The Fox

‘It was you, wasn’t it, Adrian?’

‘One does one’s best, Prime Minister.’

Marjory Graham took a long and thoughtful drink of her wine in order to keep a straight face.

‘Was there a fox involved?’

‘I fear you may be right, Prime Minister.’

‘And the General’s news?’

‘The principal nugget is that there is no way the Kim regime ever intended to denuclearize North Korea in exchange for trade concessions – even vital ones. The Americans are not best pleased at having been nearly fooled.’

‘Hence the cancellation of those concessions, and no further summits?’

‘Precisely.’

‘Winter is coming. Without huge imports, which they cannot pay for, the North Korean people will starve again.’

‘The Kim regime does not care, Prime Minister.’

‘So, his next stage?’

‘It seems – or so General Li claimed, and I have further information to back this up – that a truly massive new missile is being built under his direction in a secret cavern which American over-flights have not yet spotted.’

‘Could our young cyber-hacker out at Chandler’s Court find it?’

‘We could always try, Prime Minister.’

‘Yes, Adrian, so please do. Coffee?’

Sir Adrian found Dr Hendricks in his office in the computer wing of the old manor house, next to the operations hall, with its state-of-the art banks of computers humming gently. He laid a single sheet of paper in front of the scientist’s nose.

‘There is a factory in Russia called Energomash,’ he said. ‘Is there any mention of it in the public domain?’

Jeremy Hendricks pulled his computer towards him, logged on and began to tap in his question.

‘It’s there all right,’ he said. ‘Publicly listed: manufactures equipment and component parts for the space industry.’

‘That’s one way of putting it.’

‘Board of directors, share issue, a reference to government and defence contracts. A lot of subject headings are classified, meaning covert. So the chances are most enquiries will be rebuffed on security grounds. We would do the same. It seems they build missile parts.’

‘Never mind the corporate structure. Can we learn anything about their technical side?’

‘Not in here. We’ll have to go next door and consult our own classified intel on these people. Not for public consumption.’

In the main hall Dr Hendricks crouched over a different computer and tapped in his questions.

‘Their safety mechanisms are rigorous at every stage and, yes, they are computer-controlled. With ultra-complicated firewalls to protect them from examination, let alone interference.’

‘But if one could get through the firewalls, cross the air gap – even though supposedly impossible – could one insert a tiny malware and withdraw unnoticed?’

‘There is only one computer hacker in the world who might be able to do it, and we both know who that is.’

Luke Jennings came from the residential wing with his mother. He was, as ever, pathologically shy in company, unwilling to shake hands or make eye contact, despite his mother’s promptings. Sir Adrian did not insist.

Inside the computer hall, having checked that everything was in its exact place, he relaxed visibly. The mere hum of the computer banks acted almost like a sedative on him. Dr Hendricks showed him a piece of paper with line af