arrived driven by a tall man in army uniform. He motioned me to join him and Captain Thorpe drove to a remote area at the back of Clouds Hill, where we waited on the open road. A black Mercedes pulled in behind us and the captain asked me to get out and meet the driver. A man in civilian clothes emerged from the Mercedes and introduced himself as ‘Alan’, removing his black leather gloves. He was very well-dressed and spoke with a very soft English accent. He led me away from Captain Thorpe, as if he wanted our conversation to be private and out of earshot.
‘I’m not in the army so you don’t have to call me Sir,’ he said. We walked and talked and he told me that his organisation had a special project on the back burner that they were now seeking to activate. He informed me that they had trawled the Officer Training College at Sandhurst looking for ‘the right person with the right credentials’ without success. My file had ended up in his office for an entirely different reason and had been brought to his attention. He told me his boss was surprised to find someone with my record and background serving in the British Army. They had checked my file at the Ministry of Defence, my confidential reports, qualifications, my personal skills, and agreed that I might be a right ‘fit’. For what? I wondered.
He then said something that left me perplexed. Alan referred to the letter from Derry which stated that a certain ‘Paul’ had made it clear to my family that even as a former British soldier I would still be safe to return home to Derry. ‘The person referred to in this letter as “Paul” is Paul Fleming, from a well-known republican family in the Waterside, Londonderry.’ Alan was remarkably well informed about who was who and the rising stars of the republican movement in Derry. Nonetheless, he went on to describe how bad the intelligence was in the area, particularly political intelligence. ‘Despite what you might read in the papers or hear in the mess, the republican movement in Londonderry is not Communist or Marxist. There is no “Danny the Red”. In your city, ever since the Para’s fucked up on Bloody Sunday, they’ve had more recruits join their ranks than the entire Infantry Corps of the British Army.’ Alan stressed that the organisation was still open for infiltration, adding these chilling words, ‘Which is where you come in.’
I protested, ‘There must be some mistake. I’m only a clerk from Bovington Camp.’
‘No you’re not,’ he said, ‘you’re a nationalist from Creggan Estate. Your family has already been affected by the Troubles and I’m not just referring to your sister. Your brother’s niece, Annette McGavigan, was shot dead by British troops in very dubious circumstances. So, listen to me Willie, we’re not looking for an SAS type. Besides, there will be an operation run by the army which targets the IRA. But understand this, that’s not what we want you to do. On the contrary, we would prefer you didn’t get involved with the gunmen. We’re interested in the “politics” of the Troubles, to run alongside another initiative which should be up and running by November.’
We’d been talking for over twenty minutes when I stopped him. ‘Look. Who are “we”? I mean, who are you?’
He explained that his name was Alan Rees-Morgan and then said, ‘Let’s just say we’re the agency who advises the Minister of Defence and the Prime Minister’, who, he added incidentally, ‘won’t be around for much longer. There are a lot of changes coming here on the mainland. There could be a Labour government by next week and they’ll want to try to resolve the situation, which we believe will have a negative effect on the unionists.’ He continued, ‘Our estimation is that the Troubles are going to get worse, with more rioting, more divisions and more opportunities for someone like you to get involved locally.’
I was in a state of shock. He gave me his phone number and asked me not to tell anyone else about our conversation. He said he would give me a few weeks to think about it and reminded me that my role (if I accepted it) would be strictly to do with politics and that in no way was I to get involved with the IRA or any other paramilitary organisation. ‘Leave that to others,’ he said. ‘Don’t get involved. And if you do come across personnel or details of an action, you must not pass it over, we’re not interested. Keep it to yourself. Remember, my policy is that the best way to keep that kind of secret is to tell no one. Okay?’
Alan got into his car and drove off, leaving me standing on my own a few hundred yards from Captain Thorpe’s car. ‘How did you get on?’ he asked, as I got into the passenger seat.
‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I’ve either just been blackmailed or wound up big time.’
‘Look William,’ said Captain Thorpe, ‘that gentleman comes direct from London. He’s the real McCoy. His organisation doesn’t officially exist. They’re a secret and they are interested in recruiting you. You must be very special because they normally recruit from Oxford or Cambridge. I’ve been in the Intelligence Corps for fourteen years and only ever met two of them. If I were you I would jump at whatever he offered.’
‘Well, he didn’t offer me anything. Just gave me information about the situation in Northern Ireland.’
‘I don’t want to know!’ the captain interrupted, raising his left palm outwards towards my face. ‘Just phone him and give him your answer. Don’t tell anyone about this meeting, especially Colonel Green and definitely not your wife’.
It wasn’t long before I was back at my desk trying to get my head around what had just happened. Over the next two weeks I tried to figure out what to do.
As Alan had predicted, Prime Minister Edward Heath resigned on 4 March 1974 and was replaced with a Labour government making all sorts of noises about Northern Ireland, including pulling the troops out – much to the anger of the unionists who were threatening to bring down the Northern Ireland Executive. Alan had been right so far and in the end I phoned the number he had given me. He called back but declined another meeting, saying, ‘If you’re interested, I’ll tell you the next step, if not we forget about it. No hard feelings.’ I sat and thought. On the one hand I didn’t want to leave the army, on the other hand Mary desperately wanted to go home. This whole exercise sounded like an undercover mission, the kind of thing you only read about in spy novels or saw at the cinema.
‘You see, Alan,’ I said, ‘it’s all a bit scary and to be honest, whilst I’d love to say yes, I’m a bit afraid.’
‘Look, Willie, I’m not going to lie to you. What we want you to do is very, very dangerous. You could get killed. It’s a very volatile situation over there but we think that between your confidence, your connections in Derry and our guidance we might be able to make a difference. Let me make it clear to you. You’ll have to live the life. You’ll have to try to become a republican – one of them. You won’t be armed and the army won’t know about you, nor will the RUC. You’ll be on your own. You will get occasional financial assistance and your salary will be put aside for you should you survive. If we find out that your life is in danger, we’ll pull you out. However, if you’re caught, the government will deny all knowledge of you because they don’t know about this project. You will in fact be a secret.’
The proposal from this man, whom I didn’t know, was for me to go to live in Derry, unarmed with no backup, and spy for the intelligence service. I could be killed, and no one would ever acknowledge my existence in a city at war. By 1974, the year of our return home, there had been 3,208 shootings and 1,113 bombs across Northern Ireland with 220 dead including 13 in Derry. ‘If I agree,’ I asked, ‘when do you want me to start?’
‘As soon as your baby is born,’ he answered.
***
On 1 April 1974 our son Michael was born. Mary was a little disappointed that we didn’t have a little girl, but she was over the moon about us leaving the army and returning to Derry. She came out of hospital the next day and on 3 April 1974 we were on the
