who might be after you.’

‘
Are you being serious?’ I asked, feeling somewhat worried.

‘
I’m just being cautious,’ he replied. ‘If you keep your wits about you, you’ll have nothing to worry about. Now fuck off.’

‘
Cheers,’ I replied. But as I left the phone box and walked off into the summer rain I realised I was totally on my own and I didn’t like it one jot. During the years I had been working for the Branch I had always had a feeling of great security; that I was a member of a team who would always come to the rescue if ever I was in deep shit. Now, all that had changed. Despite the fact I was living in Northumberland, a place without any of the dangers of Northern Ireland, I felt somehow vulnerable. I was uncomfortable, unsure of myself and it worried me. As I walked to my car and started the engine I had a tremendous urge to drive to Stranraer, take the ferry to Ireland and drive home to Angie and the boys. I felt downhearted and lonely and miserable and I yearned for my family. I wanted nothing more in the world than to go back home to Belfast and walk indoors to a hot cup of tea and the happy smiling faces of Angie and the kids. I knew, however, it was silly and impossible and I had to bite my lip to stop the tears and the emotion taking over.