Gangster (4 page)

On approaching the warehouse door, Gilligan became suspicious. Years of avoiding the gardaí had taught him to take various precautions. In this case, he had affixed a small wooden stick to the side of the entrance door which would snap should anyone but he enter. The stick had snapped, thereby indicating someone had been inside.

He turned to Weafer and asked if he had been near the vacuums, taking more than his fair share. Weafer denied this and said he was in a hurry to return home. Gilligan took a small key from his pocket and opened the lock that secured the door and the two went inside. The detectives could not believe their luck—here was Gilligan himself handling stolen goods. Once Gilligan was inside, the gardaí moved in just as the two began unloading boxes of vacuums from the truck used in the heist.

‘Armed Garda. Don’t move,’ shouted one officer. The two criminals put their hands up in the air before being handcuffed and driven away to be charged with offences including the robbery of the vacuums and the theft of the trucks found in the warehouse. The vehicles alone were valued at IR£45,000, whilst the vacuum cleaner consignment found in Unit 22 was worth IR£54,000, making the charges extremely serious. Gilligan and Weafer were charged before the Dublin District Court.

The case came up for hearing over two years later in March 1988 in the Circuit Criminal Court before Judge Gerard Buchanan. Gilligan’s future looked bleak. He would certainly be convicted and sentenced. In his opening address to the jury, prosecuting counsel Erwin Mill Arden, BL, said the evidence before the court would link all the items with the accused and the vacuum cleaners. The accused, he said, was not charged with the theft of any of the items but with receiving them knowing them to have been stolen.

The court heard evidence of how Gilligan’s fingerprints had been found on a can of paint that had been used in one of the stolen vehicles found in Unit 22. Detective Inspector John Anders of Tallaght Garda Station also gave evidence of finding Gilligan and Weafer unloading cartons containing the stolen vacuums from a lorry. Gilligan, he said, had thrown away a key before he was arrested under the Offences Against the State Act. The key fitted the padlock on the unit’s small door, which Gilligan had been seen opening. The inspector went on to say a search order had been obtained under the Offences Against the State Act because it was suspected that a firearm or firearms used in the raid in which the vacuum cleaners were stolen might be found. The prosecution’s case appeared to be going according to plan until day two when the receiving charge was withdrawn after legal issues were raised about ownership of the vacuums. The delivery docket for the vacuum cleaners apparently hadn’t been signed; hence ownership of the vacuums couldn’t be established. It was a legal technicality.

Gilligan couldn’t believe his luck; this was too good to be true. But he still faced charges of receiving three vehicles and a hydraulic tailgate found in Unit 22. These charges were eventually withdrawn, as were all the charges connected with the case.

But the gardaí kept up the pressure.

Immediately after his arrest on the Nilfisk charges, Gilligan and the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang went back to business, stealing and robbing. The fear of prison, however, had made him all the more haphazard; believing himself to be destined for jail in any case, he developed a lax attitude to security, which proved to be his downfall. It was not long before he slipped up. Gilligan temporarily stopped carrying out raids down the country, for if he were to be arrested while on bail for the Nilfisk heist he would certainly be held on remand. But his familiarity with the factories of Robinhood Industrial Estate eased him into a false sense of safety. Having spent hundreds of hours prowling around the industrial estates in the mid-night hours, he had managed to convince himself he was untouchable once he stayed in Dublin. He deluded himself into believing the gardaí could never catch him, that he was too clever, that he could outwit them. He believed they had got lucky with Weafer, but that the rest of his team was solid and trustworthy. The gardaí would never get that close again, or so he believed.

It was approaching Easter, April 1987, when Gilligan decided to rob the Rose Confectionery premises at 23A Robinhood Industrial Estate. He assembled two of his most trusted lieutenants, and they broke into the factory on Good Friday, 17 April. It was meant to be an easy job—break in, steal sweets and chocolates and sell them off. He would have no problem selling such items, not with Easter approaching. The gang assembled at the usual rendezvous point outside the industrial estate and made their way to the sweet factory. Once inside, Gilligan started helping himself to jelly babies, toffees and chocolates of all flavours. ‘Check and make sure everything is okay outside,’ he ordered one of the gang whilst stuffing his mouth full.

‘Yes, boss.’

While Gilligan continued to wolf down the sweets, the raider walked over to the office window and opened the blind, only to see a security guard staring back at him. Not knowing whether the guard had realised that he was a thief, the raider shouted and alerted Gilligan to what had happened.

‘Did he look back at you?’ Gilligan enquired.

‘I don’t know, he just looked at me and kept going,’ the raider responded.

‘You’re probably just on edge. It will be all right. No one would notice us in here,’ Gilligan responded.

The security guard had indeed seen the thief, but rather than tackle him on his own, he drove on and radioed for help and the gardaí. Gilligan had made a fatal mistake and within a matter of minutes Rose Confectionery was surrounded by gardaí, some of whom, knowing his ways of old, suspected Gilligan might be inside. The gardaí approached the warehouse and shouted at whoever was inside to come out. By this stage, the gang was in a state of panic. Gilligan, however, reassured them, saying they had stolen nothing and would only be charged with breaking and entering. He wasn’t too concerned, even if he was convicted; he thought he would be going to prison anyway because of the Nilfisk charge. The two sentences would run concurrently. One of the gang tried to hide but couldn’t find a suitable place. Gilligan thought this was funny and asked if he jumped in with the jelly babies, would the others put the lid back on the jar. He knew he was caught red-handed.

Although he had rehearsed various escape routes out of Robinhood hundreds of times in his mind, this time he couldn’t escape. He gave himself up, walking out the door with his hands placed on his head to the astonishment of the gardaí. Never expecting to beat the Nilfisk charges, he pleaded guilty and was released on bail. His case came up for hearing the following May in the Circuit Criminal Court when he appeared before Judge Frank Roe. Detective Inspector John McLoughlin gave evidence of having known Gilligan for 15 years and told the court he was the leader of a gang which robbed warehouses all over the country. Gilligan, he said, was one of Ireland’s biggest players in organised crime, and his only source of income was from crime. Details of Gilligan’s extensive criminal record were read out to the court. Burglary, attempted larceny, stealing and receiving, the list went on and on. Gilligan was physically sick—he had hoped he would get a suspended sentence, or a ‘bender’, as he called it. Two months previous, he had walked away from the Nilfisk heist a free man; now he was going to jail for stealing sweets.

Judge Roe sentenced him to 18 months in Mountjoy Prison, despite hearing evidence of his good character from the director of a riding centre where he stabled three ponies. This woman described him as a kind, generous and considerate person who placed his ponies at the disposal of disadvantaged children. Although things hadn’t gone his way, he felt reassured going into prison that he would have plenty of cash when freed. The gangster had made thousands stealing from warehouses; thievery had proved to be a lucrative occupation for him. Little did he know he would get to play a pivotal role in the biggest robbery in the world.

Chapter 4

The Bonds

‘He was a little Hitler.’

IRA member talking about Gilligan

Gilligan opened his eyes and wondered if his captors were going to murder him—shoot him through the side of his head to make sure he died. He sat with an expressionless look on his face. It seemed unthinkable that the Provisional IRA would kill him now. He probably contemplated an escape. He could run, maybe overpower one or two of his abductors and head off into the night. He figured there were about four of them and possibly two more outside keeping watch. What if he made a run for it? He probably pictured the escape route in his mind and thought about how long it would take him to get to a safe house. But he knew they would catch up with him; if not on that night, it would be some other when he least expected it. That was the way the IRA worked. There was no escaping them; they would catch him eventually. Gilligan likened them to birds of prey. They moved silently above, occasionally plunging on unsuspecting prey. If they didn’t kill, they would make demands that had to be met. No criminal ever stood up to them because they had strength in numbers, and if you took on one, you took on them all. When people working the streets talked about the army, they talked about the IRA.

Gilligan could never deal with the ‘politicos’, as he called them. The IRA did what they did out of belief; his only belief was in financial rewards. He had no interest in their war and hated the way they threw their weight around.
[1]

Although he was not the enemy, as in some British soldier or Special Branch detective, he knew he was in danger, having overstepped the mark. His kidnappers had repeated to him what they wanted over and over again, but he refused to give in, declaring they would have to kill him because they were not getting what they wanted. Now his captors were thinking about doing just that. Shooting him dead for IR£77 million worth of stolen bearer bonds.

Gilligan was resolute; the bonds were worth dying for. He was about to find out whether the IRA felt the same. For a criminal protagonist like Gilligan, republicanism meant nothing; the IRA was merely another organisation he and his ilk had to deal with occasionally. Years before, he had tried to ingratiate himself with the leaders of the Provisionals’ Dublin Brigade by allowing an old garage he owned in the Crumlin area of Dublin to be used for storing stolen vehicles, weapons and explosives.

Inside Gilligan’s garage, the cars stolen by the IRA would be prepared for use in a bombing, robbery or assassination. The vehicles would have false registration plates fitted along with industrial shock absorbers to conceal the weight of the explosives or mortars hidden in their boots. The arrangement worked well until Gilligan started to tell anyone who crossed his path that he was an IRA sympathiser whose garage was being used for the cause. He had good reason to let this be known publicly. His adversaries would be far less likely to cross him if he had strong IRA connections. But the IRA had other ideas—once they heard about his loose talk, they were gone. What past favours he had done for the Provisionals were irrelevant now. They wanted the bonds.

On 2 May 1990 at 9.30 a.m., John Goddard, a 58-year-old messenger with the financial brokerage Sheppard’s, was taking his usual route along King William Street in London’s financial district. He had travelled the route many times previously with no security problems, delivering certificates of deposits and treasury bills to the financial houses.

On that particular morning, Goddard was carrying 301 bearer bonds worth IR£292 million in his satchel. These were in bearer form and as good as cash to anyone in possession of them. There was nothing unusual in Goddard’s satchel. Every day London’s financial houses borrowed and loaned money using certificates of deposits, or CDs and treasury bills used by the Government—bearer bonds. He suspected nothing when he saw a young black youth approach him on the street, until he produced a knife and demanded he hand over his satchel. He hesitated, but fearing for his life, the courier handed over the pouch.

By 11.20 a.m. that morning, investors, banks and stock traders across the world were made aware of what had happened. Goddard’s assailant had escaped with 301 bills, many of which were made out for IR£1 million each. Immediately after the mugging took place, the Bank of England notified financial institutions across the world, warning them not to accept the bonds in business transactions. The serial numbers of the bonds were circulated. The Bank of England purposely released inaccurate information through spokesmen who announced the bonds couldn’t be cashed and were useless—this was propaganda. The bonds were as good as cash.

Such was the fear among the international financial community that Sheppard’s felt compelled to take out an insurance policy with Lloyd’s should the thief try to cash the bonds. The premium cost the courier company IR£750,000. The detective squad at Bishopsgate in London was given the unenviable task of locating the stolen goods. They hoped against hope that the theft was just the work of a mugger, and the bonds would be found thrown away. Within the space of a few days, they realised this was not the case, and Operation Starling was born.

Some ten days later, they got their first break when a faxed copy of a stolen bond arrived from a source in Northern Ireland. Then one of the bonds was lodged in a branch of the NatWest bank in Glasgow. The person who lodged it was deemed an innocent pawn.

The Operation Starling team traced the source of the bond back to a small syndicate of criminals who had come together for the theft and had planned to launder the stolen bearer bonds in Liechtenstein. But the thieves decided against this plan for various reasons. Operation Starling was making inroads into their organisation and investigators hired by Lloyd’s were also searching for the bonds, whilst the Bank of England was using its influence to have the bonds returned. Those behind the theft resorted to plan B; this involved Gilligan. Details of his involvement in the conspiracy have remained a well-guarded secret to this day.

Gilligan’s involvement in the biggest robbery in the world happened through his association with Thomas Coyle, a mastermind criminal who lived in Drogheda in County Louth. Coyle was a fence, someone Gilligan used to sell stolen goods. He was reliable, managed to avoid the gardaí and ran a smooth criminal organisation, although no one has ever been sure how. He mixed with loyalist paramilitaries in the Ulster Defence Association (UDA) north of the border whilst managing to maintain contacts with the Irish National Liberation Army (INLA) and, to a lesser extent, the Provisional IRA.

Anyone else would have been murdered for mixing in rival circles, but not Coyle. No one in the Irish underworld expected anything else of him. He had connections everywhere and was regarded as being good at his job. Therefore, it came as no surprise that he acquired 80 of the bonds to fence within weeks of the theft. Coyle was shrewd enough to know that he wasn’t capable of laundering the bonds single-handedly, so he enlisted Gilligan.

‘They didn’t really understand what they had. The whole thing was a non-starter. But Gilligan had what he believed was stolen gear worth IR£80 million, and he went around trying to get anyone to buy one of the bonds,’ explained an IRA source.

Laundering such valuable documents into the international banking system was a crime Gilligan simply didn’t have the intelligence to carry out. Instead, he tried to sell them to fellow criminals, fraudsters and the like.

‘He came to me with a photocopy of one of the bonds. That was proof that he had them. He wanted IR£10,000 cash for each one, then 10% of whatever they fetched when they were fenced. These things were for a million. No one could fence something like that, so no one did the business with him,’ recalled one fraudster who was offered the bonds outside the Four Courts building.

Gilligan then turned to Jim Beirne, a businessman with international criminal connections. Beirne was known as The Danger and came from County Roscommon. He specialised in fraud but would later enter into the world of international drug trafficking.

Beirne had the connections in the United States to launder the bonds. His connection came through John Francis Conlon. Born in Westport, County Mayo, Conlon was somewhat of an international figure in the intelligence community, having worked for the Israeli intelligence agency Mossad and the Central Intelligence Agency, as well as British Intelligence and US Customs and Excise. He moved between Norfolk, England and Miami, America. He was an associate of Monzer al-Kassar, the world’s biggest illegal arms dealer, who sold weapons to terrorists. He also sold arms to Colonel Oliver North, a deal that would later spark off the Arms-to-Iran crisis. Conlon was effectively a double agent. He came to prominence in the intelligence community during the Middle Eastern conflict.

Among the three men, a conspiracy emerged to smuggle the bonds to the United States, where Conlon felt his Mafia connections could launder anything. Gilligan and Coyle trusted Beirne’s credentials and left everything to him. All they would have to do was go along with his instructions. Fuelled by a lust to make it big, however, all the participants in the conspiracy let their guards down. With the exception of Conlon and Beirne, all were dabbling in unfamiliar territory and didn’t see the warning signs of informers in their ranks.

Arrangements were made to have the bonds smuggled to Miami on 29 May, the day Operation Starling scored its first blow. The official version of what happened is that Customs officers accidentally intercepted a suitcase full of bonds as a result of a random search and later arrested three men. The arrested men were Thomas Coyle, his brother-in-law Anthony Rooney and Edward Dunne, who had departed from Dublin Airport earlier that morning. Coyle had hidden the bonds in one of the group’s suitcases, which were all tagged to Dunne. Neither Dunne nor Rooney knew the bonds were concealed in the luggage. They were completely innocent.

Dunne’s flight went ahead as scheduled, whilst Coyle’s and Rooney’s was delayed. All three were due to fly to Heathrow where they would catch a connecting flight to Miami, for the purpose of buying a racehorse. But on his arrival, Dunne was stopped by Customs and taken into custody. Coyle and Rooney arrived shortly afterwards and were also stopped. An examination of Rooney’s baggage revealed 80 bonds. Rooney and Coyle said they had never seen the bonds, did not know what was in Dunne’s suitcase and told investigating police this was all a mistake.

The newspaper headlines the next morning announced that three men were due in court charged with attempting to handle the stolen bearer bonds worth IR£77.3 million. The names of the three were released and they were charged that on or before 29 May 1990 they attempted, within the jurisdiction of the Old Bailey, to handle stolen property, namely Treasury Bills and Certificates of Deposit, which if misused could have caused the owners a loss worth IR£77.3 million. The charges were made under Section 11 of the 1977 Criminal Law Act. Coyle and Rooney were charged separately from Dunne.

Their case went to trial in February 1991 before Knightsbridge Crown Court in London but collapsed on a legal technicality. The prosecution had claimed the bonds were part of the stolen IR£291 million haul from the mugging. Coyle and Rooney maintained their defence, claiming they didn’t know what was inside the case. Rooney certainly didn’t. He was innocent. But after hearing several days of evidence, both Rooney and Coyle were freed when their trial judge instructed the jury to acquit them because they hadn’t handled the bonds in a British jurisdiction. Coyle couldn’t believe his luck. The Crown Prosecution then offered no evidence on a conspiracy charge. The prosecution case against Edward Dunne fell apart after it emerged that he had not signed the docket accompanying his baggage, which he was legally required to do. He was freed.

In an interview with the
Sunday World
after the acquittal, Coyle said the cockroaches in his cell were as big as mice. ‘I feel very hurt that at this stage in our lives we had to spend months inside for something that we knew nothing about. For fellas like us, who had never been in prison before, you can imagine what it was like to be thrown in with murderers, child molesters and peeping toms.’

Rooney described his ordeal. ‘I made the tea for all the officers and Thomas was the head cleaner. We had to do something to get out of that cell, otherwise we would have been behind bars for 23 hours a day.’

Coyle concluded the interview, saying: ‘Our biggest fear was that we would be arrested again. We just couldn’t trust the British system, and the feeling when we touched down in Ireland was just unbelievable. At last we knew we were home safe and sound.’ Years later, Coyle would boast of his escape. He even purchased a racehorse which he named 77 Mill.

The police assigned to Operation Starling went on to intercept more bonds. In Cyprus, 80 bonds were retrieved whilst the FBI in Miami intercepted more. But it was the manner in which these were intercepted, or the story behind them, that proved dangerous for the criminals involved. Those responsible for the delivery of the bonds to Miami said they were working with the Provisional IRA and were filmed saying this by the FBI.

Acting on intelligence, US Customs agents intercepted the 71 British bonds worth $18 million inside a package being sent on an outbound Air Perú flight destined for Lima. The bonds were concealed inside two hollowed-out phone books.

The sheer scale of the theft had naturally aroused the interest of the British media, and it wasn’t long before allegations of IRA involvement made it into the press. What caused the upset was the linking of the Provisional IRA to loyalist paramilitaries, from whom earlier consignments of bonds had been seized. Television programmes proclaiming the IRA were involved with the UDA were broadcast, whilst newspapers in Britain started saying the IRA and UDA were co-operating to launder the bonds. The IRA launched an inquiry that led straight to Gilligan. One of his interrogators wanted to shoot Gilligan, but was overruled by his superior who ordered that Gilligan be released.

‘I think our own people realised it was all a non-starter. Here were a group of Dublin criminals trying to launder IR£80 million, which was way out of their league. When it emerged that they had been telling people that they were working with the IRA, then that was different. At one point it got way out of hand, the British press were running wild with stories about our involvement with the bonds. The truth was that we had never gotten them.’