The Spy Who - The Spy Who Jailed the Omagh Bomb Plotter | Blowing up the peace | 2

Episode Date: January 13, 2026

As the Real IRA moves to derail Northern Ireland’s fragile peace with bombs, MI5 asks spy trucker David Rupert to get close to its ringleader Michael McKevitt.See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Be advised. This episode of The Spy Who contains depictions of violence. June 1998, Derry, Northern Ireland. Mickey Donnelly dumps a plastic bag with milk on its kitchen table. Fecken I, you see. Can't even buy groceries in peace. He's angry after an altercation with the Royal Ulster Constabulary at a roadblock on the way home from the convenience store. Donnelly is one of the 14 hooded men.

men. Back in 1971, as a volunteer in the provisional IRA, he was rounded up by the British army, held without trial and tortured for a week. The incident made him a hero in Republican circles and an ongoing target for Northern Ireland's police force. His wife puts the milk away and addresses her three primary school-age daughters. Bright girls, ten minutes of TV, then bed. Their grown-up son, shouts from the living room. where he's watching TV with his girlfriend. Hey, Dad, we just saw you on TV calling Martin McGuinness, a traitor. Donnelly ignores his wife's worried look as they settle onto the couch.

And so he is. I inducted that bastard into the provisional IRA, and now he's selling us all down the river. Donnelly's status, as one of the hood of men, has also made him popular with journalists. He's often asked for his hardline Republican views, on issues and he usually obliges. Since the Good Friday Agreement was signed,

he's taken every opportunity to blast McGittis for agreeing to disarm the provisional IRA. Men with balaclavas burst into the house. They're carrying crowbars and baseball bats studded in nails. One sprays mace into the face of Donnelly's wife, while the others rushed Donnelly himself. Donnelly fights back. One of his daughters jumps under the back of one of the men,

but she was thrown against a wall and hit with a bat. Donnelly's son wrestles a man with a crowbar. One of the masked men takes out a gun and fires it. Back the fuck off or you'll shut. Donnelly and his son instinctively turned to protect the girls. As he does so, Donnelly feels one of the baseball bats smash into his back. He crashes to the floor and then other bat smashes into his leg. Pain explodes through him.

One of the masked men leans low and speaks into Donnelly's ear. Provisional IRA, Donnelly. Maybe this will teach you to keep that fucking mouth of yours shut. Donnelly feels himself slipping in and out of consciousness, as blows rain down on every part of his body. Eventually, he realizes the beating has stopped. In the distance, an ambulance siren wails. He vaguely hears his family's sobs.

But through the blood and agony, his resolve hardens. British torture didn't stop him, and neither will the provisional IRA. He'll do whatever he can to stop the peace process. Wonderry Plus subscribers can binge full seasons of the Spy Who early and add free on Apple Podcasts or the Wonderry app. From Wondery, I'm Raza Jaffrey, and this is The Spy Who. In the last episode, American trucker, David Rupert, became a spy for the FBI and MI5, as talks to end the violence in Northern Ireland, gathered pace.

Now the Good Friday Agreement is signed, and the provisional IRA is laying down its weapons. But with hardline Republicans vowing to keep on fighting for a United Ireland, Rupert's spymasters now need him to get the inside track on the new Republican threat to the peace process. You're listening to the spy who jailed the Omar bomb blotter. This is episode two, blowing up the peace. Two months after Mickey Donnelly's beating, August 15th, 1998. Omar, Northern Ireland. It's a beautiful day, and the centre of town is crowded.

Omar's annual carnival is due to start later. Parents and children fill the streets, squeezing in some back-to-school shopping before securing a good spot to watch the parade. Caught in the slow, creeping traffic going up the hill to the center of town is a maroon, boxall car. At the wheel is a member of the Hardline Republican group, the Continuity IRA. And in the boot is a 500-pound Semtex bomb. This is another joint operation with the real IRA. and his job is to deliver the bomb to its target, the market town's grey Georgian courthouse.

Courthouse car park is full. The driver has to keep going, caught in the town's one-way system. He loops the town centre, crossing to the north side of the river Struill. Then back over the water to the start of the road that leads to the courthouse, where he finds a parking spot.

It's a few hundred yards from his target, and right next to the SD Kel. clothes shop that's doing a brisk trade in school uniforms. At the far end of the road, he can just see the courthouse. He figures, it's close enough. He leans over to the glove box and sets the bomb's timer. Explosive primed, he gets out and walks to the waiting getaway car. As he's driven away, he takes his contact in the real IRA

to confirm the bomb is in place. In Omar police station, a sergeant, picks up the phone. Amma police, can I help you? A wave of fear rushes over the sergeant as he gets the warning that a bomb will go off in 40 minutes outside the courthouse. He grabs the police radio. All units, evacuate the courthouse in all surrounding streets immediately.

A bomb warning has been received. Repeat, a 40-minute bomb warning has been received. Armoured police cars arrive outside the courthouse. Police officers. fan out around the area directing people out of the building and down the surrounding streets. This is an emergency, evacuating area immediately. Don't work down the street. Turn miles away.

I'm waiting the courthouse! Ten miles away, the man who planted the bomb, calls his real IRA contact once again. Yeah, I forgot to mention. I couldn't actually park outside the courthouse, so the bomb is on the main street. What? Are you fucking kidding me? The sergeant in Omar police station gets a revised bomb warning. The real IRA called the Samaritans charity to say the bomb isn't at the courthouse.

It's 200 yards away on the main street. The sergeant grabs the police radio. All units, there are now three possible bomb sites. Evacuate the courthouse and the main streets near him. The police officer evacuating the area looks at his watch. The bomb's due to blow in just a few minutes. He and his colleagues are herding the crowds away from the courthouse and towards the far end of the street near the river.

But the crowd is so large that is difficult to get them to move quickly. Everyone, please has you cut! The mass of people surge, trapped in a suffocating crush at the far end of the street. The wilded children clinging to their parents. A factory worker who had just had her engagement photograph taken. A teenage boy about to go to secondary school. A woman, heavily pregnant with twins.

Three generations of one family out shopping together. A Spanish schoolboy on an exchange trip. A young charity shop volunteer who was told to evacuate. More than 200 people packed in tight, close to a parked maroon voxsw. And inside that voxel, the timer on the bomb, it's zero. That evening, Tullahan, the Republic of Ireland. David Rupert presses a button on the TV remote as he eases into a lounge chair.

He and his wife Maureen have just got back from a long walk. Now he's looking to relax for an hour or two. Many of those who did not die in the blast died on their way to hospital or in the operating theatre. It may prove to be by far the worst single atrocity in the long, bloody modern history. of Northern Ireland. Rupert stares at the carnage of the Omar bomb attack.

Maureen soon comes to stand next to him with her hand over her mouth in shock. 21 people are so far confirmed dead and more than 200 have serious injuries. Maureen covers her mouth and tears start to well in her eyes. Oh my God. The couple stare at the footage on the screen in horror.

The devastated shopping Street, with its buildings blasted open debris strewn across it. Bloody victims seeking help. The seriously injured being carried away on makeshift stretches. The scores of injured overwhelmed the local hospital. This is bad. Country votes for peace, and they do this? Martin McGuinness of Sinn Féin said the bombing was carried out by those opposed to the peace process.

On hearing that, Rupert snaps out of his shot. He rushes to his phone and dials the emergency number, MI5 gave him. He's put through to his handler. Have you seen the news about Omar? Yes. No, but the provisionals are going to go mad. They'll come after the splinter groups. I want to go back to the States.

They don't want to get caught in the blowback. I agree. That's the safest course of motion. But he will arouse less suspicion if Joe O'Neill tells you to go. Can you see him tonight? An hour later. Rupert pulls up outside Joe O'Neill's pub in Donegal. From behind the bar, O'Neill spots him,

and motions to him to follow him upstairs to his office. As O'Neill sits behind his desk, Rupert notices the hardliner's usually ruddy complexion is ashen. What's it us? O'Neill nods. That fucking Egypt, shame us. McEbbott is pissed. Says we fucked up the campaign.

Michael McEvitt is the leader of the Reefat. IRA, that he blames the continuity IRA for Omar is useful Intel. But it also raises the possibility that the two hardline groups will cease joint operations. So what happens now? I lay low until this blows over. What about the provost? I mean, look what they did to Mickey Donnelly just for calling them traitors. O'Neill gives him a grim look.

Aye, they'll be killings this time, sure. Jesus chap. I'm properly scared. O'Neill doesn't seem to hear. Rupert wonders if he should be more obvious. But then O'Neill takes a deep breath. You should get yourself at mooring back to the States. I don't want to see you two getting caught up in this mess. Rupert feels a wave of relief. He's about to turn and go when he sees O'Neill move to stand. But then fall. as if his knees have buckled. Are you a cageo? O'Neill gives him a weak smile.

Yo, our message. Someone will message when it's safe to come back. For a moment, Rupert feels worried for O'Neill. But then he remembers the television pictures from the bombing and thinks of Maureen. He leaves without a glance. He needs to book flights home for them both tonight. Several months later, County Tyrone, Northern Ireland.

Rupert sits in his hire car outside a row of whitewashed cottages that once belonged to the grandfather of US president, Woodrow Wilson. Rupert is supposedly here as a tourist, but he's actually here to meet his MI5 handler, Andrew. A car pulls up next to Rupert. A man in a Macintosh gets out and lights a cigarette. He smokes it leaning against his car. Rupert waits patiently. He knows Andrew is checking for surveillance. Finally, Andrew flakes his cigarette butt onto the ground

and climbs into Rupert's passenger seat. Morning, David. Good to see you back. It's Rupert's first visit to Ireland since the Omar bombing. Andrew fills him in on what's happened in his absence. We know McEvitt and the real IRA ordered the bomb attack, but he's covered his tracks well. There's no evidence linking him. As soon as the public outcry calms down,

he'll start up again. We need to get someone close. to him. Ideally you. Any ideas? Mickey Donnelly could be a way in. Donnelly? How is he after his beating? Livid. He's pissed at the provos, but also with a continuity IRA for Omar. Wouldn't surprise me if he defected to the real IRA. Andrew smiles. Well, that sounds promising. Stick close to Donnelly.

Early 1999. Derry. Derry. Northern Ireland. Mickey Donnelly pours Rupert a glass of wine. Oh dear. End of the bottle. Maureen, you'll have to have the poaching. No, that stuff is lethal. Rupert and his wife, Maureen, are at the Donnellys for dinner. They've been several times over the past few months. Not only do the Donnellys enjoy their company, but they are also deeply grateful. Rupert has been giving them some of the money raised in America to support IRA families. Donnelly is still unable to work following his beating from the provisional IRA, so the cash has been a lifesaver. Donnelly's wife starts to clear the plates.

Tea or coffee, anyone? Maureen jumps up to help her. A loved one. Let me help you. As the women head into the kitchen, Donnelly looks at Rupert and nods towards the back door. Dave and I are just going out the back to talk. Still on his crutches, Donnelly gets himself through the back door and onto a garden chair. I'm thinking of leaving the continuity IRA, Dave. That's a shame. I don't know you and Joe aren't getting on so well. Hi, we need real leaders to revive the armed struggle.

People who know what they're doing. So I've approached McEbbett about joining the real IRA. Donnelly squints at Rupert's silhouette. I'm meeting him next month. You should come too. Me? Why? Because you're the money man from America. Everyone knows it's the one thing the continuity IRA have going for them.

If you defected too, then the real IRA will be where the provos were before they sold us out. That's a big step. Aside from my personal relationship, with Joe. I'd need to discuss it with my contacts in Chicago. We don't want the folks donating back home getting suspicious about where the money's going. I promise me you'll think about it. Meetings in a month. Rupert nods and the two men go back inside. Rupert grabs their coats and hands on to Maureen. Well, thank you both for a lovely night. We need to head back. As Maureen puts on her coat, Rupert fumbles in his pockets for his car keys.

A ball of rolled up receipts falls out Donnelly's wife helps pick them up before saying goodbye Bye thanks Bye Later as they're clearing up Donnelly's wife frowns at her husband Don't you think it's odd That Dave

The big time trucking millionaire Is always collecting receipts That's how they become millionaires isn't it Claiming it all back off tax She raises an eyebrow at him Or maybe he needs to give the receipts to somebody. Donnelly pauses for a moment, but then dismisses the thought. Rupert's been providing the Republican calls with money for years.

No way, can he be a snitch. July 1999, Monaghan, Republic of Ireland. In a dimly lit hotel bar, David Rupert and Mickey Donnelly rise as the man they're waiting for. arrives. That man is real IRA leader, Michael McEbbett, and is accompanied by several of the group's volunteers. McEvitt is in his late 40s, with receding hair and a hard mouth, but he radiates authority and ruthlessness. After the handshakes and introductions, they sit, and McEvitt looks straight at Rupert. Donnelly tells me you're a legend at finding money for the cause. Well, the money comes from friends in Chicago.

My expertise is bringing it into Ireland for you boys. But you've got influence over there, some I guess, and I have been impressed at your growth and impact. I'd say we've brought over 97% of the continuity IRA members now, and a good few provos as well. We're looking to be ambitious and inflict real damage. Donnelly leans forward. restless at being left out of the conversation. Exactly. I've got a workable plan to kill a police officer in Derry

when the time is right. McEvitt gives Donnelly an impatient glance. That's old-school thinking, Donnelly. We're planning a bombing campaign in London and you're talking about killing one policeman. Donnelly reddens as McEvitt turns back to Rupert. So, Like I was saying, we have the manpower.

What we need now is a reliable source of income. Omar was a disaster of the continuity IRA's making. Their only strength is the money you bring them. That money will be better spent directly with the real IRA. I agree with you, but I'd need to talk to my contacts in America about it. McEbbett smiles and raises his glass in a mock salute. Good man. It's a few months later, and Rupert is standing in the kitchen of Michael McEvitt's home in BlackRock, Ireland.

It's a typical middle-class home, and Rupert's here to attend his first meeting of the real IRA Army Council. Since his first meeting with McEvitt, things have moved fast. His ability to provide the terrorist group with American funds is about to give him a ringside seat to its plans. But the closer to McEvitt he gets, the more nervous he feels. The continuity IRA were more talk. with an action, but the real IRA are battle-hardened and believe violence is the only way to achieve their aims. McEvitt's wife, Bernadette Sands, interrupts his thoughts.

Cooper? Rupert nods gracefully at Bernadette. She tucks her short, manicured bob behind her ears as she shouts. It is great you're here with us, Dave, fighting the cause. I love Ireland. It should be united and free. Exactly. Not this good Friday mess.

My brother Bobby didn't starve himself to death just for a seat at the table. Their conversation is cut short as McEvitt starts the meeting. Firstly, I'd like to move that we appoint Dave Rupert to the Army Council as a representative of our important fundraising partners in the US. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Rupert smiles. Getting a seat on the real IRA's Army Council is a big breakthrough. for his spy work, but he's also worried.

Thank you. I'm honoured to join you, but I know Joe O'Neill is angry with me about defecting. I'm not sure if I should be taking precautions. McEvett waves his hand dismissively. Ah, don't worry about Joe. If the continuity IRA threaten you, we'll have people call at their doors and threaten to shoot them. I should put a stop to it. As McEvitt moves on to the rest of the meeting, Rupert feels a shiver at where his spying has led him. He's now the golden goose being fought over by IRA splinter groups.

But then, something McEvitt says snaps his attention back. Our sleeper agent in Boston is in place and ready. A sleeper agent? In the US. Don't worry. He's not going to do anything that will cause your problems back home. So what's he doing in Boston then? He's a Republican soldier and too valuable to bring to Ireland in case he gets arrested. We'll call him when the operation is ready to go.

A bombing? McEvett and the others around the table, grin. No. Smith used to be in the French Foreign Legion. He's the best shot in the IRA. He's an assassin. Rupert's look of surprise seems to please McEvett. Who's he going to assassinate?

The men around the table chuckle, as McEbbett answers. Tony Blair, that's who. Rupert's jaw drops. The real IRA is not just plotting bomb attacks in London. It's planning to kill the British Prime Minister. February 2000, Dundalk, Republic of Ireland. It's a few months later, and Rupert is being driven to a real array bomb makers meeting. He's desperately trying and failing to remember the route.

But they are in a rabbit warren of council estates and the driver is deliberately going around in circles at times to shake any surveillance. It's an effective tactic. The council estate is grey, drab and depressing. To Rupert's eyes, the houses all look the same. He has no idea where he is. They stop at the house that's been turned into the real IRA's bomb factory. They get out just as McEvitt arrives. He's wearing a baseball cap pulled low, and there's a look of fury on his face. For a moment, Rupert wonders if he's been driven to his execution. But then, McEvitt smiles at Rupert. Right on time, you're okay. He looked angry before. Fucking Mickey Donnelly. He's been shooting his mouth off to reporters again.

derailed one of our operations. Is it serious? Well, put it this way. How would you feel if we had that gobshide shot? Rupert expects McEvett to laugh at the joke, but instead, he's waiting for a reply. It's a serious question. Oh, well, if it's justified, that's fine by me.

McEvett nods briskly and leads the way inside the house. Behind him, Rupert is overcome with horror for a moment. Has he just approved the killing of a friend? How would he feel if McEvitt actually goes through with it? In the dining room, at the back of the house, the blackout curtains are drawn. On the table are a variety of bomb components. Around the table are three young men debating bomb-making techniques until McEvitt interrupts them.

Lads, this is Dave Rupert, our American friend. He's brought with him some items requested by D'SVEVEVETT. Dent. Dent is the real IRA's chief engineer, the man in charge of bomb making. He's absent from the meeting. Rupert wonders if he's been sent on a bombing operation. Rupert unzips his backpack. So here is the PGP encryption package. One of the bomb makers takes the encryption software box and inspects it with suspicion. How do we know this hasn't been hacked? The adrenaline floods Rupert's body. The software has been with MI5 for the past month.

He has no idea if these electronics experts will be able to discover whatever the British intelligence service puts on those discs. The bomb maker stands and moves into Rupert's personal space, aggression radiating of him. I said, how do we know this hasn't been doctored? I've never heard of this company. Rupert feels sweat trickled out. his side. But he has no option but to front it out. He stares down at the bomb maker from his

commanding height. Look, Dent asked me for it. I brought this thing through Irish customs. I sure as hell, I'm not bringing it back through US customs. You think it's compromised? Throw it away, not my problem. McEvitt pulls the bomb maker back. Boys, calm down. Look, Dent asked for it. Take it up with him. The bomb maker continues to glare at Rupert, but he backs down. Vine. Whatever. The meeting continues, but Rupert can't focus.

The confrontation has rattled him. What if they find something amiss in the software? He feels he's in way over his head. He's running with wolves now, and every day might be his last. Two months later, the Holiday Inn, Worcester, Massachusetts. Rupert sits on the edge of the bed in his room and absentmindedly scuffs the cheap carpet with his shoe. The FBI have just left.

The room is now bugged and armed agents are hiding out in a room nearby. But none of it makes him feel any better about meeting a trained IRA assassin. He opens the door and sees a lean man in his mid-thirties. He's dressed casually in jeans and a thick coat. Smith? Aye.

Smith enters and looks up at Rupert. You'd be hard to hide in a crowd? Yeah, I get that a lot. Smith is the real IRA's sleeper assassin. His mission is to assassinate Tony Blair, when the time is right. In the meantime, he's running guns for them in the US. He looks athletic and tough as nails. As he chats, Smith wanders the room, checking lamps and feeling under the desk,

as if it's a habit. Rupert prays he won't find any of the FBI's bugs and tries to distract him. So, uh, McEvitt said we should work together. He picks up a military hardware catalogue he brought with him and hands it to Smith. If you pick out what you need for your, uh, operation, then I can buy it for you. Smith flicks through the catalogue to the sniper rifles. These look good. I'll get back to you. Tell Michael I've got 25 o'clock handgun secured.

It needs to send me a safe address in Ireland. Rupert suddenly realizes that if his spying was ever discovered, Smith would be the man who would be ordered to hunt him down and kill him here in the US. The thought unsettles him. I'll let him know. McEvitt also needs you to source these bomb components. If you let me know the cost, I'll get the money to you. Smith nods and shoves the shopping list of bomb items.

into his coat pocket. Things are happening as big as you, big man. We're on a roll. As Rupert shakes the assassin's hand, he knows he's right. In just a couple of years, the real IRA have become well-armed, highly skilled and well-funded,

in part with American money diverted to them with Rupert's help. And now, they're ready for war. A couple of months later, June 1, 2000. West London. It's four in the morning and the streets are quiet as an MI5 surveillance officer starts his car and listens to his team leader on his earpiece.

The officer drives to the junction with Fulham Palace Road and sees the target car go past. He recognises the other MI5 surveillance car travelling behind it. Turning into the traffic, he uses a stoplight to manoeuvre himself behind the target car and speaks into his mic. Zero-six here, I have the target in clear sight. He watches as the other surveillance unit pulls back and peels off the outside stream. The MI5 surveillance officer sips a coffee as he drives. The driver of the target car is a known member of the real IRA, and MI5 have been following him ever since he arrived in London yesterday.

But he's not the only one in London. The spy agency is watching. Five other real IRA members also arrived in London yesterday, all of which suggests they've got something bland. And the man this MI5 officer is tailing started acting strangely a few hours ago. He spent the night in a nightclub but didn't drink. And now he's driving away from his hotel. Target heading left onto Nella Road. Repeat, turning left on the Nella Road. The real IRA man turns into the small suburban streets and heads down to the river.

The MI5 surveillance car will be easier to spot there, especially at this time of the morning. The MI5 officer peels off into a side street to find a parking space. He feels the adrenaline rush now. This is odd. Something is up. He hurries down a street on foot, listening to the radio in his ear. Someone else has eyes on the target, so his job. Mr. Loiter out of sight in case he is needed.

He walks to the river embankment. From there, it'll be quicker to get to any of the adjoining streets if he needs to. As he walks onto the river embankment, he takes a moment to admire the beauty of the river. In the distance, the Victorian steel elegance of Hammersmith Bridge has lit up against the early morning sky. On his radio, he hears the chat from the other surveillance teams. He stops walking. The target has driven through the suburban streets and now return to Fulham Palace Road. He turns to hurry back towards his car.

He spins round to locate the source of the explosion. Further up river, smoke is rising from the south side of Hammersmith Bridge. The MI5 officer starts running towards the bridge, speaking into the tiny microphone in his shirt. Bloody bomb just went off on Hammersmith's Bridge. But it wasn't our time. Something's gone wrong. Two weeks later, Shalda Gawall Airport, Paris.

In the corner of a hotel room, David Rupert eases himself into a large sofa chair opposite his MI5 handler. Rupert is on his way to Ireland for a meeting with real IRA leader, Michael McEvitt. But MI5 asked Rupert for a catch-up in Paris beforehand. I assume this is about the Hammersmith Bridgeball. Yeah.

Well, we're operating blind. We suspect they used a previously unknown cell to carry out the attack, but that's just a theory right now. What do you need to know? Get McKevitt to talk as much as possible about the operation. It's vital we know how they did it on what they have planned next. The next evening, Carrickdale Hotel, Dundalk. Rupert looks out of his hotel window at the manicured grounds

where some real IRA members are walking and chatting. Officially, the hotel is hosting the annual conference of the 32-county sovereignty movement, a Republican campaign group opposed to the peace process and linked to the real IRA. MI5 wants Rupert to use this event to elicit information about the Hammersmith bomb from McEbbett. So far, the mission's not going well. McEvitt is in high demand, but then Rupert gets a text. Rupert checks the text message. It's McEvitt, suggesting Rupert comes to join him at the hotel bar.

Rupert heads to the elevator, but his heart sinks as he spots Martin Galvin, an attorney from New York, heading his way. Dave, hold the door. Galvin is a supporter of the sovereign movement, but avoids any association with the armed struggle. This means he only ever talks about Irish politics. Unfortunately, he talks about it non-stop to any way. anyone he can find. Hello, Martin.

Nice, hotel, this. You're heading to the bar? Yeah. As they enter the bar, Rupert sees McEvitt's facefall at the site of Galvin, accompanying him. Mind if I join you for a drink? Three hours later, Calvin is still with them, talking politics, and Rupert is beginning to panic. Time with McEvitt is precious during the conference, and this talkative lawyer is going to ruin his one chance to get details about the Hammersmith Bridge attack.

Finally, Galvin takes the hint and leaves. McEbbett rolls his eyes. Mother Mary of God, that man can talk. I don't need politicians, I need soldiers. Speaking of which, congratulations on Hammersmith Bridge. Spectacular. McEvitt leans back, pleased. They did well, didn't they?

You know, there's a lot of security cameras around that bridge. Twice before the IRA have tried to bomb that bridge and we succeeded where they failed. McEvitt tells Rupert how the attack was carried out by a cell in London that had no past connections to the Republican movement and how Irish truckers were used to sneak the bombs onto the bridge. We also sent several volunteers to London to keep MI5 distracted. Wish I could have seen the looks on their faces when they realised what was going on.

But we're just getting started, David. to tell me. Did you meet with Smith? Yeah. I got his shopping list and we're close to raising the target amount so we can move on purchasing those when you're ready.

Good. They want to escalate the London campaign. Once we've got the fear running high will bring Smith in for his big moment. Anyway, I best head for bed, busy day tomorrow. See you in the morning.

McEbbett gets up to go. The discussion is over, leaving Rupert frustrated. MI5 will want more information on the multiple cells in London and the assassination plan, but he doesn't have it. He didn't have enough time. The next morning,

Lekevitt emerges from his hotel room shower to be greeted by his wife, Bernadette, waving the Sunday Times of him. You need to read this. The newspaper has an article about the real IRA, and it names Rupert as a true. trucking millionaire who's donated a fortune to the group and has direct access to its leaders. How did they find out? McEvitt puts on his trousers with a scowl.

Mickey bloody Donnelly is how. That journalist is one of his pets. But why? Because he's out of date and nobody cares and he was once a hooded man. Look at that bastard shot when I had the chance. One of McEvitt's lie lie lie lieutenants arrives. He's also read the newspaper. This is bad news. The police will be be all over Rupert when he comes into Ireland now. Bernadette's eyes widen as she realizes the implications. And if he gets arrested and talks, McEvitt looks reluctant. He's our link to the funds from Chicago.

Forget the money. He's a liability. We need to cut contact with him now. Same time, downstairs in the breakfast room of the hotel. Rupert cuts his bacon with real viciousness. Martin Galvin, the talkative lawyer, has once more found his way to his side and is spoiling his breakfast with more chatter. I mean, it's ridiculous what Adams has agreed to here, and it was never going to work. Of course, the DUP would walk out.

You see, the British, they've been clever. A text from Bernadette pops up on Rupert's phone next to his plate. He reads it, frowning. She's asking if he's seen the Sunday Times. Sorry, Martin. Something's come up. I've got to go. Rupert rushes to reception and rummages through the tidily stacked newspapers.

When he finds the article, he feels dizzy. Thoughts bombard him from every angle. What will his family think? The article makes him sound like a paid-up member of the real IRA. What will the real IRA think? There's no way they'll trust him with transporting their money and guns now. And what about MI5 and the FBI? Can he still be a spy?

Well, they stop paying him for his work. Rupert heads back to his hotel room. He figures it must be Donnelly who planted the article. He's been bad-mouthing Rupert ever since he was sidelined by Makebitt. Back in his room, Rupert gets out his laptop and taps out an encrypted email to MI5. The Sunday Times has just blown my cover. I've got one just meeting tomorrow.

and things just like me. Fucked. Have you got a spy story you'd like us to tell? Email your ideas to The Spy Who at Wondery.com. From Wondery, this is the second episode in our season, The Spy Who Jailed the Omar Bomb Plotter. A quick note about our dialogue. We can't know everything that was said or done behind closed doors,

particularly far back in history. But our scenes are in history. using the best available sources. So even if a scene or conversation has been recreated of a dramatic effect, it's still based on biographical research. We used many sources in our research for this season, including The Accidental Spy by Sean O'Driscoll.

The Spy Who is hosted by me, Raza Jafrey. Our show is produced by Bispouchi, with writing and story editing by Yellow Ant for Wondery. For Yellow Ant, This episode was written by Judy Cooper and researched by Louise Byrne. Our managing producer is Jay Priest. For Vespucci, our senior producer is Ashley Clivery. Our sound designer is Alex Port Felix.

Natalia Rodriguez is the supervising producer. Music supervisor is Scott Velasquez for Friss and Sink. Executive producers for Vespucci are Johnny Galvin and Daniel Turkin. Executive producer for Yellow Ant is Tristan. Donovan. Executive producers for Wonderry are Estelle Doyle, Theodora Laudis and Marshall Louis. Wonderly plus subscribers can binge full seasons of the Spy Who early and add free on Apple Podcasts or the Wondery app.