Thatcher's Spy

My Life as an MI5 Agent Inside Sinn Féin

Willie Carlin

• Publisher: Merrion Press
• Year: 2019
• ISBN:
  9781785372872
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Storia
• Subtopic: Storia irlandese

Early one morning in March 1985, as he climbed the six steps of Margaret Thatcher's prime-ministerial jet on the runway of RAF Aldergrove, little did Willie Carlin know the role Freddie Scappaticci played in saving his life.

So began the dramatic extraction of Margaret Thatcher's key undercover agent in Sinn Féin – Willie Carlin, aka Agent 3007. For 11 years the former British soldier worked alongside former IRA commander Martin McGuinness in the republican movement's political wing in Derry. He was MI5's man at McGuinness' side and gave the British State unprecedented insight into the IRA leader's strategic thinking. Carlin worked with McGuinness to develop Sinn Féin's election strategy after the 1981 hunger strike, and the MI5 and later FRU agent's reports on McGuinness, Adams and other republicans were read by the British Cabinet, including Margaret Thatcher herself.

When Carlin's cover was blown in mid-1985 thanks to one of his old MI5 handlers being jailed as a Soviet spy, Thatcher authorised the use of her jet to whisk him to safety. Incredibly, it was another British 'super spy' inside the IRA's secretive counter-intelligence unit, the 'nuttin' squad', who saved Carlin's life. The Derry man is perhaps the only person alive thanks to the information provided by the 'jewel in the crown' of British military intelligence – Freddie Scappaticci, aka Stakeknife.

In Thatcher's Spy, the Cold War meets Northern Ireland's Dirty War in the remarkable real-life story of a deep under-cover British intelligence agent, a man now doomed forever to look over his shoulder...

CHAPTER 1

FROM HOLY ORDERS TO BATTLE ORDERS

Prior to my decision to follow my father’s footsteps into the British Army I had another calling, and this one was from God. Just before leaving primary school in Derry I went to see the biblical epic King of Kings at the Rialto Cinema on Market Street. Moved and mesmerised by Jeffrey Hunter’s portrayal of Jesus, my best friend Michael Stewart and I talked about becoming priests. Shortly after Easter, we spoke to our parents about the priesthood and later were sent to a religious retreat across the border in Donegal, which was part of a special weekend for boys in their mid-teens thinking of entering Holy Orders. Although impressed by the selfless frugality of the monks at the Doon Well and Ards Monastery, the desire to become a priest had wore off by my final year in ‘big school’. In contrast, Michael entered the seminary in his early twenties, and eventually served in Nottingham and Derry before tragically dying at a young age from an undetected brain tumour.

I often wonder where my life might have taken me if I had trodden the same path as Michael and ended up in some Derry parish, or even in an isolated mission in a far-flung place on the other side of the world. But by my late teens there was a calling towards another life in uniform – the colours of the Queen’s Royal Irish Hussars.

Although born into a devout Derry Catholic family, it was not unusual for a family like mine to have strong, historic connections to the British military. At the time of my birth on 30 July 1948, my father Tommy Carlin was working at the local Royal Navy base, HMS Sea Eagle, on the Waterside. During the Second World War, Derry was an important naval installation for the British and later the American navies during the Battle of the Atlantic. German U-boats were scuttled in the Foyle after the defeat of the Third Reich, and the city was filled with tales of the Yanks who were based in Derry during the 1940s. Our history classes in primary school were full of stories of bad Nazis and the bold Americans who were sent to save us. There was never any mention of the IRA, the English, or the Troubles of the 1920s, and I knew where an exotic place called Burma was because I would tell my classmates and my teachers that this was where my daddy had been stationed during the war.

Tommy Carlin spent the post-war years working with the Royal Navy, this time as a civilian worker at HMS Sea Eagle, where he also played in the Navy’s football team – the Sea Eagle Rovers. I remember one afternoon watching his team play on the big sports ground at Clooney Park West on Waterside. After their 1-0 defeat, he and the rest of the Rovers retired to a place overlooking the Foyle called Ebrington Barracks on their way back to Sea Eagle. It was the first time I walked through the gateway of the nineteenth-century barracks and little did I know that this place was going to play a key role in my later life as a secret agent.

I finally left school at the tender age of fifteen in the summer of 1962, and within 72 hours of being out in the big bad world of work I got my first job. The Birmingham Sound Reproducers (BSR) factory manufactured record players and was situated in what we called the ‘new road’ that backed onto Bligh’s lane. I was almost immediately sent to work in the paint shop section of the plant where I learnt how to spray paint amid the deafening noise of the machinery and the endless banter of the older men on the production line. Although I was earning about a half-crown per week I didn’t like the job and was a bit spooked (given my priestly leanings and continued devout faith) at the filthy language on the shop floor; sometimes even fights broke out between grown men on the line. In fact, the only time I saw peaceful unity in the paint shop was when the news broke more than a year later that President John F. Kennedy had been shot dead in Dallas. To Derry Catholics, Kennedy was a cult hero, given his religion and proud Irish ancestry, and in many Catholic homes in the city images of him hung beside portraits of the Sacred Heart and Our Lady. Two days after his assassination the whole BSR factory downed tools, including myself, and we marched to Derry’s Catholic Cathedral for a memorial mass in JFK’s honour.

By the summer of 1965, I had become disillusioned with working at BSR and spoke to my father about trying again for the priesthood. When I was dissuaded against it I returned heavy-hearted to the factory gates to find the entire plant was on strike. The stoppage was a result of Derry workers going on a fact-finding tour of BSR’s factory in Birmingham, where they heard a rumour that its mainly female workforce earned more than us. The bitterness over the strike resulted in poor industrial relations and led to a series of one-day strikes and walk-outs. Eventually, the owners closed the factory, moved out of Derry and left 1,500 men and boys on the dole.

During the summer I befriended Davy McMenamy, the first Protestant lad I ever knew. We had met at BSR the previous Christmas and hit it off straight away. We hung out in some of the city’s dance halls and even attended dances in the Memorial Hall on Derry’s Walls, the social club run by the staunchly loyalist Apprentice Boys. There was no open sectarianism on the dance floor, though. Back then the only fights in the Memorial Hall were usually between two boys fighting over a girl. I drank my first ever beer with Davy at Butlin’s holiday camp across the border in County Meath in the Irish Republic.

Davy and I talked about what might happen once BSR shut up shop in Derry. My father had often told stories of his life in the army and he agreed to chat to us about the military. One night, Davy came over to our home and Dad regaled us with tales of drills and marches as if he was trying to put us off. However, he did suggest that a much better option for us would be an armoured regiment, where we would get to drive around in armoured cars and even tanks. My older brother Robert joined in the conversation and soon all three of us were hooked. Just after my seventeenth birthday, we visited the Army Recruitment Office on Derry’s Strand Road. There we met with Sergeant Derek Dunseith, the brother of the legendary Radio Ulster presenter, the late David Dunseith. After we had filled in our application forms my father signed the enlistment papers and off I went to England to join the Queen’s Royal Irish Hussars.

Within weeks of meeting Sergeant Dunseith at the recruiting office on the Strand Road, and after a medical examination in Omagh, Robert and I were on our way to the Royal Armoured Corps Training Headquarters at Catterick Camp in Yorkshire. The train left Derry at 5.40pm and my father chatted to us in the station as we waited to depart. It was one of those awkward Irish conversations between a father and his sons, peppered with banalities like ‘Don’t forget to phone’ and ‘Have you got your ferry ticket?’ Then he said what all Irish parents say to their sons who, deep down, they don’t really want to leave, and my father was no exception. He was very proud that Robert and I were following in his footsteps and joining the army, but at the same time he was very sad that we were leaving him. He kept saying, ‘Sure, it won’t be long before you’re back’. Soon, a whistle blew and we boarded the train. Within minutes we were waving goodbye to my father as the train pulled out of the station and we headed for Belfast.

That night I was so excited on the ferry that I couldn’t sleep. I’d never seen a big ship before, let alone been on one, and we spent hours wandering around in awe of this machine. There were people in the bar, experienced travellers, who knew of the turbulent crossing that lay ahead, and their way of coping with it was to get drunk and fall asleep where they sat. By 4am, as the ferry rocked from side to side in the storm, I was uncontrollably sick. As the ship arrived at Heysham ferry terminal the next morning, still pale and ill we caught the train to Richmond. On arrival at Catterick, Robert and I were met at the guardroom by a Corporal who was passing his Sunday doing the crossword. We were a day early and none of the new recruits were expected until the next day. He directed us to Headquarters, where we were met by a Corporal of the Household Cavalry who showed us to our room. There were twelve beds in the room and we could choose any two we liked. After unpacking, Robert and I decided to go for a walk around the camp. Apart from the odd person in civvies we never actually saw any soldiers. We found a phone box and, as arranged, rang home to Leenan Gardens in Creggan where my father and mother were waiting to take the call.

The next four weeks for intake 65-9 (the ninth intake of the year) was full of kit inspections, locker checks, marching, running, and doing punishment press-ups because someone had done something wrong. A typical evening was spent listening to the radio whilst shining boots, polishing buckles or ironing kit. We were woken every morning at half past five to prepare for room inspection. Each of us had jobs to do: cleaning the Blanco room, the washrooms, the showers, the ironing room, the stairs and landing and our own room, which had to be polished and bumpered every morning. If the morning inspection went well, we were straight on parade for a day’s training. If it didn’t, we were cleaning again until l0am. By the end of the first week, most of us had sussed out that all the shouting and roaring and throwing of kit around the room was obviously an exercise, by our instructors, to break us and make sure that only the best got through basic training. During this time I realised two things about myself: I was very fit – probably due to running from Creggan to the Long Tower school and back twice a day for ten years – and I didn’t like the English. There was something arrogant about them. Not just our instructors, but most of the lads in the intake were pushy and always thought they knew what they were talking about.

By mid-October, what was left of the intake was preparing to ‘pass out’ and looking forward to a weekend’s leave. The kit inspections didn’t happen as often, the block we lived in was immaculate, the locker inspections usually went well every day and we were a tight-knit group when it came to combat training or marching. Most of the lads in our intake had made it through because they were either determined or had the guts to sustain the daily attacks which were, in the main, well-meant and designed to change us from being civilians to soldiers.

After four weeks we had completed our GMT (General Military Training) and were rehearsing for the ‘passing out’ parade with the regimental band. The parade itself was a memorable experience; a day of celebration with most of the lads’ parents sitting watching us as we did our stuff on the parade ground. I was very proud as my name, 24056669 Trooper Carlin, was called out and I marched forward to receive the cap badge of my regiment: ‘The Queen’s Royal Irish Hussars’.

Just as we were preparing to go home after the parade, my brother Robert informed me that he had failed his physical and was to be back-squatted for two weeks on our return from leave. Everyone in the intake was given leave on Friday afternoon until eight o’clock Monday morning. All of them were home by Friday night, except for Robert and I. By the skin of our teeth we made it to Heysham and the Friday night sailing of the Belfast ferry, and after an overnight journey and a two-hour train journey to Derry we got home just after 11am. Sadly, because there were no sailings from Belfast to Heysham on a Sunday, we had to leave Derry again that same Saturday night at 5.40. This gave us just fourteen hours at home, with barely enough time to have a chat about our experience and get something to eat.

We must have been the only soldiers in the British Army ever to take our kit home to show our parents how well polished it all was. During that day, the topic of Robert having to stay back came up. My father spoke to me in the kitchen, ‘Wullie, would you mind very much if I got in touch with the Colonel at Catterick and asked if you could stay behind with Robert? I could put it to him that both of you want to go to Germany together because the truth is, Wullie, I don’t think Robert will make it through on his own.’ I was shocked because I was looking forward to joining the regiment as soon as possible. That evening, as we waited by the train in the Waterside station, my father asked me again. I was still divided between what he was asking and going to Germany. In the end I agreed to stay with Robert.

The next few weeks in Catterick were really the making of me. I was in a new squad that was learning some of the things Robert and I already knew. When it came to marching or kit inspections we were models for the other lads in the room. Suddenly, the English weren’t so cocky. Often they would ask me for help, which I gladly gave. In the end, the time passed quickly enough and Robert and I made it through. We were now qualified drivers of Saladin armoured cars and Ferret Scout cars – the same military vehicles that would become commonplace on the streets of our own home town a few years later as the Troubles erupted.

After a week’s leave in Derry we flew from Manchester to Hanover on a BOAC jet. This again was a new experience; I’d never been on an aeroplane before. Indeed, I’d never been to an airport before. I’ll never forget the feeling in my stomach as the plane hurtled down the runway and took off. I was scared shitless as my stomach came up to the back of my throat but I just sat there smiling, as most people do, during the experience. Later that evening we arrived in Wolfenbuttle, just east of Hanover, by minibus and entered the world of the Queen’s Royal Irish Hussars.

***

Life in the regiment was totally different from training. There were no kit inspections, civilian cleaners cleaned the washrooms and toilets, there were no more than three people to a room, there was no shouting or roaring at the men, and most of the soldiers had forgotten how to march. The weeks went from Monday to Friday, preparing vehicles, servicing them, going for short drives around Wolfenbuttle and back again. No one worked after 5pm and Wednesday afternoons were reserved for Egyptian PT (lying in bed). I didn’t enjoy Egyptian PT at all; instead I went for a run every Wednesday with Bob Kelly, a Lance Corporal from Dublin. He was the regiment’s top cross-country runner and he soon told the captain of the team how good I was.

In 1966, telephone communication – or indeed any communication – was radically different from today. To speak to my parents from Germany I would first have to write a letter to them giving details of the exact time I would be ringing the call box in Leenan Gardens. Then three days before the call was to be made it had to be booked through the WVS (Women’s Voluntary Service). The day before the call I would be notified of the time of the call (usually the time requested), and on the night of the call the WVS would phone London for a connection to Belfast, who would then connect to Derry. When the operator in Derry came on the line, the number of the telephone box in Leenan Gardens would be given and when my father answered he would be told to stand by for an international call from Germany. Once the connection was made, I was sent to the phone booth along the corridor to pick up the receiver. Calls were not allowed to last any longer than fifteen minutes and the time seemed to fly by before the operator from London would inform me that my time was up.

By 1967, I had been promoted to Lance Corporal and had settled in well. We had been on several exercises and won troop competitions against other regiments. The big main exercise each year was known as the FTX (Field Training eXercise) – a NATO operation which involved four weeks in the field. This was great if you were keen, enthusiastic and single, as I was, but not so good if you were experienced, married and enjoyed the social life that being a soldier in West Germany brought. During one of the exercises, I was involved in what was called an international Cold War incident. Third troop, ‘A’ Squadron, led by Lieutenant Sutcliffe, were scrambled and called out for a reconnaissance patrol along the River Elbe, which straddled the border between West Germany and East Germany. An East German survey ship had tied up on the west side of the river – on our side of the border – and the crew had mutinied and taken the captain and the other officers captive. They were now threatening to blow up the ship if their demands were not met, and as I sat in the driver’s seat of the scout car, peering through the periscope, activity on the ship heightened and gunfire was heard.

I was shaking and tried to stay calm as I watched from the edge of a wood just a few hundred yards from the riverbank and the ship. Just then, a helicopter appeared overhead with a spotlight directed at the vessel. By now my knees were trembling and I put my right hand down to steady them. I could feel the sweat running down my neck and my hands were clammy as I gripped the metal steering wheel inside the cab. I had visions of being blown up or shot in the opening salvo of the Third World War as it spread along the Iron Curtain. Corporal Frankie Shivers, my commander, was advised over the radio to load up the Browning machine gun with live rounds. I heard him say, ‘If we open fire on this ship we could start World War Three.’ There were a further four hours of intense activity over the radio network; things were getting worse and I just sat there, frozen to the seat. All I could think of was to say a decade of the Rosary and pray that we could get out of this wood, away from the river and back to the safety of our camp.

At the other end of the woods sat another scout car manned by a commander and driven by another young Irishman just like me. Trooper Hughie McCabe was married, a Catholic from Belfast who was also not enjoying defending our gracious Queen and the German border. He and I passed the hours away chatting on the internal network about all sorts of things, we even sang songs over the net, much to the amusement of our commanders. Watching the ship we saw people come and go from the cabins until eventually things seemed to quieten down. Just before daybreak, Corporal Shivers and Lieutenant Sutcliffe were ordered to stand down. We were later told that the East German sailors had been overpowered and the ship returned to its captain. Back in the squad room we were hailed as heroes and the Colonel himself came from headquarters to congratulate us personally.

After the exercise was over, life in the camp returned to normal with lots of dos in the mess, and, for me, baby-sitting various NCOs. Tony Bamford, who had joined the army in 1966, was posted to our regiment and had become a frequent visitor to my room. As time passed we became friends, often going to the cinema or to the mess together. Tony was going on leave for the whole of August; he and his girlfriend, Mary, were to be engaged. I had also planned to be on leave for the last two weeks in August and the first two weeks in September.

Tony and I arranged to meet up when I got to Derry, and I invited him to a party at my aunt Vera’s. Tony had been writing to Mary on and off for over a year and had dated her while he was on leave. He also phoned her regularly. I spoke with her one night as Tony introduced me over the phone. She sounded like a nice girl and I was pleased for him. At this time, my brother Robert was in ‘B’ Squadron and drove three-ton trucks, so I rarely saw him. He had gained in confidence and had friends of his own, so for the first time I travelled to Derry on leave on my own. My mother didn’t know that I was coming and Tony brought her the message that I would be phoning her at the phone box in Leenan Gardens at 7pm that night. I arrived in Derry at lunchtime and was picked up by my ...