241 Pizza

Still, I kept guessing wrongly until more details came my way in a series of interviews with Martin Ingram, the pseudonym of a retired member of the FRU who had recruited and run agents in the IRA.

Although Ingram knew Stakeknife’s identity, he would not reveal it. He did tell me, however, the story of how Stakeknife used his FRU “get out of jail free card” after being arrested by the RUC.

Ingram said he was on night shift at the British military intelligence headquarters in Northern Ireland when one of the phones rang. It was the hotline, a number known only to, and reserved for, Stakeknife.

The RUC sergeant at the other end of the line blurted out. “We have arrested a Mr Padraic Pearse (not his real name) and he gave us this number to contact. He says he works for a man called Paddy”, giving the cover name of a military intelligence handler. Stakeknife was released a few hours later.

When The Sunday Times published that story in August 1999 — adding further details, including the revelation that the army had paid Stakeknife up to £60,000 a year — a man suspected of being Ingram was arrested and I was questioned for a suspected breach of the Official Secrets Act.

Gradually further pieces fell into place, however. Unexpected sources came forward and within weeks I believed I had the name: Freddie Scappaticci, a former internee who was described as the deputy head of the “nutting squad”, the IRA’s feared internal security division, responsible for interrogating suspected informers. Once I had indicated who I thought Stakeknife was, and suggested a name to my sources, a select few all but confirmed it — if only to warn me how dangerous this information was. “If the Provos think you know who top agents are they will grip you, and it won’t be too nice talking to them,” a senior source warned me as he gripped me by the arm to underline his point.

Scappaticci had all the right credentials. He had been interned without trial in the 1970s, sharing a cage in 1975 with such legendary IRA figures as Owen “Jug Ears” Coogan, who had led the anti-British bombing campaign for years, and Con “Bald Eagle” McHugh.

Michael Donnelly, a veteran republican from Derry, was also a fellow internee. He recalls “Freddie Scap” as “short-tempered and quick to throw a punch . . . If he had been a foot taller he would have been a dangerous bully, but as it was he usually had one or two with him when he did throw his weight about and he didn’t do much damage.”

Donnelly said Scappaticci “hung around with the Ballymurphy team who were led by Gerry Adams”. He was particularly touchy about his name, which many of his fellow inmates mispronounced. “He would stamp his feet and shout, ‘It’s scap-a-tichi, scap-a-f******-tichi!’” Donnelly recalls.

In the years after his release he had become a feared figure, regarded as a man whose accusations could lead to IRA members being demoted, ostracised or, some believed, shot. One republican told me: “Having someone like that near you was like Germans having a Brown Shirt or a Stasi officer at the end of the street. You were nice to him, you tried to keep on the right side, but it was through fear, you couldn’t relax or get close.”

Despite the image, some former republicans — among them Eamon Collins, a sometime IRA intelligence officer from Newry — told me of moments of kindness from “Scap”. He had a stern exterior, they said, but was often willing to cover for the mistakes of others.

It also emerged that there was intense rivalry for Stakeknife’s services between FRU and the RUC Special Branch, which had tried to recruit him on several occasions. One source claimed that the RUC threatened him with exposure unless he worked for them.

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