In another semi-dark cavern in a Scottish castle, at Luke’s side, Dr Hendricks, watching the cyber-doors open in front of him, merely whispered, ‘Bloody hell.’
An hour after the shooting at Craigleven Sir Adrian had received a full report from Captain Williams, and it posed a quandary. What the Russians had done was a naked act of aggression and, if the media ever got a sniff of it, there was no way a massive scandal could be averted.
Moscow would deny all knowledge, of course. In the case of the Skripals, father and daughter, there had been two barely alive Russian asylum-seekers and the very Russian nerve agent Novichok had been found smeared on their door handle. Against a tower of evidence, Russia had still denied all knowledge and the scandal had raged for months.
Now there was a very dead body with certainly Russian-identifiable dentistry. But that too could be denied. There was an equally Russian Orsis T-5000 sniper rifle – but the UK would be accused of acquiring that from specialist sources outside Russia. Additionally, Sir Adrian had been specifically ordered by Marjory Graham not to start a war.
And, finally, the entire affair might lead to the exposure of the fragile youth lodged in Castle Craigleven, and that was something he wished to avoid at all costs.
He knew perfectly well who had ordered the sniper attack in the Highlands. But for the intervention of a very astute Scottish ghillie, the shooter might well have succeeded. Over a solo lunch at the club he hit upon an idea that might resolve all problems and inflict long-due retribution upon Yevgeni Krilov. On a safe line he called Captain Williams and issued his instructions.
As for Krilov, sitting in Yasenevo waiting for news, let him stew … for a while.
A week later, the British Foreign Secretary confronted the Russian ambassador, who had been summoned to King Charles Street. The minister remained standing to indicate he had no time for jollity. This was a formal rebuke.
‘It is my forlorn duty,’ he told the diplomat, ‘to inform you that British security forces have captured a member of the Russian Special Forces, the Spetsnaz, on a mission of aggression in our country. Her Majesty’s government takes the dimmest possible view of this outrage.
‘The man in question was in possession of a sniper’s rifle which he had every intention to use to commit murder.’
At this point, he turned and gestured to a table at the back of the room on which some object was covered by a green baize cloth. An underling swept the cloth away. On the table, on its twin legs, with scope-sight mounted, was an Orsis T-5000. The ambassador, who had been pink with anger and ready to deny all, went pale.
‘I am required to inform you, Your Excellency, that the man in question has decided to confess all in the greatest detail and has requested asylum. In short, he has defected. Offered the choice, he has elected to emigrate and seek a new life in the USA. This request has been granted. He left this morning. That is all, Sir.’
The Russian ambassador was escorted out. Though visibly in control, he was inwardly seething with rage, though not at the British. His anger was reserved for the fools back at home who had inflicted on him this humiliation. His report later that day mirrored his mood in every aspect. It did not go to Yasenevo, headquarters of the SVR. It went to the Foreign Ministry on Smolenskaya Square. And thence it went to the Kremlin.
When they came for him they were four and they were in full Kremlin Guard uniform. The Vozhd wished to make a point. They were led in silence up to the seventh floor but not impeded. Yevgeni Krilov did not protest; there would have been no point. Everyone knew whose orders were being carried out. Doors remained closed as he was escorted to the lobby and out through the main door. The ZiL limousine was not available. He was not seen in the silver birch forest again.
Chapter Twenty-Two
FOR MANY PEOPLE, walking the mountains and glens of the Highlands of Scotland is a pleasurable vacation. But it is also a challenge, demanding a high level of physical fitness.
Every mountain over 3,000 feet high is called a Munro, and there are 283 of them, including one on the estate of Lord Craigleven. That October, the weather had not yet broken; the sun still shone and there was still warmth on the wind, which was why the hill-walk was undertaken.
There had been much debate as to whether Luke was strong enough, fit enough, to join the group. He had been the keenest in assuring them all that he was. His mother had been dubious, but the weather was so fine, the air so bracing, that she conceded a five-mile march might do him good. She had long been concerned about the hours he spent in semi-darkness, tapping at his computer. So, it was agreed: he would go.
Perhaps it was being in the countryside, or it might have been the company of soldiers and computer men, but Luke was gaining in personal confidence. On occasion, he volunteered a personal remark rather than waiting shyly to be spoken to or remaining in silence. She prayed he might be developing an awareness of a world away from a computer screen and the blizzard of ciphers which for so long had been his whole universe.
There were six in the party. It was led by Stuart Mackie, who knew every inch of the hills and valleys, and Sergeant Eamonn Davis of the Regiment, who was accustomed to the Brecon Beacons of Wales, his native land. The other four were two of the remaining soldiers, one of the computer specialists and Luke Jennings.
For the ghillie and Sergeant Davis, the hike was no more than a stroll in the park; both men were ultra-fit. The same applied to the SAS troopers. They could all have marched, or ‘tabbed’, a lowlander off his legs, so they bracketed the technician and Luke Jennings in Indian file.
The soldiers were accustomed to huge ‘Bergen’ rucksacks but for this march they needed only light knapsacks containing energy bars, water canteens and spare socks. They even carried the needs of the two computer experts, who bore nothing but their marching clothes. It should all have been so uneventful.
After an hour they paused for a break, then started the climb up Ben Duill. The gradient became steeper, but the path was a yard wide and easily navigable. To one side was the flank of the Munro, towering upwards to its peak. On the other was a quite gentle slope down to the valley. There seemed no reason why Luke should lose his footing on a patch of loose gravel. It all happened so quickly.
If the man behind him had been a soldier, he might have grabbed him in time. But it was the computer engineer. He made a lunge for the falling boy but missed. Even then, Luke fell only a few feet, crashing through the heather until he stopped. But the single rock was unforgiving. It was concealed by the heather and the boy’s head hit it with a low crack. Sergeant Davis was beside him in two seconds.
Of course, he was first-aid trained. He examined the grazed dent on the left temple, swung the limp figure over his shoulder and scrambled up the ten-yard slope to the path. Hands reached down to haul them both over the edge. On the level, he was able to have a closer look.
The bruise was swelling and turning blue. Sergeant Davis swabbed it gently with water, but the boy was out cold. He could have put him over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift and carried him back to the castle. The other two soldiers could have spelled him, but that would have taken time. He did not know if he had time. He looked up and caught Stuart Mackie’s eye.
‘Chopper,’ he said.
The ghillie nodded and pulled out his mobile phone. The nearest mountain rescue unit was at Glenmore, forty miles away, and they had a helicopter. In forty minutes the party on the mountainside heard the snarl of the engine of the Glenmore Coastguard’s S-92 coming down the glen.
A stretcher was lowered and the limp body of Luke Jennings lifted aboard. Within sixty minutes, still unconscious on a gurney, he was being wheeled into Accident and Emergency reception at Raigmore Hospital in Inverness, the nearest major city.
They did a brain scan and the verdict was that the patient should be transferred to the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, way down south. The ERI has an acute unit that includes a specialist brain wing. The journey south was by plane.
Luke was lucky. Just t
wo days back from his annual holiday was Professor Calum McAvoy, rated the best brain surgeon in Scotland. He did a second scan and did not like what he saw. External appearances, which had caused Sergeant Davis to underestimate the damage, were deceptive. The crack on the temple had caused a brain bleed. McAvoy decided to operate without delay.
He ensured his patient was in a deep induced coma before opening the skull, performing a hemicraniectomy in which a substantial section of the cranium is removed. What he discovered was what he had feared, and the only good news was that he was just in time.
It was an extradural haematoma – bleeding on the brain – and any further delay might well have led to permanent damage. McAvoy was able to stem the bleeding, quietly thanking Inverness for sending the lad to his ‘acute’ unit in Edinburgh, despite the time loss involved.
After suturing the bleed he kept Luke in the coma for three more days before bringing him back to consciousness. In all, the teenager spent two weeks in intensive care before, still swathed in bandages, he could be sent back to Castle Craigleven.
He was accompanied by his mother and Captain Harry Williams. Sue Jennings had been staying in a small hotel in Edinburgh so that she could visit every day and sit with him. Harry Williams had flown south to be with her and Luke.
Apart from the bandages, Luke seemed much as he had been before the fall. He still looked to his mother for support in social situations, but he was perfectly lucid. He seemed relieved, on his arrival, to be back in familiar surroundings where everything that belonged to him was still placed exactly where he insisted it must be.
For an hour he stayed in his room on the south face, overlooking the sweep of lawns and the spectacular view of the valley where, still unknown to him, he had nearly died for the second time. No one had told him there was now a Russian sniper buried deep in the forest across the valley.
Dr Hendricks fussed over him, eager to reintroduce him to the computer room, his preferred environment. Over their spring and summer together their relationship had developed to the point where the man from GCHQ was now almost a father figure, to such an extent that Luke’s memory of his real, late father seemed to be fading. Not that his real father had even shown a flicker of interest in Luke’s only interest – the mysterious world of cyberspace.
But Dr Hendricks noticed that even as the youth patrolled his room, checking over and over again on the position of all his possessions, he did not evince much interest in returning to the computer room. It will come, he thought, it will come. After the brain damage, he just needs time.
The first warning bells began to sound after Luke had spent an hour back at the keys of his favoured computer. He was competent, like any young man of the modern age. His fingers flickered over the keys. He passed a few simple tests of dexterity. Then Dr Hendricks set him a more complicated challenge.
Far to the south, in the north-western quadrant of London, is the suburb of Northwood. Beneath its streets, with their rows of calm, tree-lined avenues of commuter dwellings, out of sight and largely out of mind, is the operations headquarters of the Royal Navy.
The Admiralty may be in central London, the warships moored in Devonport, the great aircraft carriers Queen Elizabeth and Prince of Wales still undergoing sea trials off Portsmouth and the nuclear-missile-bearing submarines in the Clyde estuary off Faslane, but the navy’s computerized-war heart is at Northwood. This is where the database flickers deep beneath the suburban streets. And the database is protected by fearsome firewalls that guard its vital access codes.
Sir Adrian sought and received the permission of the First Sea Lord to see if the cyber-genius could possibly secure those access codes. Luke tried for a week but was repelled at every attempt. The sixth sense, or second sight, or whatever he had had, seemed to be missing. On theoretical exercises, others from GCHQ had made more progress, though none had ever reached the sacred core.
Sir Adrian flew from London to Inverness and was brought by car to the castle. He had long, gentle conversations with Luke and his mother, and more technical ones with Dr Hendricks, who explained that something seemed to have changed. The boy who had set off for his mountain walk two weeks earlier was not the puzzled youth now dabbling at his keyboard.
Again Sir Adrian consulted Professor Simon Baron-Cohen in his Cambridge offices. The academic and cerebral specialist was not encouraging. Despite all the expertise in the world, the effects of brain damage were still unpredictable.
What had happened to Luke Jennings was not simply a tap on the skull causing very temporary unconsciousness, what the layman calls ‘knocked out’ or ‘knocked cold’. That happened to many people – in the boxing ring, at the work site or in the home. Recovery was speedy and permanent.
But it seemed what that Scottish rock on the mountainside had done was more serious. The professor confirmed that permanent brain changes could take place as a result of cerebral damage. There was simply no guarantee that time alone would change a damaged human brain back to the way it was.
Sir Adrian flew back to London to inform the Prime Minister that Operation Troy based on the incredible skills of the Fox was over.
‘Is this lad damaged in any other way, Adrian?’ she asked.
‘No, Prime Minister. Indeed, since his return from hospital to the Highlands, he seems to be developing into a much more well-adjusted young man. But we have to accept that this astonishing talent he had for slicing through the world’s most complicated firewalls has deserted him.’
‘So our secret weapon is no more?’
‘That is the case.’
‘Who knows that it ever existed?’
‘Very, very few, Prime Minister. Among our allies, the White House and a few very senior Americans. This side of the Pond, you, two or three Cabinet members and some senior executives in the intelligence community. We are all sworn to secrecy and accustomed to it. I do not foresee leaks if the whole hub is dismantled and dispersed. As to the Kremlin, I very much suspect they will wish to let this sleeping dog lie.’
‘What about the Jennings family? Surely we have wreaked havoc among them?’
‘I have a suspicion that Mrs Jennings wishes to remarry. I suggest they all sign the Official Secrets Act and that funds be allocated to find a job for Luke and to complete the education of Marcus, with an ex gratia payment for their spring and summer of dislocation.’
‘Very well, Adrian. I rely on you to put the matter to bed. In short, it never happened, or at least it had nothing to do with Her Majesty’s government.’
‘As you wish it, Prime Minister.’
The close-down would be very quiet and very discreet. With the Prime Minister’s permission, Sir Adrian instructed Dr Hendricks in his Highland castle to begin the dismantlement of the computer hub and the restoration of the staff to their posts at Cheltenham.
As Weston had predicted, Sue Jennings and Captain Harry Williams decided to marry. She would settle down as a soldier’s wife, using the proceeds of the sale of the Luton residence to purchase a family home outside Hereford, close to the base of the SAS regiment.
She put the decision to both her sons. They already got on well with Harry Williams. Marcus was philosophical about yet another move of school, since he still had a couple of years until he took the exams in the British system known as GCSEs. To Sue’s surprise, even Luke accepted the decision. The most challenging variations of behaviour caused by his condition seemed to be abating. All he wanted was his computer room, where he could play his cyber-games, and it now seemed he could cause no more havoc among the databases of either friend or foe.
That left Dr Hendricks with one last quandary as the headquarters at the Scottish castle were being dismantled. He was still in possession of the information yielded by Luke’s last triumph before he was injured. This was the access codes to the inner heart of the North Korean missile programme, its acquisition still unsuspected in Pyongyang. He passed the decision to Sir Adrian.
The old knight had had an eventful but tiring
seven months. He had wearied of London; of the noise and the pressure, the fumes and the bustle. He longed for his cottage in the landscape of unspoiled Dorset. His spaniel had been cared for by a neighbour; now, he wanted to walk the woods again, with dog at heel, to live among his books and his memories, to have a log fire on a winter’s night. However, he had one last chore to do before he left the metropolis.
The United Kingdom was still capable of taking covert control of the guidance systems of the North Korean rocket programme. He decided it would be a pity to waste such a chance.
That autumn, the North Koreans tested another missile. It was not the Hwasong-15 but the smaller and older Taepodong-2. Their reasoning was simple. Despite all Pyongyang’s promises, secret development on the miniaturization of nuclear warheads had continued at unknown research laboratories well below ground. Ostentatious demolitions had taken place at ground level to justify the trade benefits being permitted by the USA.
After the disastrous experience with the Hwasong-20, it had been decided to carry out fundamental improvement to the earlier Taepodong and fit it with the smaller atomic warhead when it was ready. The cover story was that the four-stage Taepodong was destined for space research only; thus the test-fired missile had no warhead.
It was launched from the Tonghae facility to avert suspicion. Tonghae had earlier been used to launch non-weaponized missiles.
The latest Taepodong performed perfectly – at first. It rose vertically and sedately into the stratosphere. It was designed to climb through the stratosphere into the exosphere before turning east towards the Sea of Japan. After crossing the Japanese island of Hokkaido it was intended that it run out of fuel and crash into the western Pacific. At the zenith of its climb, however, something went wrong. It wavered, tilted and turned west. Towards China.
In Tonghae, the scientists at their computer banks feverishly tapped in the commands to turn the missile back on course. The sensors failed to respond. When it became plain the Taepodong was out of control they frantically programmed in the codes to ensure self-detonation. It flew on, trembled, tilted and began to fall.
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