Dead Man Running: A True Story of a Secret Agent's Escape from the IRA and MI5 (10 page)

I discussed my forthcoming trial with my Special Branch contact in Newcastle, who knew all the details of my work in Belfast. He advised me; ‘Plead guilty, man, and no one will know anything about your past life.’

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But if I plead guilty,’ I told him, ‘there is every chance that I will be sent to jail.’

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Don’t worry about that man,’ he said. ‘If you have to do time that’s the penalty you must pay to keep your background under wraps.’

I told him, ‘My solicitor has warned me that if I don’t fight this case and win it the Crown Court judge is bound to send me to jail and not just for a few weeks. I’m not prepared to go to jail when I had very good reasons for what I did. I’m innocent and I don’t see why I should plead guilty.’

‘
Have it your way,’ he told me, ‘but I’m telling you that the only way to escape exposure is to plead guilty and do the time. It might only be a year or so inside; you can take that.’ I was flabbergasted. It seemed extraordinary at the time but my contact continued to press me, always urging me to plead guilty and never suggesting that I should fight to clear my name. ‘But if I plead guilty,’ I told him, ‘no evidence will come out. And I want the judge to hear the way the traffic cops her have treated me over the years. I want a jury to know all the facts, including my undercover work in Belfast, so that then I will get a fair hearing. If I just plead guilty I will be seen as nothing but a toerag. I won’t do it.’ I knew, of course, why the police wanted me to plead guilty. They were scared that the jury would find in my favour. They also didn’t want the ignominy of being seen to be singling out someone who had served his country in a dangerous, life-threatening job for four years. The magistrates committed me to Newcastle Crown Court for trial on indictment on 14 May 1997. Under my new identity, Martin David Ashe, I was charged with ‘Doing acts tending and intended to pervert the course of public justice between June 8, 1993 and April 29, 1994, in that he surrendered two or more separate driving licences for endorsement with a view to avoiding disqualification.’ But in December 1996 my book
Fifty Dead Men Walking
, the story of my life as an undercover agent, was published. It seemed that because I had decided to come out into the open and tell my story the authorities had taken the decision to make my life as difficult as possible. Also the Northumbria Police were taking me to court seemingly every other week or so for offences which I claimed I had not committed. I talked to journalist friends and former Belfast SB friends and they all told me that the actions taken against me were typical of the authorities doing all in their power to create problems for me; to make my life as difficult as they could. It also seemed that senior RUC officers were determined to downgrade the part I had played in Northern Ireland, fearing that I would take the limelight that they believed rightly belonged to them. Initially, there was nothing that I could do but, in a matter of months, the difficulties being put in my way escalated to such a degree that I could hardly step outside my front door without fresh problems confronting me. In late December 1996, nearly one month after my book was published, I was informed by a friend whom I was staying with at the time that two men were knocking on the front door of his house looking for me. They asked him where I could be contacted and he told them that he had no idea. They asked what car I was driving at the time and my friend surprised them. ‘Lately he has been riding a bicycle around. He hasn’t got a car at the moment. Can I take a message?’ he asked, but they refused point blank to give their names or where they were from. My friend, who knew nothing of my past in Northern Ireland, thought the two men wanted to give me good hiding, especially when they told him they would be returning later. When he informed me what had happened I went immediately to the local police station and asked if any officers were looking for me. The police officer on duty checked and informed me that no officers had been to my house. He tried to reassure me that he didn’t think I had anything to worry about. I wasn’t so sure. I then called at the local council offices and the DHSS but was informed that no one had been wanting to see me. Later, I would learn that the Northumbria Police were also concerned. They made their own checks within the force, with the DHSS and North Tyneside Council but all checks proved negative. I never discovered who my two mysterious visitors were and neither did the police. I was fearful that my unwelcome visitors could well have been IRA hitmen who had learned of my whereabouts and so I decided to phone my SB mates in Belfast to see if they had heard if any IRA team were actively searching for me. ‘We’ve heard nothing to alarm you,’ an SB man named Chris told me. ‘But keep your head down and your eyes peeled. Trust no one, Marty, because they will never give up. If you want us to help in any way just call, night or day.’ Despite the SB assurances I decided to move out of my friend’s house that very night, going to stay with another acquaintance. But my problems with the Northumbria Police continued unabated. One example of the way I had been hassled occurred in January 1995 after I had driven home and parked the car as usual at the back of my house. As I did so, half-a-dozen or more police officers leapt out of the bushes where they had been hiding and ran to my car making me feel like some armed terrorist. They snatched the keys from the ignition and ordered me out of the car. Then one of them opened the bonnet and after checking the engine number told me, ‘We are arresting you for being in possession of a stolen vehicle.’

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Don’t be daft,’ I told him. ‘This is my car and I can prove it.’

‘
This car has been stolen,’ he replied, ‘and you are under arrest.’

I replied, ‘Don’t talk rubbish. I bought this car months ago and it was in a terrible condition. I’ve spent the last few months rebuilding it myself with the help of some mates. I don’t know what you’re talking about; you need your fucking head examined.’

‘
You will still have to accompany us to the police station to make a statement, you little bastard,’ he said.

‘
Wait a minute,’ I replied, ‘I can prove this car’s mine.’

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Don’t come that one,’ said the officer in charge, ‘that’s bullshit. We know you’ve nicked it.’

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Hold on a minute,’ I demanded, ‘inside the house I’ve got photos taken at different times showing how I rebuilt the vehicle from scratch after it had been involved in an accident. Perhaps that will persuade you that I’m telling the truth.’

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Okay,’ said the officer in command, ‘show us.’

Once in the flat I found the photographs and showed them to the police. The photographs seemed to calm them and they agreed that perhaps they had been misinformed. In the meantime, however, the officers were poking around my flat as though looking for other things to embarrass me with.

Suddenly I heard a yell from my bedroom and I ran in. ‘Don’t move,’ one shouted at me. ‘Stay exactly where you are, don’t move a fuckin’ inch.’

To the officers he shouted, ‘Arrest him; cuff him; this place is full of fuckin’ guns and ammunition.’

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What the fuck are you talking about?’ I asked, half laughing at this officer who seemed to have lost his senses.

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Don’t talk, don’t say a fuckin’ word. Just shut up,’ he shouted.

I tried to intervene to explain everything but he wouldn’t even allow me to say a single word.

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Cuff him, handcuff the fucking Irish bastard,’ he yelled at one of the officers standing next to me.

I went to move forward to pick up one of the guns to explain everything to the screaming officer but before I had moved one foot forward he leapt towards me, pushing me away from the arms and ammo, shouting, ‘Get back, get back, don’t move; stand still; you’re under arrest.’

To one of his officers, he yelled, ‘Grab him, arrest him; don’t let him near the guns.’

On his police radio he called his Operations Room and urged them to send specialists from the Northumbria Police Fire Arms Team as a matter of urgency. He explained that an IRA arms dump had been discovered in the bedroom of a private flat.

‘
Will you listen to me?’ I said when he had finished his conversation. ‘This is no IRA arms dump; these guns aren’t real; they’re only replicas,’ I insisted.

‘
Shut the fuck up and keep quiet,’ he shouted.

I could see that he was in a blind panic, stumbling over his words, perspiring profusely as though he had indeed come across an IRA arms dump and that I was an armed terrorist.

I tried again. ‘Let me show you, let me prove to you that they’re only replicas,’ I suggested.

‘
Don’t fuckin’ come that with us,’ he said. ‘We’ll wait until the experts get here. They know what’s what.’

I started to laugh, unable to control myself as I witnessed the officers rushing around my flat in a panic searching for more weapons and ammo. I shrugged my shoulders. If they wouldn’t listen to my explanation then, I felt, fuck ‘em, let them show their senior officers how stupid they were. In fact, I had the weapons and the ammo as protection just in case the IRA had come bursting into my flat but I couldn’t tell the police the real reason.

Though nobody listened, or appeared to take the slightest notice of anything I said at first, I did in fact manage to say a few words once they quietened down a little and their panic subsided. I explained that I collected such replicas. But they were still all on edge and I could tell they were too nervous to pay attention to what I was saying. When one of the officers finally found the courage to kneel down and examine the sacks containing the guns and ammo the man in charge yelled, ‘What the fuck are you doing? . . . Get back . . . get back . . . don’t move . . . they might be booby-trapped . . . we know what these IRA bastards are like.’ After the specialist officers had arrived at the house and checked the weapons they were put in clear plastic bags and taken downstairs. A number of neighbours had turned out to see what was happening, wondering why four police cars had arrived at my flat with their sirens screaming, bringing attention to this quiet backwater which had never seen such police activity. They witnessed me leaving, handcuffed to a police officer, while other officers walked out holding the guns and ammo in the plastic bags. That night my neighbours were left in no doubt that in fact I was an IRA gunman and my flat an IRA arms dump. Eventually, when I was allowed to explain things in the police station the arms expert and others inspected the life-like weapons more closely. Despite the fact that they appeared to believe they were harmless replicas the decision was nevertheless taken to have them sent to the forensic arms headquarters in Huntingdon. Despite proving the weapons were only replicas the police detained me in a cell for a full four hours. I could hardly contain myself from laughing out loud at the reaction of the officers that day. Eventually I was released without charge and driven home. I had to be taken home by the police because, despite producing papers proving the Ford Orion was my property, the police decided they wanted to double-check the vehicle because they still weren’t certain the vehicle had not been stolen. In fact they kept the car for four days before saying I could collect it. But, I noted, they never apologised for the inconvenience they caused me nor did they apologise for doubting my word. It seemed to me the police were taking every opportunity they could to harass me. A few weeks later my replicas and the ammo were returned to me. But it wasn’t the end of the matter. Some months later I was in the kitchen of my flat on the first floor of a terraced house in Northumberland when I was disturbed by a heavy ‘thud, thud, thud’ on the back door below. After a few minutes the thumping began again and I looked out of the window to see two men, dressed in everyday civilian clothes, standing by the door. ‘What do you want?’ I shouted, fearing that these could indeed be IRA gunmen. They somehow seemed shady, standing with their heads down as if not wanting to be recognised.

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Are you Martin Ashe?’ one shouted.

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Who wants to know?’ I called back, for I didn’t recognise either man.

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We’re police officers; we want to talk to you,’ he said.

‘
Have you any identification?’ I called down.

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Yes,’ he said, and produced his police warrant card, showing it to me as I was leaning out of the window. I looked down and they seemed genuine enough but I wasn’t absolutely certain. I decided that they were probably not IRA gunmen and went down to check their ID’s more closely.

‘
We’re from Cumbria Police,’ one explained, showing me his police ID, ‘and we understand from Northumbria Police that you own an AK47 assault rifle and ammunition.’

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That’s not true,’ I replied, ‘but I do own a replica AK.’

He continued. ‘Well, recently there has been a bank robbery at Windermere and the robbers were carrying an AK47. We’re checking everyone in the north of England who is known to own such a weapon.’

I looked at them and shook my head. ‘Come and inspect the AK if you want,’ I said, and explained what had happened when officers from Northumbria thought they had discovered an IRA arms dump in my bedroom. The officers inspected the weapons but were still sceptical. They demanded I tell them where I was on the day of the Windermere robbery and I told them I was with a girlfriend, a Customs and Excise officer. The detectives asked for her phone number and while I stayed in the room one phoned checking the details I had supplied to them. Only when they were satisfied that I had told the truth did they apologise for troubling me and left. I sighed with relief but I was also angry at the treatment I was receiving at the hands of the local police. But those incidents were nothing compared to what I was to discover. I had been led to understand by both the Belfast Special Branch and the Northumbria SB that when I was relocated to Blyth my previous names, official documents, even my life history would be eradicated and I would henceforth be known only as Martin David Ashe. I was informed that for all intents and purposes the person known as Martin McGartland would cease to exist. But somehow, someone had decided to resurrect my former name and surreptitiously make it known by inserting it on police computer files, the DVLA computer and to officers of the Crown Prosecution Service. I would learn later that within months of my secret arrival in England many police officers, court officials, as well as anyone with access to police files or the DVLA computer knew that Martin McGartland, one of the IRA’s prime targets for execution, was alive and well and living in Blyth, Northumberland. I could not believe that the insertion of my former identity on those files was a mere accident. Someone or some Government agency, or even some police force, had to be responsible for such an action. It seemed to me that I was being set up for the IRA to discover my new identity and my new address. But why? I determined to discover what precisely was on my police computer files that warranted such continued interest in my affairs by the Northumbria Police. I wanted to find out if by examining my computer files I could ascertain why I was being targeted by the local police force. And, if possible, I wanted to discover who had taken that decision to have me targeted. My suspicions had first been aroused during one of my many appearances before local magistrates on the dozens of motoring offences I was accused of by the Northumbria Police motor patrol unit. During one such court appearance in 1995, before North Tyneside Magistrates, both my solicitor Paul Dodds and myself happened to look over the shoulder of the Crown Prosecution Service lawyer. We both read on his files that my two names, Ashe and McGartland, were prominently displayed for all to read on the very front of his files. This would have meant that anyone dealing with the paperwork concerning the dozens of alleged motoring offences brought against me would have been aware of my real identity which the Special Branch in Belfast and the authorities in England had been at great pains to keep secret. There and then Paul Dodds approached the CPS lawyer, Mr Stuart Michie, and asked him to explain why my two names were on the file he had brought to court. Mr Michie was taken aback by our concern and said that he had no idea how my two names had come to be displayed on the files. I told him that I had never, but never, told anyone that I was known by any other name than Martin David Ashe. Even Paul Dodds, my own solicitor, had never known, until a short time ago, that I was anyone but Martin David Ashe! As a result, Paul Dodds wrote on my behalf to John Stephens, then Northumbria Chief Constable, asking for a meeting to discuss what to me was a very serious matter. Within days, Chief Superintendent Gordon Hay, head of Northumbria Police Complaints and Discipline, contacted my solicitor and a meeting was arranged. At that meeting, Superintendent Hay assured Mr Dodds that the ‘offending alias’ (McGartland) would be removed immediately from police files. But there would be worse to follow. I had discovered from a friend of a friend that my two identities were also on the Northumbria Police computer file and had been for years. This news came as total surprise to me but, at that stage, I had no proof. I could not believe that the name McGartland would be included in the file on Ashe. I told my solicitor what I had learned and, as a result, he wrote again to the Chief Constable demanding full details of any intelligence held referring to me on the Northumbria force’s intelligence computer file. Superintendent Hay wrote back informing him that the offending material concerning my two identities – McGartland and Ashe – had indeed been filed on the Northumbria Police computer but had been removed from all computer files in August 1995. It seemed extraordinary that Superintendent Hay should report that my file had been removed from the computer exactly one week after solicitor’s original letter demanding the files be forwarded to him. But I still had my doubts. In August 1995 my solicitor, Paul Dodds, had written to the Data Protection Officer of the Northumbria Police demanding that all the files concerning me, under the name Martin David Ashe, be sent to his office. I had been advised that the Northumbria Police were legally bound to hand over those files as part of an individual’s Subject Access’ rights. But the Northumbria Police wrote disingenuous replies which gave no reason why the Data Protection Officer was refusing to forward full copies of my computer file. Three months later, the Data Protection Officer for Northumbria Police sent to my solicitor what she claimed was a full copy of all that had been included on my file in the police computer. There were just six pages. Now I was even more suspicious. I knew that the six pages could not possibly be a comprehensive account of my file, simply because of the unbelievable number of times I had been stopped by traffic police, arrested, taken to police stations for other offences, and, as a result, had ended up in court on countless occasions. I urged my solicitor to continue to press the Data Protection Officer for a complete and full copy of all the material on police files. Finally, in July1997, two years after my solicitor first demanded copies of my file, and two months after my court appearance at Newcastle Crown Court, the Northumbria Police sent through a complete resume of my computer file. It was 25 pages long! The police file was full of inaccuracies. The brief description of me on the file recorded that I spoke with a strong Southern Irish accent, was of a violent disposition and that I was to be approached with caution because of my propensity for carrying firearms. Now I knew why the Northumbria Police had been so reticent in sending me the file that I was legally entitled to see. Firstly, I always spoke with a Belfast accent; secondly, I was not of a violent disposition unless aroused; and thirdly, I had never carried or used forearms in my life. What concerned me was the fact that whenever a police officer asked for my personal data file over the radio the only details they would be given would include those three damaging and inaccurate descriptions, under the headline; ‘Warning. Violent. Firearms’. That revelation made me spit with anger for it was obviously one of the reasons why I had received such close attention from Northumbria Police. What I didn’t know, and what I wanted to know, was who had been responsible for putting those warnings on my personal data file. And why? Unbelievably, that was not the end of the matter. Despite the assurances and the promises from senior police officers, my two identities were not removed from computer files. Two years later, in June 1997, I found out that my two names – Ashe and McGartland – and my address were still both on the Northumbria Police computer information system. That meant that for a further two years every time any police officer accessed the computer to check my records both my names would be automatically revealed. As a result of that cock-up five thousand police officers, who had immediate and direct access to those files, could have known that McGartland and Asher were one and the same person. And they would have known from those computer files that McGartland had been an RUC Special Branch informant working inside the IRA, who had been relocated to the north-east after his cover had been blown. As a result, an internal police enquiry was ordered to determine exactly how and why my two names had been entered into the computer. Surprisingly, after what the police described as a thorough three-month investigation, a Northumbria Police chief told me that it had been impossible to discover who had entered my name on the computer despite the fact that access can only be gained by police officers entering their own personal code.