The Spy Who - The Spy Who Sold Peace to the IRA | Fly Fishing | 3

Episode Date: August 27, 2024

When Willie Carlin makes an alarming discovery in an IRA safe house, he must choose between preserving his cover or conscience.Listen to The Spy Who ad-free on Wondery+ in the Wondery App, Apple Podcasts or Spotify. Start your free trial by visiting wondery.com/links/the-spy-who now. See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Wondery Plus subscribers can binge full seasons of The Spy Who early and ad-free on Apple Podcasts or the Wondery app. July 8th, 1983. The Gobnerscale Estate, Derry. It's early morning and Willie Carlin is preparing to leave the building site he manages for the local tenants association. He enters the site's joinery workshop, keys in hand, ready to lock up. Inside, it's gloomy. The daylight is shut out by boards on the windows with only one weak light bulb to compensate. Keys in hand, he starts locking up.

But then, in a shadowy corner of the workshop, he sees an unfamiliar shape. He knows local Republicans sometimes make use of the site, so decides to investigate. In the corner are two long wooden boxes, placed next to each other. He opens one. Christ. Inside are three Armalite rifles.

He checks the next box. It's packed with ammunition. He looks around the rest of the workshop and notices a crumpled plastic shopping bag tucked into the fireplace. Garland crouches to examine it and frowns. There are wires protruding from the bag, disappearing beneath the grate in the fireplace. Inside the bag are two batteries connected with wires that bundle together with a clock and a block of white clay material wrapped in cellophane. Semtex. It's a booby trap bomb, designed to go off as soon as someone moves it. And then, Carlin hears something that takes his breath away. He must have set off the timer.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, protect me. He crosses himself and tries to calm his breathing. But despite his fear... nothing happens. The bomb hasn't been primed. Carlin stares at the bomb, wondering what to do. The bomb and the rifles will cause death and devastation. But if he alerts the Royal Ulster Constabulary, he could blow his cover. There are only a few people with keys to the workshop.

Carlin paces the workshop, thinking. The bomb takes seconds to prime. It could kill and maim hundreds of people. His conscience won't let him leave it. He returns to the bag and picks it up. From Wondery, I'm Raza Jafri. To be continued... But after the IRA murdered a young mother, he reconsidered and became an agent for the FRU, the British Army's covert intelligence unit in Northern Ireland. Now, having infiltrated Sinn Féin, he's out to steer IRA leader Martin McGuinness and the wider Republican movement towards a peaceful solution to the troubled.

You're listening to The Spy Who Sold Peace to the IRA. Episode 3. Fly Fishing. July 8th, 1983. Ebrington Barracks, Derry. It's a few hours since Carlin found the bomb at the workshop. Now he's in the Frew debriefing room, with his briefcase on the table in front of him. His Frew handler, Desi, walks in holding two cups of tea.

So, Willie, what's the emergency? Carlin clicks open his briefcase and hands over the plastic shopping bag containing the bomb. Desi gives him his tea and peers into the bag. Holy shit! Desi springs backwards, drops his tea and runs out of the room. Desi, it's not primed, you idiot! But Desi has disappeared. Fifteen minutes later, a member of the bomb disposal squad appears.

It's clear he's dressed in a hurry. The tail of his bomb-proof body wrap, which should be clipped between his legs, trails behind him on the floor like a kangaroo's tail. The image makes Carlin want to laugh, but he represses the urge. Carlin picks up the bag and carefully places it into the shaking, gloved hands that reach for it. The man's visor is steamed up from his heavy breathing. He takes the bomb and quickly carries it out the door. A few moments later, Desi appears, his shirt still wet with tea.

Jesus, Willie. What the hell were you thinking? Bringing a bomb into our barracks? I didn't know what else to do. I didn't want to leave it and risk it ending up in some pub full of innocent people. Besides, I knew it wasn't primed. Well, you really know how to make things interesting. Is that all? Not quite.

Desi steps back as Carlin reaches into his jacket pocket. Carlin smiles mischievously as he takes out a piece of folded paper and hands it to his nervous handler. What's this? It's a sketch of the workshop where I found the bomb. You see that X? The IRA is storing guns and ammo there as well. You need to fake a break-in to cover up the fact that the bomb is missing.

Otherwise they'll know it's me. Desi looks at the sketch and nods. He folds it and puts it into his pocket. Sounds like a job for the SAS. I'll get on it. Listen, Desi. It's important they do it about three or four in the morning so nobody is around. It'll be too risky to do it before then.

Understood. And, uh, thanks, Willie. I think. 11.30pm that night. In his house on the Gobnesgale estate, Carlin is getting ready to go to bed when his phone rings. Hello? It's his sister, Doreen.

Willie, there's a break-in at the building site. You better get down here. On my way. Carlin glances at the clock and frowns. It can't be the SAS team. It's too early. People are still heading home from the pub. Carlin jumps into his car and drives fast to the building site. Up ahead, he sees people hurling stones at two men

who are scrambling over a wall, trying to escape. Carlin realises they must be the SAS men. As Carlin pulls up, he hears a gunshot. He looks up but sees no-one's hurt and that the fleeing men have gotten over the wall. A young man in a balaclava with a pistol in his hand races over to Carlin's car and jumps into the passenger seat. Willie, get after them! Carlin freezes and stares at the hooded man. What are you waiting for? Drive!

Carlin has no choice. He must pretend to hunt down the SAS men, or his cover will be blown. He speeds through the streets. Ah, God of... In his headlights, Carlin sees the two men running down the street. The IRA man in the passenger seat winds down his window and starts firing. Shit! Missed! The two men zigzag and then leap over a backyard fence and out of sight. Carlin and his IRA passenger keep looking for them, but to Carlin's

relief, the SAS men the building site in Gobner Scale. At his desk, Carlin is writing a letter when he hears angry shouting from outside. He and the other worker in the office look out of the window and see two men squaring up to each other outside the workshop. Then where's our bomb? What the hell are you doing storing bombs in our building? Right next to our guns! The men start throwing punches and brawling on the ground.

Carlin looks to his colleague for enlightenment. What's going on? Bloody clowns. The one talking about his bomb is Inla. They stashed a bomb in our workshop. Can you believe it? The Inla, or Irish National Liberation Army, is a less disciplined Republican paramilitary rival to the IRA. It wants to unite Ireland under communist rule.

It seems the INLA thought it could also use the workshop to store its bomb. But the disappearance of the bomb has stirred up more bad blood between the two groups. As they watch the punch-up, Carlin risks a question. Is he right? Did the IRA take his bomb? Nah, God knows. But better ask than those Inla numpties having it. Carlin watches the Inla man get a severe beating and hopes the missing bomb continues to be blamed on anyone but himself.

Three days later. Ebrington Barracks. Carlin steps out of the van that brought him to the barracks and wonders why he is being led to a different section of the garrison than usual. Before he can ask why, Carlin is shown into a room where a tall, red-headed soldier with a face like thunder is waiting. The soldier doesn't bother with small talk. I'd like to know what the hell you're playing at. Setting up my men the other night. Carlin realises the man must be SAS and feels his own temper flare. What am I playing at?

Ah, that's rich. If you'd done the operation at three in the morning as I told you to, there wouldn't be a problem. I have it on good authority you were chasing down my men and shooting at them. I'm supposed to be undercover. You stage a break-in as the pubs are emptying and you expect me to save your sorry arses? Jesus, I don't need this.

You know better than the IRA screw-ups on my estate. Carlin storms out of the room and runs into his frue handler, Desi, who's been listening outside. Silently, Desi leads Carlin down the hallway and into another room. Carlin paces in fury. Who was he? SAS? Yes. Look, I know you're angry, Willie, and I'm not saying you shouldn't be, but for some reason they didn't trust your instructions on the timings. And he's not the only one. Some of the bigwigs have concerns about where your loyalties lie. Oh, that is just bloody brilliant.

I'm put at risk because the SAS can't do its job properly, and now I'm the one under suspicion. Look, just keep out of trouble, yeah? You're valuable to us, and I believe you when you say you had no choice. But when people see you helping an IRA gunman hunt down our guys, it makes them question you and your information. Colin seethes and wonders why the hell he's even doing this job. He's risked his life to warn the British about the guns and bombs in the workshop,

only to find himself under suspicion. And he needs to win their trust back, because if anything goes wrong, he'll have no one else to turn to. September 1983. MI5 headquarters, Gower Street, London. Willie Carlin's former MI5 handler, Michael Bettany, stares at the sheet of paper laid out on the desk in front of him. On the sheets are coded phone numbers, written out in his own handwriting. He swallows nervously and looks up at the man sat on the other side of the desk. He's Director K, MI5's head of counter-espionage. Well, Michael, we know these are the phone numbers for two KGB officers.

Would you mind telling me what they were doing in your office diary? This is the third time Bettany has been interrogated in the past 24 hours. Somehow, his colleagues found out that he's been trying to hand classified documents to the Russians. But he also knows the evidence against him is circumstantial. They need him to confess. He just needs to hold out. But then, Director K leans forward with a concerned look on his face. Why, Michael? Why did you do it?

Why would you betray your colleagues and your country? Bettany licks his dry lips. He knows Kay won't understand that since his time in Northern Ireland, he's no longer felt he's fighting on the right side. He feels more in common with Irish Republicans and Soviet Communists than his British bosses. Well, what would you say if, hypothetically, an intelligence officer felt alienated from what the service is trying to achieve?

I would ask why this hypothetical officer felt alienated enough to put the lives of everyone he works with at risk. Bettany stares at Kay, wide-eyed for a moment. He hadn't thought of it like that. All he knew was that for just a few weeks, the purpose and effort of trying to get the documents to the KGB had stopped the nightmares. The nightmares that have haunted his sleep every night for years.

I couldn't have another whisky, could I? Bettany knows this isn't a good idea. He hasn't eaten or slept for two days, and he's already consumed one bottle of whisky. His brain is sluggish, he's bound to slip up. But unbidden, those memories of Northern Ireland are rearing up again in his mind's eye. He doesn't see Kay get up and retrieve the bottle from the mahogany cabinet.

All he can see is that dusty floor under a bed in that small house in Northern Ireland. The knocking on the door that announced the arrival of the IRA punishment squad that came for his agent while he was there debriefing him. As Kay puts the glass of whiskey on the table and slides it over to him, Bettany is again hiding under that bed, pressing his hands desperately to his ears, trying to shut out the screams as his agent is tied to a chair and kneecapped with a power drill. He grabs the glass of whiskey and downs it in one mouthful.

Fine. I'll confess. I did it. Bettany sees the confused elation on Kay's face. But he doesn't care anymore. He just wants to drink himself to oblivion. Perhaps a long stretch in prison will help drive his nightmares away. One year later, the Bogside Inn, Derry. In the pub's upstairs function room, Sinn Féin is holding a debate about the party's future.

It's been organised by the chairman of the party's branch in Derry, Mitchell McLaughlin, who's also acting as the event's timekeeper. Now, Willie Carlin will speak in support of the motion that Sinn Féin will take up any seats it wins in the Derry City Council elections. As you all know, this would be a change to our current policy of standing in British elections but refusing to take our seats when we win. Carlin stands and looks out at the crowded room. It's filled with a mix of Sinn Féin members and hardline IRA volunteers. Thank you, Mitchell. McLaughlin's timed his debate carefully.

He believes political negotiation is vital to furthering the Irish Republican cause, but most IRA members refuse to even consider it. So he's chosen the moment when more than 35 senior IRA hardliners from Derry are in jail. They're all awaiting trial after being named as terrorists by Raymond Gilmore, a former IRA getaway driver turned police informant. All of which makes this a perfect opportunity to persuade the party to look beyond armed struggle. And Carlin knows both McLaughlin and his frue handlers are relying on him to be persuasive tonight. Sinn Féin needs to change.

What good is the armed struggle If our children face a future without hope Playgrounds of rubble Poor housing And no hope of a decent job Colin knows he's not in for an easy ride. After all, he's proposing turning resistance fighters into politicians. And that's a big ask for those in the audience who blame both British and Irish politicians for the troubles.

I say we have shown our strength. We have already shown the depths of our courage and despair. But now we must also show that we can lead and change. We must show that we are capable of more than violence. And that starts with these city elections. An IRA man angrily jabs the air with his finger. The armed struggle is the only way to unite Ireland. The bell to indicate it's time for the next speaker rings,

but Carlin ignores it and takes on the heckler. And what happens when we unite Ireland? If we're not experienced in politics, then the Unionist parties in the North and Fine Gael in the South will outmanoeuvre us at every turn. Would you see everything we've done destroyed? Or would you build on it to make life better for the Catholics of Derry? An hour later, the motion is carried. Colin feels elated.

Sinn Féin will now take any election seats it wins in the council elections. It's a concrete sign that the hardliners are losing ground to the political movement in Derry, just as the Frou hopes. It's a month later, and Carlin is driving Martin McGuinness to a meeting about 60 miles south of Derry. Carlin hasn't been told who McGuinness is meeting, but he suspects it's to do with a recent Royal Ulster Constabulary seizure of a ship from Libya. On board the ship were more than a million pounds worth of guns and

arms that were destined for the IRA. McGuinness has a reporter's notebook on his knee and is scribbling notes in it. As he pauses, Carlin decides to take a risk. Martin, do you mind if I say something about Gilmore? It's a dangerous topic. Raymond Gilmore's decision to betray the IRA and become a police informer has put McGuinness in a precarious position. Gilmore's information has put most of Derry's senior IRA members in jail, wiping out McGuinness' power base in one move. It's also raised concerns that Gilmore might have information

that could get McGuinness himself arrested too. McGuinness narrows his hard, blue eyes at Carnan. And what might you be wanting to say about that scumbag, Willie? Well, in case you were thinking of having something done about him. I thought you should know it could harm our chances in the election. That's what I'm hearing on the streets. Carlin feels relieved that they've reached a police roadblock before McGuinness has time to respond.

A Royal Ulster Constabulary officer approaches Carlin's window and looks in. Other officers move in to search the vehicle. You know the drill. Driving license. The IUC officers check the car. Carlin marvels at how normal this is for him now. Finally, they're waved on their way. As they drive off, Carlin looks in the rearview mirror and grins. I see they've been issued with your favourite maker's submachine guns.

McGuinness gives a wry smile. You'd think the British could build better bloody weapons. The rattle is terrible when you fire them. Did the paras use those on Bloody Sunday? McGuinness's smile is immediately wiped off his face. Carlin wonders if he's about to get slapped down for his impertinence, but recklessly pushes on. If we get elected,

will we push for an inquiry into what happened that day? I get asked that all the time. McGuinness stares straight ahead. It's clear he's not keen to talk about that day in 1972. Carlin remembers his own horror when he heard that British soldiers had opened fire on unarmed protesters in Derry. Thirteen people died that day.

Willie, there'll never be an inquiry. Carlin wonders how much McGuinness was involved on Bloody Sunday. The British Army claims they were fired upon first. Forgive me if I'm making an arse of myself. Did we have guns that day, then? McGuinness shifts uncomfortably in his seat. There were weapons. It was a confusing and hectic situation.

We had weapons, but we did nothing to defend the marchers. At the time, I wish we had. But I suppose it was a good thing we didn't, or there would have been even more dead. And we would have got the blame for it. So who owned the guns? McGinnis fidgets with his pen and licks his lips briefly. Carlin can see he doesn't like this line of questioning and is amazed he answers.

The official IRA. They'd issued two guns. Carlin suddenly understands. When the troubles began in the late 60s, disagreements over tactics caused the IRA to split into two organizations, the official IRA and the provisional IRA. And the relations between the two were notoriously tense. We gave our word to the organizers of the march that there'd be no weapons in Bogside that day. We managed to step in and get the guns off them, but, well...

McGinnis looks silently out at the passing countryside and then leans forward to switch on the radio, signalling the conversation is over. Shortly afterwards, they pull up outside a hotel where two grim-faced farmers in flat caps are standing on the steps. On seeing McGuinness, they turn and move inside. McGuinness tells Carlin to stay with the sun is sinking behind the nearby hills, McGuinness returns.

Carlin, worried he may have pushed too far with his earlier questions, hums under his breath as he drives them back to Derry. He's surprised when McGuinness initiates a conversation. You're still writing your songs then, Willie? I am, and I heard that you write Celtic poetry. Aye, but I'm a better fly fisher than poet. Fly fishing? Ah, it's a grand sport, Willie.

Trout are very intelligent. You can spend a whole day standing in waders watching trout all around you, and not catch a thing. Gotta tell you, Martin, sounds pretty boring. No, no it's not. It's a game of wit and strength. You see, the real struggle begins the moment you get a bite. You have to let the fish swim away, thinking it's safe,

then jerk it back towards you. But it's still strong enough to break your rod, see, so you must do the same thing again and again. Perhaps for as much as 20 minutes. The only reason you end up with a trout is because it gets exhausted and gives up. Bit like us and the Brits, then. McGinnis smiles at first, but then he turns. His blue eyes, caught by the lights of an oncoming car are intense And his voice is now serious

Aye But the difference is that we're the Trout And we'll never give up The Brits will get tired of the fight before we do One month later, Embrington Barracks. Carlin is being debriefed by a senior intelligence officer called Stephen,

who's flown in from London. Stephen is in his mid-thirties, tall and dressed immaculately in a three-piece pinstriped suit. Even his shirt is striped. Carlin thinks he's from MI5, but whoever he is, he must be important. For once, there's sandwiches on the coffee table.

Willie, did you believe McGuinness when he said the provisional IRA wasn't armed on Bloody Sunday? Carlin shrugs. Oh, wouldn't I? He was there, I wasn't. Stephen nods and then checks his notes. Talk me through the decision for Sinn Féin to start taking up seats if it wins the local council election. Carlin obliges, but can't help feeling Stephen has a secret agenda behind his seemingly innocent questions. And what's the talk among the grassroots about this push into politics? There's quite a few men who aren't happy about it. Not just the change in policy, but because of how much

money it's costing. You're the Sinn Féin branch treasurer now, aren't you? How much are they spending? After Cardin outlines the figures, Stephen smiles with satisfaction. Hmm. Well, at that rate, they'll soon need more money than the IRA. Willie, you're doing an excellent

job. It would be great to get more of this kind of intelligence on Sinn Féin's finances. What? You're more interested in accounts than guns now. Stephen smiles and rises, buttoning his suit jacket. The more money they spend on elections, Willie, the less they can spend on guns. As Stephen leaves, Carlin wonders exactly what kind of long game the British are playing in Northern Ireland. It's October 1984, and the Derry branch of Sinn Féin is holding a meeting at its office

on Sandville Terrace. Carlin can feel his palms sweating as he reads aloud the letter he received that morning. The government audit of our grant funding for the community playground has found a £1,900 shortfall. Carlin looks up to see Mitchell McLaughlin looking

at him with narrowed eyes and pursed lips beneath his moustache. And he doesn't blame him. This is bad news. If the missing money is not accounted for, the government will have grounds to start digging more deeply into the Republican movement's finances. An IRA volunteer who also works as a community activist jumps to his feet and turns to Carlin. You! It's you! You got a new car two months ago!

McLaughlin interrupts firmly. Sit down and shut up! This needs investigating, not jumping to conclusions. The IRA volunteer looks furious. Well, I'm telling you all now, you better find that money because whoever stole from us is going to get a kneecapping. October 1984. Goblin scale. Derry. It's two nights since Carlin told Sinn Féin about the missing money. And at his kitchen table, he's going over the receipts and accounts for the umpteenth time. Oh, Jesus. He still hasn't found the missing money. And he has no idea where it could have gone.

Carlin's wife, Mary Mary answers the phone Then says the words he's been dreading Willie, it's Mitchell McLaughlin for you Colin's hands tremble as he takes the phone McLaughlin tells him to come to his house immediately for a discussion Yes, of course Colin puts the phone down slowly. His whole body now feels like it's made of lead.

If the IRA has decided he's the thief, these might be his last moments. He sees Mary look at him curiously. Unable to bear worrying her, he forces a smile. Just going round to Mitchell's. Back soon. As he walks down the dark, quiet street, his mind races. Two shadowy figures lean against a wall at the entrance to McLaughlin Street. But when they see him, they turn and walk away. The door is opened by a young man. Carlin doesn't know. Mitchell's in the living room.

Sitting in the small but immaculate living room is McLaughlin and another man in a leather jacket. Carlin recognises the man's face from photos shown to him by the Frew, but they never told him who he was. The young man who let him in sits down by the living room door. McLaughlin rises to shake Carlin's hand. Ah, Willie, thanks for coming over so quickly. This here is Sean and Frank, old friends of mine.

Sit, sit. Carlin notices the coffee table is covered in commemorative plates, each decorated with the smiling face of IRA hunger striker Bobby Sands. McLaughlin smiles at his confused expression. What do you think of the plates? We thought we could put them into production and sell them to raise some extra funds. Carlin picks up one of the plates and examines it. He notices Sean and Frank are not looking at the plates,

but instead are staring at him intently. Chills ripple down his spine. He realizes this late-night meeting isn't about plates. These two men are from the Nutting Squad, the IRA's feared internal security force, known for its brutality. And right now, they're committing Carlin's face to memory, so that they can be sure they'll punish the right man when the time comes. The next day.

Gobnerscale, Derry. Outside the Sinn Féin centre at Sandville Terrace, Carlin tries to find the courage to open the door. He hasn't slept or eaten for a day, and now he's been summoned to another meeting. And he knows a decision must have been made about the missing money. He jumps as a car zooms past, fearing a drive-by execution. His hands shake as the car drives off.

Carlin thinks about running away, but it would only confirm his guilt. And he's damned if he's going to run away for a crime he didn't even commit. He opens the door and is surprised to find the building is empty, except for Mitchell McLaughlin sitting behind the desk. And he's smiling. Good news, Willie. You're in the clear. We found the thief. Carlin feels his muscles turn to water at the relief.

He sits down. Who was it? An IRA brother. He was nicking the checks off your desk to pay off his debts. Jesus. He'll need to pay for a heart operation for me and all. What's going to happen to him? He was due a beating, but his brother is a valued member of the RA

and is serving time. He intervened for him. McLaughlin gives Carlin a sympathetic look before then moving to stand in front of him. Willie, you've acted honorably over the last few days and I'm glad you've been cleared. But it was a security breach. We can't have government checks being stolen so easily. I understand. I'll step down as treasurer. McLaughlin smiles approvingly and puts his hand on Carlin's shoulder. Good man. Besides, I need you focused on helping with the upcoming elections.

We're fielding IRA brothers as candidates. They've never had anything to do with politics or campaigning. So they're going to need your help. Two months later, on the outskirts of Derry, Carlin enters the White Horse Inn with a grimace. It's a well-known Royal Ulster Constabulary hangout, and despite spying for MI5 and the Frew, Carlin's hatred of Northern Ireland's police force runs deep. He sees them as Protestant thugs who beat innocent people for no reason and ransack people's houses with unnecessary force.

In a corner of the bar, he spots Stephen, the pinstriped MI5 man who is visiting again from London. Carlin's already had a debrief with him at Ebrington Barracks earlier today, but afterwards Stephen passed Carlin a note asking if he could meet him here for a private chat, away from the Frews tape recorders. Carlin takes his seat and looks around guardedly. I've got to tell you, Stephen, this pub is not a good place for me to be seen in. It's fine, I promise. Let me pour you a glass of wine. Carlin decides it's not worth mentioning that anyone seeing him with a glass of expensive red wine would be even more suspicious.

He just wants this meeting over with as quickly as possible. So what was it you wanted to talk about? Yes, excuse the rather cloak-and-dagger methods, but I wanted to talk to you off the record about something. You said the plan is to field IRA volunteers at these council elections, not Sinn Féin members, correct? Aye. McGuinness is trying to appease the IRA hardliners. They're accusing him of going soft. That is very interesting. And how many will be standing, do you think? Well, to be honest with you, there aren't that many left. Most are locked up waiting for the Raymond Gilmore Supergrass

trial next week, and I'm assuming they'll be staying there after that. What kind of impact will that outcome have on McGuinness, do you think? Carlin frowns. He knows McGuinness is worried about the trial, but Carlin's never really considered what would happen after it. Well, I guess he might lose his power base. The ones who are locked up were handpicked by him and would follow him through the gates of hell. The ones that are left are younger, not as disciplined. I can't see them as counsellors, if I'm honest. Stephen looks into the distance and taps his fingers against his wine glass thoughtfully.

And if his handpicked men were released, would they stand for election like the others? Definitely. McGinnis wants complete control over those seats. But they're not going to get off, are they? Well, it all comes down to how the judge sees things. He might not see them in the way you think. What do you mean? The IRA is threatening him? No, no, no. But, uh... In non-jury cases like this, judges often ask for advice. In fact, I'm aware the judge has already done so. And there are some flaws in the prosecution case.

Carlin stares, confused. So you're saying they might get off? Stephen sips his wine. I'm saying it will be interesting to hear how the guidance we provide sways the judge. It might not be in the public interest long term for these men to be convicted. Listen, Stephen, you're going to have to stop talking to me in riddles. These are IRA men accused of terrorist offences. How can it be in

the public interest for them to go free? Because if these men stand for election, they will effectively have been decommissioned from the provisional IRA. If they stay in prison, they are IRA martyrs. Carlin suddenly realises what Stephen means. His mind reels. The British Security Service is seriously considering manipulating the justice system and releasing hardened IRA paramilitaries back onto the streets. It's the following week. Carlin's walking with the victory cavalcade that has been hastily arranged to parade through the streets of Derry.

The trial of 35 IRA members from Derry has collapsed. The judge concluded that Raymond Gilmore, the former IRA driver turned police informant, is a liar. Although some remain in prison on other charges, 26 walked free into the welcoming arms of Martin McGuinness. Carlin looks at the lines of stone-faced police officers as ecstatic Sinn Féin and IRA members taunt them. Stick this, you RUC pigs!

Judge said he was a liar. You'll never defeat us! As the IRA celebrates, Carlin thinks about Raymond Gilmore, the informer who put his life on the line to testify and whose life and reputation has now been ruined. McGuinness's fly-fishing analogy comes back to him. Carlin wonders if they're all just trout on invisible hooks. And if the British are willing to throw Gilmore under the bus

to achieve their goals, what's to stop them doing the same to him. From Wondery, this is the third episode in our series, The Spy Who Sold Peace to the IRA. 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 written using the best available sources. So even if a scene or conversation has been recreated for dramatic effect, it's still based on biographical research.

We've used various sources to make this series, including Thatcher's Spy by Willie Carden and Agents of Influence by Aaron Edwards. The Spy Who is hosted by me, Raza Jafri. Our show is produced by Vespucci and written by Yellow Ant for Wondery. For Yellow Ant, this episode was written by Judy Cooper, story edited by Karen Lowe, and researched by Marina Watson. Our managing producer is Jay Priest.

For Vespucci, our senior producers are Natalia Rodriguez and Philippa Gearing. Our sound designer is Ivor Manley. Thomas Currie is the supervising producer. Music supervisor is Scott Velasquez for Frizz and Sing. Executive producers for Vespucci are Johnny Galvin and Daniel Turcombe. Executive producer for Yellow Ant is Tristan Donovan. Our managing producer for Wondery is Rachel Sibley. Executive producers for Wondery are