Dead Man Running: A True Story of a Secret Agent's Escape from the IRA and MI5 by Martin McGartland

you.’ That remark put the fear of God in me. In that instant I became convinced that my true identity had been rumbled and I wondered what would happen next. I listened instantly for the click of a hand-gun being cocked but heard nothing. After asking a few innocuous questions the voice continued, ‘Marty, tell us, why did you join the IRA?’ I had been briefed by my Special Branch handlers as to how to react if ever asked why I wanted to be part of the organisation. They hadn’t told me anything specific to say, never giving me the exact words to remember, but they said that I should reply that I wanted to serve the cause. ‘I joined because I believe in what the IRA is doing,’ I lied, ‘and so that I can help protect the people in the area where I grew up.’ The two men who had been asking questions wanted to know how I knew Davy Adams and another mate of mine, Harry Fitzsimmons. Then the men trooped out and told me not to move. I feared that I was being watched through a spyhole and never turned round though my heart continued to thump, worrying that I had made a mess of the interview. Ten minutes later they returned. ‘Okay, Marty,’ said the first voice, ‘you can turn round now.’ I recognised the two men who had been questioning me from the Special Branch files I was asked to look through every few days. The man who had asked most of the questions was Spud Murphy. The other face belonged to a man in his 30s, about 5ft 7ins tall, of medium build with a high forehead. I didn’t know his name. Spud then became much more friendly. ‘Now I can tell you why you’re here. I’m sorry you had to face the wall while we questioned you, nut it’s for everyone’s safety. We’re setting up a completely new IRA unit, a new cell, and we have been told a lot about you. We think you would fit in well for what we have planned. Basically, we need people who can get in and out of areas where UDR soldiers and peelers live, where they feel safe from IRA attacks.’ ‘Aye,’ I replied, ‘I’ve been in that position many times; stopped by the army and the peelers, made to show my licence and insurance and things and then told to be on my way.’ ‘Do you want to come in with us then?’ Spud asked, looking directly into my eyes, judging my reaction. ‘Yes, I do,’ I told him. ‘No problem.’ ‘You’re on.’ Spud replied. ‘Now listen. I’ll tell you what I want you to do. I want to put together a new cell and recruit young men who have never been in any kind of trouble, totally unknown to the RUC. I intend to use these recruits to carry out operations where the enemy feel safe; in their own homes.’ At the first meeting of the new cell a week later I searched the faces of all the men present trying to determine if I had ever seen them before while looking through SB files. Except, of course, for Spud, I was sure that I had never seen a single one of them before which I knew would worry my handlers. So I did my damnedest to remember their faces, their height, weight, colour of hair or any feature that would identify them. I knew this new cell would spell real trouble for the SB because the members were unknown to them. I also feared that other new IRA cells, with more unknown recruits, were being assembled. As I went home that night, however, I felt the thrill of actually working with an IRA active service unit, leading a dangerous, secretive life while working for the RUC Special Branch. In that moment of heady enthusiasm I had no fear for my future yet I was risking my very life. However, my initiation into the IRA was not yet complete. I was ordered to attend a meeting in the Turf Lodge area of Belfast where I would become acquainted with a man they called ‘The Interrogator’. Felix advised me to go ahead with the meeting to see what it was all about. As he would tell me time and again, ‘Remember, Marty, the more we know about the IRA, the better equipped we are to stop their bombings and shootings.’