Dead Man Running: A True Story of a Secret Agent's Escape from the IRA and MI5 (26 page)

I drove back to the car rental depot as calmly as possible, checking my rear-view mirror every other second. As I drove I put on the baseball cap that I carried in the car and took off my bomber jacket so that anyone driving past would see a man in a sweatshirt and cap. It may not have worked but, on the other hand, I knew it might put off anyone searching for me. I had to accept that Billy would have swung round his taxi and done his damnedest to trace me and I would take no chances. I also wondered if he had been in radio contact with his base. If he had, and had raised the alarm of my return to Belfast, I knew I could really be in the shit.

When I arrived at the garage I parked the car out of harm’s way in the middle of a line of other hire vehicles, some of them Vauxhall Vectras. I walked into the office, keeping a wary eye open for Billy and his taxi but throughout the ten minutes or so I was in there I saw no taxis whatsoever in the area. The necessity was to get out of the city, out of Northern Ireland and back to the mainland as quickly as possible. I knew it could be risky waiting around the Belfast ferry terminal for it would have been so easy for the IRA to send a few men to search the place. I decided it would be safer to make my way to Larne and take the ferry from there. I made my way on foot through the back streets the few hundred yards to the Belfast City Hall from where the buses depart. I had to wait around for half an hour or so before the next bus left for Larne. I stood behind the shelters, not wanting to sit on the bus waiting because I knew I would feel exposed. As more people gathered I stood amongst them, trying to make myself inconspicuous.

The journey to Larne was long and tedious and seemed to go on for hours. I bought a copy of the
Belfast Telegraph
and spent most of the journey reading, concealing my face from anyone who could be checking me out. I must have read the paper from cover to cover during the hour-long express coach service. For the final ten minutes or so I worried about what I would do once I reached the terminal, for I realised that the Larne terminal was always stuffed with SB officers checking everyone coming and going. There was also the small matter of the CCTV cameras which were constantly checked by the RUC looking out for suspected terrorists. I also had to take into account that the SB now knew that I was back home in Belfast and would be asking questions. I judged that if Mike had heard I was back in Northern Ireland then nearly every other SB man in Belfast would have been made aware of my arrival.

More importantly, although I believed my arrival in Belfast would not trigger any major interest in me from the RUC or the Branch, I had to assume that ‘Box’ and their surveillance units might still have a residual interest in me which I would ignore at my peril. I wanted to believe what Mike had told me, that it was very unlikely that ‘Box’ was still interested in taking action against me but I couldn’t take that risk. As far as I was concerned MI5 were nearly as much of a danger to me as the IRA. And the thought made me chuckle. What I did know from conversations that I had held with my SB handlers during the years was that MI5 was a ruthless organisation which would stop at nothing, prepared to go to any lengths if they believed the so-called ‘national security’ was at stake. It had also been explained to me that on many occasions what MI5 deemed the ‘national security’ was more often than not an excuse to carry out whatever devious activities they wished, including taking the law into their own hands.

‘
Never trust “Box” was the maxim that the Special Branch in Belfast lived by, for they believed MI5 officers worked to a different agenda from any of the other intelligence and security services in the fight against the IRA and the Protestant paramilitaries.

‘ “
Box” is a law unto itself,’ I was told by more than one SB handler in Belfast. ‘They are happy to ride roughshod over anyone, including those they are meant to be working with. They treat us as second-class citizens to be ignored until we are wanted to carry out some task or other that they don’t want to do. We never trust them further than we can throw them because they’re so secretive. We are meant to be working together combating terrorist activities and yet they keep everything to themselves, never sharing information with us which, sometimes, could be of real importance to us. As a result, some Branch officers are loath to keep “Box” informed of all the intelligence they gather. It’s a mad way to go about combating terrorism but it’s all the fault of “Box”. They believe they are superior and think we are here just to follow their orders and carry out their demands.’

Of course, I had no idea whether the attitude of Special Branch officers was deserved or simply petty internal jealousies among competing intelligence agencies, but I did have every reason to be wary of ‘Box’ and make fucking sure I kept out of their grasp. I had not wanted to believe what Mike had said about the ‘Box’ plot to get me killed but there was no other logical conclusion I could arrive at. I was not going to trust them one inch.

As we all trooped off the bus at the Larne terminal I tried to make myself as inconspicuous as possible. Most of those on board seemed to be families but I looked in vain for some person or group of people that I could latch on to in an effort to draw attention away from me. I needed to buy a ticket and as I walked into the booking area I noticed a few RUC officers, wearing black flak jackets and carrying sub-machine guns, slowly patrolling the area as a deterrent to any would-be bombers. I realised that they would also have been looking out for any suspicious characters who might have been working for the IRA or indeed any of the paramilitaries.

‘
Afternoon sir,’ the voice behind me said, hitting me like a thunderbolt for I had not been aware I was even being watched. I spun round and there must have been astonishment on my face as I looked into the eyes of two RUC men standing stock still only a matter of feet from me.

Desperately trying to regain my composure, I replied, ‘Afternoon,’ and forced myself to smile. I feared that the two officers would want to question me because I realised I must have looked very nervous, and I tried to relax, telling myself to stop being stupid.

I walked over to the ticket office and queued for my one-way ticket and then immediately made my way to the cafe for a cup of tea and to escape from the prying eyes and possible questioning of the patrolling RUC men. I realised that travelling alone, being in my mid-twenties and speaking with an obvious Belfast accent made me an ideal suspect for peelers bored from their hours of pacing up and down the departure areas.

As I sat drinking tea my attention was drawn to a man I judged to be in his late twenties whom I heard asking for a cup of coffee in a Belfast accent, one which sounded remarkably like a West Belfast tone of voice. Instantly, I recognised the man but I couldn’t for the life of me put a name to his face. Yet he worried me. I felt he was a young man I had met during my two years inside the IRA. I recalled the times, the hours I had spent poring over Special Branch photographic files trying to remember the faces of people, mostly young men, whom my handlers asked me to keep a sharp look out for. I believed that this young man was one of those IRA suspects the Branch had asked me to keep a watch out for.

And then he noticed that I was looking at him. Our eyes met and I was more convinced than ever that I knew him, not only from a photograph file, but on a more personal basis, and that worried the shit out of me. I looked away and when I managed to look at him again, via a mirror in the cafe, I realised that he had recognised me but he too was not sure of my identity.

I decided to sit still and pretend to keep sipping my tea, though in reality I had finished it some time ago. Occasionally I would glance over towards the young man and every time I looked across the cafe he would be all but staring at me as if trying to confuse or frighten me. I wondered whether I should go over to him, engage him in conversation, try to find out if I did in fact know him or whether my fears of detection were playing on my nerves. In retrospect I was glad that the RUC officers had nodded to me and said ‘good afternoon’, treating me in the same way as many other travellers that day. That meant it was very unlikely that he was armed and that fact, if push came to shove, would give me a fair chance of making my escape.

The man was quite well built but I noticed that, despite his youth, he carried a bit of a beer belly and didn’t seem particularly fit. I figured that if he challenged me I would be quite capable of giving him a good thumping. That thought gave me some confidence, for I realised that the palms of my hands had been sweating as though I suspected my cover would soon be blown.

He finished his cup of tea and came across to my table. ‘Don’t I know you?’ he asked in a strong Belfast accent, looking intently at me in what seemed to be a friendly manner.

‘
Don’t think so,’ I lied. ‘Where do you think you know me from?’

‘
I can’t place you,’ he said, ‘but I’m still sure we’ve met some time.’

‘
Maybe,’ I lied again, ‘but I don’t think so.’

‘
Do you visit any clubs in West Belfast?’ he asked, suggesting to me that this was his way of informing me that he was an IRA sympathiser if not an activist, trying to find some common ground between us.

‘
I doubt it,’ I replied, ‘because I live in England now. I was just visiting my folks.’

‘
Do you fancy a drink?’ he asked.

‘
No thanks,’ I said, not saying any more because I was keen to end this conversation.

‘
Well, I’ll be away,’ he said, ‘but I’m still sure I know you. It’ll probably come to me later.’

As he walked away I decided to go and buy another cup of tea. I realised my mouth was dry and my palms were sweating. I was convinced now that he was an IRA member and I wondered why the peelers hadn’t paid any attention to him. Ten minutes later my new-found friend reappeared and walked up to my table. ‘You’re Marty McGartland,’ he said.

Chapter Twelve

The IRA man turned on his heel and walked out of the cafe. I knew instinctively that he would go to a phone to call someone. Whom, I did not know but I’m sure my guess would have been pretty accurate. I realised it was his duty to arrest me, kidnap me or arrange for some of his IRA mates to pick me up and deliver me once again to the Civil Administration Team for interrogation. I also suspected that because of all that had occurred since my last abduction by the IRA word would probably have gone out to all members to kill me if they ever came across me. Sixty seconds after he left the cafe I followed, keeping him in sight, hoping that he hadn’t any of his mates on site at the Larne terminal. I thought it highly unlikely but I couldn’t be sure.

I saw him walk to a telephone and begin to dial. I wondered whether I should try and stop him making that call but thought better of it. I couldn’t approach an RUC patrol, reveal my identity and suggest they arrest the man on the phone because I had no reason to give. I also had no idea of his identity though now I was convinced the man was IRA. As soon as he began to speak I disappeared, walking quickly away from where the ferries dock at Larne, as far away as possible from my IRA suspect.

I guessed that he would never think I would return to Belfast but would be more than anxious to get the hell out of Northern Ireland back to the safety of the mainland. After using the phone I guessed that he would spend the time searching the departure area for me, angry at letting me out of his sight and, more than likely, waiting for one or more of his mates to join him. I realised that there was very little possibility of them trying to abduct me at the Larne ferry terminal but I guessed that if I had been on board the next ferry to Scotland they would have a crack at me either on board the ferry or after landing at Stranraer.

As soon as I reached the other side of the terminal I went immediately to the bus departure point and bought a ticket for Belfast. This time luck was in my favour and after an agonisingly long ten minutes the bus set off for the city. I was sure that my IRA friend had not seen me and had no idea that I was at that moment heading back towards Belfast. About two miles down the road I asked the driver to stop to let me off and I alighted as if he was dropping me near my home. After the bus had disappeared from sight I walked across the road and began walking back towards the ferry terminal once more. But I had no intention of completing the journey to the mainland that night.

As I walked along I wondered where I could sleep for I didn’t relish sleeping rough on a cold, damp, overcast night. I heard the wailing of police sirens and remembered not to look back as two RUC cars sped past me, seemingly
en route
to the ferry terminal. I wondered whether they were searching for me or the lad who had interrupted my return to the mainland. It seemed so strange not knowing what was going on and not sure whom I could trust. Having spent four years in the protective, all-embracing security of the RUC special Branch it seemed strange to feel so vulnerable, so lonely in the same country where I had felt safe and unassailable. There was even a certain fear that the world had been turned upside down and I was now in the run; my friends and comrades had now become my antagonists, my feared enemies. The siren noise had made me feel uneasy and at that moment I wondered why the hell I had taken such a risk returning back home. And for what?