by Marc Elsberg
The shift leader shrugged. ‘You know how it is. We might know in two months when we’ve investigated and reconstructed everything.’
Marpeaux groaned at the thought of the paperwork that investigation would entail, then donned his shift supervisor badge and nodded for his colleague to begin the handover briefing.
Milan, Italy
‘Deep breaths, in and out,’ instructed the doctor.
The cold stethoscope pressed into Manzano’s back.
‘I’m telling you, I’m absolutely fine.’
The doctor, a young woman with TV-star looks, came around to face him and shone a small torch in Manzano’s eyes.
‘Headache? Dizziness? Nausea?’
‘No, nothing.’
Manzano sat bare-chested on a gurney in a tiny room in the emergency ward of the Ospedale Maggiore di Milano. Although he had regained consciousness after briefly losing it at the scene of the accident, the paramedics had insisted on taking him with them. His car was a write-off anyway – the fire department would deal with it before he could.
‘Mouth open.’
Manzano complied, and the doctor inspected his throat. How this was supposed to help with a small laceration on his forehead was a mystery.
‘Sew this thing up and let me go home,’ he told her.
‘Is there someone there who can look after you?’
‘Was that an offer?’
‘It was not.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want to stay here?’
‘If we can share a bottle of good wine, I’m perfectly happy to stay.’
‘Tempting,’ she replied with a cool smile, ‘but here we only use alcohol for disinfecting.’
‘Well, in that case, I suggest a decent Barolo back at my place. Hopefully we can do without the X-ray.’
‘That we can,’ she said and pulled out a syringe.
Manzano felt sick when he saw the needle.
‘I’m giving you a local anaesthetic, close to the wound, and then you can go. Watch out, this is going to hurt a little.’
‘Is this really necessary?’ he asked.
‘Would you like me to sew it up without the anaesthetic?’
Manzano began to sweat. Keeping a tight grip on the gurney, he turned his gaze to the floor so as not to have to look at the doctor. ‘The power’s out here too?’ he asked, hoping to distract himself.
‘All over the city, it looks like. For the past hour I’ve been getting nothing but guys like you in here. There’s more waiting outside. Car accidents, because all of a sudden the lights aren’t working. People who fell over when the Metro came to a halt. So, that’s you sorted. There’ll probably be a small scar, nothing too bad. Makes a man more interesting.’
Manzano relaxed again. ‘As interesting as Frankenstein’s monster.’
This time a real smile skittered across her face. Manzano put his shirt back on, with its bloodstained collar, then his coat, which had red stains on its sleeves. He thanked the doctor and found his way out.
Outside he looked in vain for a taxi. He asked the man at the hospital’s information desk, who shrugged apologetically.
‘Assuming I can get through, I’d be happy to book a cab for you, but right now the wait time runs to at least an hour. With public transport out of action, the taxis are in demand. It’s like the big blackout of 2003.’
A date every Italian remembered: the whole country had been without power for twenty-four hours. Hopefully this one wouldn’t last that long.
He thanked the man, turned up his coat collar, and trudged off.
In the streets the lights of the cars blurred together into a single stream that sluggishly pushed its way through the dark canyons between buildings. The icy wind sliced through his coat.
He weaved slowly through the alleys towards the cathedral, accompanied by a never-ending concert of car horns in the background. Once past the church, he turned down Via Dante in the direction of Parco Sempione. The honking grew louder as drivers grew increasingly frustrated at finding their progress blocked by abandoned trams. He carried on walking through the dark, congested streets, at times having to squeeze between shopfronts and cars that had mounted the pavement in an effort to continue their journey. Most of the shops were closed, even if the signs showing their opening hours said differently.
Fascinated, he realized he was discovering things that he’d never noticed by daylight or streetlight. Clever bits of signage above shops, for example, or buildings he would have passed by, where now he paused to look at the façades. In a tiny alimentari a stooped figure was rummaging around by candlelight. In the glass door hung a sign that read Chiuso: Closed. Manzano knocked all the same. The figure inside stopped rummaging and came to the door; it was an old man in a white smock. He eyed Manzano suspiciously for a moment before opening up. A bell chimed above the entrance.
‘What do you want?’
‘Can I buy something?’
‘Only if you’ve got cash. Electronic payments won’t work.’
The smell of sausages and cheese, antipasti and bread met Manzano’s nose. He fished out his wallet and counted.
‘I’ve got forty left.’
‘That should do. You don’t look like much of an eater. What happened to your head?’
He left the door open and went off behind the counter.
‘Small accident on account of the power outage.’
Manzano chose bresaola, salami finocchietta, Taleggio, goat’s cheese, marinated mushrooms and artichokes, and half a loaf of white bread. All for sixteen euros. He said goodbye and left with his spoils.
For three years Manzano had lived on the fourth floor of a crumbling building on Via Piero della Francesca. With no light on in the entrance, he could barely see a hand in front of his face as he climbed the stairs. But once inside his own apartment, he was struck by how he’d managed to get there as if on autopilot – lifting his hand to exactly the right height to find the keyhole, locating the coat hook by touch, setting down the laptop bag and groceries, making his way to the bathroom – all without seeing a thing.
There was a rattle after the flush and that was it for the water. Manzano missed the soft hiss the water normally made as it filled the tank. He turned the old-fashioned tap at the washbasin, which coughed out a few drops before going quiet.
This blackout was beginning to get on his nerves. He could get by for a while without power, but now he was supposed to get by without water too? It wasn’t a prospect he relished, considering how dirty he was.
The knock on the door made him jump.
‘Boo! It’s a ghost!’ The face of his neighbour, Carlo Bondoni, appeared in the doorway. He looked like something straight out of a Caravaggio painting, the candle in his hand giving off just enough of a glow to reveal his wrinkled face and the unkempt white hair that circled his bald spot. He held up the candle so he could see Manzano, then cried out in shock, ‘Dear God, what happened to you?’
‘An accident.’
‘There’s not a light on in the whole city,’ Bondoni reported. ‘Said so on the radio.’
‘I know,’ replied Manzano. ‘The traffic lights went out. My Alfa’s a total write-off.’
‘It was before.’
‘You always did know how to make me feel better.’
‘Here, light a candle for it,’ said Bondoni, producing a candle from his pocket. ‘Now you won’t have to sit in the dark.’
Manzano lit it from Bondoni’s flame.
‘Thanks. I’ve got a packet of candles stashed away somewhere, this’ll make it easier to find them.’
‘Hey, you know all about engineering and IT – can’t you do anything to fix this mess? No TV, no Internet – I don’t even know where I am any more. I blame these new-fangled electric meters …’
Manzano was hungry. He had known Bondoni long enough to guess where this conversation was headed. Without television, the old man was bored and desperate for entertainment. Well,
what the hell. It wasn’t as if he had any plans.
‘Come on in,’ he said. ‘It’s too cold to hang around out there. Have you eaten?’
Near Bregenz, Austria
‘Nothing’s working here either!’ cried Chloé. ‘It’s unbelievable!’
Sophia leaned forward from the back seat and peered through the patch of windscreen cleared by the wipers. It was snowing heavily and the petrol station they’d just pulled in to was a repeat of the previous three: cars abandoned on the forecourt, others parked on the slip road, drivers trying to weave their way out of the chaos. She peered at the Citroën’s fuel gauge. A yellow light indicated that they were now running on reserves. ‘We won’t make it to the cabin on what we’ve got left,’ she reasoned. ‘That leaves us with two options: wait here till the pumps start working again …’
‘Which could take all night,’ remarked Chloé.
‘Or leave the highway and look for a place to stay,’ Fleur suggested.
‘But we can’t look for long,’ Chloé pitched in. ‘Because we won’t get very far. And I don’t want to end up stranded on some Austrian country road in this weather. At least here we’ll freeze close to a fresh supply.’
Sophia took out her smartphone to search for accommodation nearby, then swore under her breath. ‘No Internet connection,’ she moaned, putting the phone back in her bag.
The clock showed 22:47.
‘What I really wanted was to be sitting in front of a cosy fire with a mug of hot punch by now,’ she sighed. ‘OK, who’s for finding a hotel, who’s for waiting here? And … Go!’
A chorus of four voices: ‘Wait here.’
‘I’m hungry,’ Lara Bondoni added.
‘The shop and restaurant look closed,’ observed Chloé.
‘Well, I need to go to the toilet, so I’m heading over there anyway. Who’s coming with?’ asked Lara.
‘Me,’ answered Fleur.
Sophia and Chloé looked at each other and nodded, then the four of them set off.
The petrol station was indeed closed, most of the cars empty. They circled the building and found the bathrooms at the back. A horrific stench wafted out when they opened the door. It was too dark to see.
‘Oh my God, I am not going in there,’ Sophia declared.
They turned and made their way to the restaurant building. Weak light could be seen through the fluted glass of the large double doors. As they stepped inside, Sophia felt a thrill of adventure – a childish sort of adventure, like when she was at summer camp and they’d sheltered from a thunderstorm in an abandoned hut. Every table in the restaurant was occupied, and there were candles flickering on a couple of them. Some customers made conversation, others sat in silence or slept. There was a musty smell, but at least it was warmer here than outside. A man got up and came towards them. He was wearing a down jacket and a bow tie hung loose around his neck.
‘We’re full,’ he said. ‘Light, water, bathroom, stove, refrigerator, heating, booking and payment systems – none of it’s working. I was supposed to be off three hours ago. But we can’t lock people out. If you can find a little spot for yourselves, you’re welcome to stay.’
Ybbs-Persenbeug, Austria
The nine men stood motionless, staring at the monitors in the control booth.
‘And … Go!’
Oberstätter pressed the button.
For three hours they had argued, run simulations, phoned colleagues in other stations, trying to establish what had gone wrong. So far, all they could say for certain was that most of Europe was without power. The power plants that supplied the grid had gone down like dominoes as automatic safety measures triggered by the sudden spike in frequency kicked in to deactivate the system.
Ybbs-Persenbeug should have shut down automatically too. Oberstätter still couldn’t understand why it hadn’t, and why the displays in the control booth had registered a drop in frequency even as the generators were shuddering and jumping before his eyes. He only hoped that the facility hadn’t been damaged. Run-of-river hydro plants like this one had a vital role to play in re-establishing the supply, since they could start up again without assistance. Not that it was a simple process of pressing a button. First, they had to let the water through the turbines; then switch on the generators; then step by step activate the various pressure valves and other components. Only then could they start feeding power into the grid.
‘And stop,’ sighed one of Oberstätter’s co-workers.
He turned, frowning, to see what the problem was.
The man leaned towards his screen and read aloud, ‘Short-circuit risk on XCL 1362.’
Oberstätter shook his head in dismay, then waved a hand in the direction of the door. ‘Armin, Emil, get down there, check it out.’
‘That means at least another hour’s delay,’ groaned one of the men.
‘We have no choice,’ replied Oberstätter. ‘If everything’s not in order, we can’t come back online.’
Frowning, he reached for the telephone and dialled the number for Crisis Management.
Berlin, Germany
Michelsen hurried past the open door to the conference room where the interior minister was in urgent discussion with his European counterparts via video link. As she entered the hallway, seven staff members from various divisions were lying in wait for her; they fell in behind her as she strode to the press room, the spokesman for the interior minister leading the pack.
Questions were flying back and forth between them.
‘Do we know what caused it yet?’
‘No. No clue whatsoever. For the media, that translates as: Our number-one priority at the moment is re-establishing the power supply. Investigation into causes will be carried out as soon as people can put the heat back on, go shopping again and get back to work.’
‘Foreseeable end to the outage?’
‘Hard to say. The providers have been optimistic. But they’ve been trying to get the grid back online for six hours now, with no result. For the media: The providers are hard at work and striving to re-establish the power supply.’
‘How can this happen throughout the whole of Europe? That can’t be normal.’
‘Unfortunately, it can, given modern interconnected power grids. For the media: The minister has for some time now devoted his utmost attention to modernizing power grids and power systems, especially at the European level.’
‘First responders?’
‘Are working round the clock. In the past few hours the fire department has freed thousands of people from lifts and subways. The Red Cross and others are caring for the sick, the elderly and travellers who have been stranded on the roads.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘You can’t pump fuel without power.’
‘You’re not serious!’
‘Unfortunately, I am.’
‘And this on the first day of winter holidays.’
‘The Federal Agency for Technical Relief has been alerted and is fully mobilized.’
‘The military?’
‘Is standing by, prepared to support relief workers wherever necessary.’
‘And what are we going to tell people who still don’t have power tomorrow?’
Milan, Italy
Manzano had the feeling that time had slowed down since the power had gone out. He listened, conscious of the stillness, acutely aware of what was missing. The soft buzzing of the refrigerator. The bubbling of water in the pipes. The muffled chatter of a neighbour’s television. Now, only Bondoni’s heavy breathing, gulping down his wine, the scratching of his shirt against his sweater when he set the glass down on the table. The clock above the kitchen door showed half past one.
‘Time for bed,’ announced the old man, getting to his feet with a groan.
As Manzano was seeing him out, an odd feeling came over him. He shrugged it off and was about to clap Bondoni on the shoulder and bid him goodnight when he realized what was different. Through the door to his study, which was standing open, t
here came a weak beam of light.
‘Hold on a second,’ he told Bondoni and went into the study, a small cluttered room with two windows on to the street.
‘The streetlights are back on!’
Bondoni was already standing next to him. Manzano hit the light switch. On, off. On, off. It remained dark inside the study.
‘Weird. Why are the lights on out there but not in here?’
Manzano walked back out into the hallway and opened the circuit breaker. All the individual switches were in the right position, the main switch as well. The meter’s display read KL 956739.
‘The power’s back here,’ he murmured to himself, and then to Bondoni, ‘Will you try the light switch by the door?’
Click, clack. Nothing.
‘Hmm, let’s take a closer look here …’
‘What?’
Manzano disappeared into his study and returned with a laptop.
‘What are you up to?’ asked Bondoni.
‘Back when they installed the modern electric meters, being the curious type, I couldn’t resist taking a closer look at that little box there.’
He started to type.
‘These electric meters are basically tiny computers. That’s why they call them Smart Meters. They allow the power companies not only to collect data on your electricity use, but to control the meter remotely.’
‘I know. They can shut my power off, too,’ said Bondoni.
‘In order to do this, the electric company uses various codes …’
‘Like the one that’s on there now?’
‘Exactly. And we can set up a link with this box, if we put a little effort into it.’
Bondoni grinned. ‘I take it this isn’t entirely legal.’
Manzano shrugged.
‘And how do you set up this link?’ asked Bondoni.
‘With a very basic infrared interface. These days, almost any computer can do it. Or even your mobile phone. That’s what I did back when they installed them. I wanted to see for myself just what this hardware can do – and how it does it.’
