“ Forsyth deserves his place among the thriller greats ”
“ Forsyth has lost none of his storytelling finesse and geopolitical grasp . . . this is Forsyth at his spellbinding best ”
“ The pages virtually turn themselves ”
Barry Forshaw, Guardian
“ Ripped from today’s headlines . . . Forsyth fashions our contemporary reality into an assured thriller ”
Mail on Sunday
“ A thriller that’ll have you checking your PC’s security . . . with plenty of detail on the world of cyber-security and fine pacing and characterisation, Forsyth delivers another lesson in how it should be done ”
“ The five year wait for Forsyth’s latest sensation has been worth every second. ”
“ [I]ngenious, expertly written and a serious look at international conflicts that threaten the future of the world…Forsyth is supremely well-informed about world affairs, politics, diplomacy, weaponry and the mysteries of spycraft. In “The Fox,” as in all his novels, he lays them out in brilliant detail ”
“ ‘Outstanding … Frederick Forsyth does it again. For a story like this to work, the details have to be on point, and it’s clear that the author has done his homework as he breaks down how hackers work, often detailing their various methods and the different virtual traps they can set … just the kind of stunning, relevant, full-throttle story that thriller fans have been waiting for, and nobody delivers quite like Frederick Forsyth, one of the very best writers the genre has ever known’ ”
No one saw them. No one heard them. They were not supposed to. The black-clad Special Forces soldiers slipped unseen through the pitch-dark night towards the target house.
In most town and city centres there is always a glimmer of light, even in deepest night, but this was the outer suburb of an English provincial town and all public lighting had ceased at one in the morning. This was the darkest hour, 2 a.m. A solitary fox watched them pass but instinct bade him not interfere with fellow hunters. No house lights broke the gloom.
They encountered two single humans, both on foot, both drunk after late-night partying with friends. The soldiers melted into gardens and shrubbery, disappearing black on black, until the wanderers had stumbled towards their homes.
They knew exactly where they were, having studied the streets and the target house in intimate detail for many hours. The pictures had been taken by cruising cars and overhead drones. Much enlarged and pinned to the wall of the briefing room at Stirling Lines, the headquarters of the SAS outside Hereford, the images had been memorized to the last stone and kerb. The soft-booted men did not trip or stumble.Continue Reading