At 1900 hrs precisely, the nine men strolled through the exquisitely tiled hallway and sat down in the dining room of Rossahilly House, on the shores of Lough Erne, whose still waters, made almost magical by the reflecting moonlight, almost seemed to reach into the room through the large bay window.
The owner, the Right Honourable Percy Hollander, spent his evening in his opulent private study, his presence in Rossahilly considered necessary to lend cover to the comings and goings of the great men.
In less impressive surroundings elsewhere in the house, the assistants to the great men enjoyed the opportunity of relaxation and light conversation.
Outside the isolated residence, silent men kept watch, alert and with weapons ready.
Major General Colin Gubbins and Sir David Petrie had recovered from their heavy landing and were looking forward to their dinner.
Respectively, they were the heads of SOE and MI5. The two men had an uneasy truce, their working relationship often strained by apparent violations of their own imagined operational boundaries.
Colonel Valentine Vivian, Vice-chief of the SIS, and Major General Sir Kenneth Strong, SHAEF’s G2 Intelligence Chief, had journeyed in by car from RAF Belfast, and had already discussed a number of matters of personal concern, having arrived an hour ahead of the main group.
Rear-Admiral Dalziel had also driven from Belfast, sharing a car with the two senior police officers who were heads of Special Branch in England and Northern Ireland, DCI Bertram Leonard and CI Michael Rafferty respectively.
The table was completed by Colonels Dan Bryan of the Irish Republic’s G2 and Samuel Rossiter, head of the OSS.
Wine was poured and the fois-gras arrived, signalling both the start of the meal and the commencement of business.
Discussions had gone on into the small hours, so it had been agreed that breakfast would be served at ten.
It was the habit of these meetings that the morning’s conversation was lighter in nature, although each man’s remaining dilemmas often surfaced for group examination.
By prior arrangement, Percy Hollander, ex-Irish Guards and confidante of Sir David Petrie, took his breakfast separately, eagerly anticipating the few hours that he and Sir David would spend at the snooker table, once the bulk of visitors had departed.
Low voices alternated between praising the cuisine and discussing the minutiae of the Intelligence business.
Dalziel almost sat elsewhere, so put off was he by Gubbins’ mound of fried kidneys. However, he decided to grin and bear it, if only to enquire further about SOE potential in Scandinavia.
Rossiter, a recent conversion to the decidedly British morning kidney ration, was also similarly interested and the conversation gained pace, dropping in volume, as interesting matters of mutual interest were uncovered.
It was the habit of these breakfasts, where relaxation and tiredness were key players, that good work was done between agencies that were often as suspicious of each other as they were of the enemy that they collectively fought.
Bryan, Bertram and Rafferty all enjoyed the more traditional fare of egg, sausage and bacon, all topped off with fried soda bread and white pudding.
The former lamented the failure of their operation at Glenlara, but amused his companions with the IRA’s basic use of anagram codes.
Gubbins, Vivian, and Strong kicked the Polish issue around after the latter had taken a negative stance on the smell originating from the kippers being consumed before his eyes.
By twelve midday, all but one guest had departed, and that guest was well into a game winning break on Rossahilly House’s snooker table.
The plan had been that Dalziel would be dropped off at the main gate of the RAF base and the two police officers would proceed on to their meeting with some local intelligence officers in Irvinestown.
The plan did not cater for the Sunbeam-Talbot Ten destroying a leaf spring in a pothole concealed by the overnight snowfall. Leaving the driver with the vehicle, the trio took the short walk to the camp’s main entrance and sought assistance.
A party of fitters was sent and the Sunbeam was hauled into the base workshop for repair.
Squadron Leader Viljoen had organised drinks in his office and hoped to use the opportunity to glean more information as to the progress of the war.
More drawn to the other uniformed man, Viljoen and Dalziel discussed the situation at sea.
A knock on the door interrupted their conversation and the look on Blackmore’s face told everyone that something worrying had happened.
“Skipper…”
Blackmore looked at the strangers in the room, deciding whether he should speak openly or get his CO alone.
Viljoen made the decision for him.
“Go on, Blackie. Speak freely, man. Get it off your chest.”
Swallowing hard to gain some composure, Flight Lieutenant Blackmore dropped his bombshell.
“Skipper, Doc decided to have a gander at the crew’s bodies this afternoon. He found something… I mean… Christ… something awful that simply doesn’t fit. You need to see this straight away, Skipper.”
“Awful? What is it, Blackie?”
“You have to see this, Skipper. Right now!”
“OK, deep breaths and give me a clue.”
“They didn’t die in the attack on the sub and didn’t die because of a rough landing. They were shot.”
“Fucking shot? By the sub then?”
“No, I mean executed, Skipper.”
The policemen and the Intelligence officer had heard key words and their interest was piqued.
Viljoen rose quickly, started to apologise to his guests, and then thought better of it.
“Perhaps you would like to accompany me, gentlemen… Sir?”
The three men needed no second invitation.
“OK then, Doc, what have you got then, man?”
Holliday, the silver haired Medical Officer, source of the OK Corral nickname for the base hospital, delivered his verdict in simple words.
“Quite straightforward, Skipper. Aidan was killed by a bullet to the back of the neck, a wound that someone then tried to disguise by gouging the area, possibly with metal from the fuselage.”
The elderly doctor had grabbed their undivided attention.
“My view is that Aidan Erasmus was killed first. I think they then realised their error and then chose a less obvious method of execution. The method used was one undoubtedly driven by hate.”
That caused a number of eyes to narrow as imaginations started to work.
He moved to Magic’s body and took his station on the opposite side of the trestle.
“In all my days, I have never seen anything like this. Never.”
His five-man audience waited as he rolled the body on its side.
“When they first arrived, we gave them a cursory examination, nothing more. That’s my fault, I’m afraid. Each of them was very obviously dead and the external injuries were in line with those we have seen before… crash trauma, explosive and shot wounds… et cetera.”
Magic’s corpse showed all the signs associated with a heavy landing and being thrown against something unforgiving.
“I’ll perform a full autopsy but my initial examination of Flight Sergeant Malan would make me feel he was shot at least three times.”
Viljoen took a step forward and sought out the evidence that Holliday had missed.
“You misunderstand me, Skipper. The wounds are internal.”
Chief Inspector Michael Rafferty was the only one who immediately grasped the significance, his mind dragging back details of two ‘assassinations’ that he had been called to investigate.