Blackout: Tomorrow Will Be Too Late

by Marc Elsberg

  ‘Don’t you need passwords for that? Isn’t that data encrypted?’

  ‘Of course it is. But this kind of encryption is, for the most part, easy to crack. And as far as the passwords go, you’d be amazed what you can find on the Internet when you know where to look.’

  ‘That is most definitely not legal.’

  Now it was Manzano who grinned.

  ‘A man likes to know who he’s dependent on, don’t you agree?’

  By now the files he had been looking for were up on his screen.

  ‘I managed to pick out the operating codes – here’s the list I saved. You see this one – that’s the electricity supplier giving the order to share the current usage. That one there allows the supplier to cut usage by two hundred watts, and so forth.’

  Bondoni studied the list. Looked back up at the meter.

  ‘The one on the display is on your list too. But in red.’

  ‘And right there is where it starts to get interesting. The meters are manufactured by an American firm – for domestic use as well as international. Some of the codes they use are different. They also have functions that aren’t utilized in Italy at all. For example, a command for total cut-off from the grid – the disconnect command. This one right here, you see it?’

  Slowly Bondoni read off the sequence of letters and numerals. ‘KL 956739. I’ll be damned!’ As he turned to Manzano, the laptop screen cast a blue glow on his face, giving it a ghostlike quality. ‘Does that mean the Americans took you off the grid?’

  ‘No. The disconnect command isn’t recorded anywhere in the Italian instruction manual, but clearly it works all the same. I tried it out back then. And guess what: there’s a sting in the tail. Because the function isn’t intended for use in Italy, the meter doesn’t send any information to the power supplier if the disconnect command is activated.’

  ‘Hold on, hold on – does that mean this cut-off order gets activated and the people at the power company don’t know a thing about it?’

  ‘For an old man with a bottle of wine under your belt, you catch on fast.’

  ‘But how does this command get activated?’

  ‘That’s the question. A system error, maybe. But you’ve given me an idea. Come on.’ He pushed Bondoni towards the door. ‘Let’s go have a look at what your meter’s up to.’

  Manzano waited impatiently for Bondoni’s fingers, clumsy with age and too much wine, to fit the key into the lock. As they passed through the hallway to get to the circuit breaker, Manzano looked at the pictures on the wall. Photos of Bondoni, his late wife and his daughter, Lara, a petite, lively woman with a mane of brown hair.

  ‘How’s your daughter these days?’ He knew she worked for the European Commission in Brussels, though he could never remember in which department.

  ‘Fantastic! She just got promoted again. You won’t believe how much she’s making now. And all of it from my taxes!’

  ‘So the money stays in the family then.’

  ‘Most of it goes on rent – the cost of living in Brussels is unbelievable! Today she’s off to Austria on a ski trip. As if you can’t go skiing in Italy!’

  Bondoni opened the circuit-breaker box to reveal the Smart Meter. The device showed the same jumble of digits as Manzano’s.

  Command Headquarters

  He wished he could see the view from the International Space Station at this moment: swathes of darkness across Europe, where usually the delicate veins and shining nodes of the electric grid radiated across the land. According to the first reports and their own assessments, at least two-thirds of the continent were without power. Still more regions would follow. He imagined those in charge, frantically trying to identify the cause, apportioning blame – the winter weather, a technical fault or human error. They had no inkling what it was they were actually dealing with.

  Accustomed to being in control, they’d assume it was a passing occurrence and tell themselves that in a few hours everything would be back to normal. No doubt they were even now collecting amusing anecdotes to entertain their friends. Oh, they’d have stories to tell all right, but not the frivolous ones that were going through their minds now. Unlike previous blackouts, where the legacy was a jump in the birth rate nine months later, this one would lay waste to the so-called civilization of the West. Only then could history be written anew.

  Service Station Near Bregenz, Austria

  After a night on the restaurant floor, Sophia was awoken by a murmur. Still dazed from sleep, it took her a while to realize that people were getting up and making quietly for the exit. Fleur’s head was resting on her shoulder, obscuring her view of the exit, but as she watched, more people seemed to be waking. They looked around sleepily, then joined the exodus. Gently extricating herself from Fleur, she stood up, stretched her legs and crossed the room, an obstacle course of resting bodies. She smelled damp clothing, sweat, melted snow, cold soup. She hadn’t yet reached the entrance to the car park when someone shouted, ‘Hey! The pumps are back on.’ By the time Sophia reached the door, people were crowding in behind her, jabbing her in the back and shoving her out into the open.

  It was biting cold outside and the night was still starless. The petrol station shop shone out like a beacon in the gloom, and she could see people cramming themselves inside, gesticulating at the man behind the counter.

  She clumsily fixed her thick hair away from her eyes and stepped into the store. Already most of the shelves and coolers were half-empty. The people around her were agitated, speaking so quickly it was hard for her to translate, but she understood enough to grasp that the pumps weren’t working after all. She grabbed what she could: bread, sandwiches, biscuits, as well as a few bottles of soft drinks still rolling about the emptying shelves, and got in line at the register.

  ‘Cash only,’ said the man behind the counter in a dialect that she barely understood. Sophia took out her wallet, fished out one of the few notes, collected her change and left.

  There were masses of people streaming out of the restaurant now. She badly needed to go to the bathroom, and she was ravenously hungry, but the first priority was finding her friends. It turned out Lara and Chloé were waiting for her in the Citroën. ‘Breakfast,’ she announced, and held up her shopping. Then she walked quickly to the hedge that separated the parking area from the neighbouring fields. The moment she reached the bushes, she was met with a terrible stench. In the first light of dawn, she saw that the area had turned into one big communal toilet. Treading carefully in her greying trainers, she skirted the hedge in the hope that it wouldn’t be as bad further away from the car park. Only when she came to the end of the hedge did she finally risk entering the bushes. The ground was littered with white, wet scraps. Sophia decided not to look too closely. Two metres away she caught sight of a squatting figure. Murmuring something unintelligible that was meant to be an apology, she hurried onwards to another spot. To her right, another girl huddled. In front, a woman held on to a little boy who was peeing merrily. At last, she found a spot where she thought no one could see her. She still had tissues and wet-wipes from the night before.

  In the car, Lara and Chloé were nibbling on the bread as they listened to the news on the radio. As Sophia climbed into the back seat, she could see her breath in the cold air.

  ‘They’re saying the power went out in half of Europe last night,’ said Lara.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ asked Chloé. ‘We can’t sit here and freeze our tits off. And I don’t much fancy that makeshift refugee camp over there.’

  Fleur climbed in and joined them with a shiver. ‘This place is vile,’ she said, rubbing her hands to warm them. ‘I’m not staying here for another second.’ In the distance, someone began sounding their horn. Others joined in, as though that would help matters.

  ‘No power, no phone, no petrol – what’s next?’ Chloé had to yell for the others to hear her over the noise. Everyone, it seemed, was releasing their pent-up frustration. The four friends could only look at each
other, at a loss as to what to do next. They sat in the car, unspeaking, listening to the swelling din.

  Day 1 – Saturday

  Paris, France

  ‘We’ve got tonnes of material,’ Turner announced as he pulled open the door to the editing room. Then fell silent when he saw candles flickering in the darkness. ‘What the hell’s going on here?’

  Shannon turned to him in disbelief. ‘Seriously? We’ve just spent the entire night running around in the pitch-black and—’

  ‘OK, OK, so the power’s out. But there ought to be a backup power system here.’

  ‘No shit,’ said one of the producers. ‘The only computers still working are the ones whose batteries had enough charge. I’ve been trying to come up with some alternatives.’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ said Turner. ‘We’ve shot hours of material and we can’t do anything with it?’

  ‘We can edit on the laptops,’ Shannon offered.

  ‘What is it you’ve got?’ asked the producer.

  ‘Scenes at Gare du Nord after all the signs went off, the ticket windows were closed, the power went out in the shops and most of the trains were cancelled … a few car accidents … interview with the chief of the fire department, firefighters rescuing people stuck in lifts … chaos in and outside supermarkets and malls.’

  As he spoke, Turner played some of the raw footage on the screen. ‘We need this one,’ he said, indicating a scene shot in the subway.

  Only because you’re in the frame the whole time, thought Shannon. She fast-forwarded to the footage at the Interior Ministry. When the car drove by, she hit pause. It was possible to make out the outline of a face behind the tinted windows. She put on a few filters, the edges got sharper, the contrast deeper.

  ‘I know that face,’ murmured Turner.

  Yeah, but you don’t know the name that goes with it, thought Shannon.

  ‘That’s Louis Oiseau, head of Électricité de France,’ she explained.

  ‘I know that,’ Turner snapped.

  ‘It’s an awesome opening scene,’ Shannon remarked. ‘Energy boss heads to Interior Ministry on secret mission.’

  In the foreground of the shot, Turner vanished behind a flurry of snowflakes.

  ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Nobody cares about that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ the producer said. ‘After all, half the country’s in the dark. And other countries are affected too. There’s no word yet as to the cause or how soon it will be fixed.’

  ‘Exactly!’ cried Shannon. ‘So we should sign off with the scene at the ministry. First the human drama and at the end the question: are things going to get even worse?’

  ‘Lauren, please,’ groaned Turner. ‘You’re the camerawoman. These are decisions for journalists and editors.’

  Without me you’d be nowhere, thought Shannon. She clenched her teeth and said nothing.

  Milan, Italy

  The taxi stopped in front of the glass palace that housed Enel, one of the largest power suppliers in Europe. As he dropped the fare in the driver’s palm, Manzano realized that he was spending the last of his cash.

  The doors to the lobby were closed; a row of security guards formed a cordon across them, holding back journalists, curious onlookers and disgruntled customers.

  Manzano pushed his way through the crowd and told one of the black-clad security men that he had to get inside.

  ‘Nobody gets in today.’

  ‘I know what started this whole mess. And I have to let the good gentlemen inside know. How about you let me through and spare yourself the embarrassment of having to explain to your employers that you got in my way? Believe me, you will have to explain.’

  The security man exchanged a wavering glance with another guard. Then, without taking his eyes off Manzano, he said something into his mouthpiece. Manzano stared stony-faced at the guard as he listened to the response. Finally he beckoned him forward. ‘Come with me.’

  Manzano followed the man to the long, curved reception desk, behind which were three dazed-looking employees. One of the women greeted them with a pinched expression.

  ‘Please wait here. Someone will be down in a moment.’

  Twenty minutes later he was on the verge of walking out when a junior manager appeared. He could have come straight out of central casting: young, tall, dapper, every hair in place, in a suit and tie – quite an achievement in the current conditions. Only the bags under his eyes betrayed that he’d had less sleep than usual the night before. He introduced himself as Mario Curazzo. Straight away he demanded, ‘How do I know you’re not a journalist?’

  ‘Because I don’t have a camera or a voice recorder with me. And I haven’t come here to ask you anything. Instead, I want to tell you something.’

  ‘You sound like a journalist to me. If you waste my time, I’ll throw you out of here myself.’

  And he could do it, too. Manzano didn’t doubt that for a moment. Curazzo was a head taller than he was and looked to be in very good shape.

  ‘Does KL 956739 mean anything to you?’ asked Manzano.

  Curazzo stared back at him with a blank expression. Then he answered, ‘A code for the electric meters, we don’t use it.’

  Now it was Manzano’s turn to be surprised. Either the subject was Curazzo’s area of expertise, or the man was really good. Or they already knew.

  ‘Then why was it showing on my meter last night?’

  Again, that same look, penetrating, giving nothing away.

  ‘Come with me.’

  He led him along deserted glass hallways.

  They arrived at an enormous room with gigantic screens decking one of the walls. Under them, in desks arranged in circles, dozens of people sat in front of computer monitors. The air smelled rancid. A curtain of sound woven of multiple discussions filled the room.

  ‘The control centre,’ Curazzo said.

  He led him to a group that stood leaning over a table. When Manzano was introduced, he looked into drawn faces. Curazzo explained why he had brought him here. The group didn’t seem particularly impressed. Again Manzano repeated his story.

  An older man with his shirt collar open and his tie loosened asked, ‘Are you sure you didn’t just dream all of this up?’

  A name tag on his chest identified him as L. Troppano.

  Manzano could feel his face turning red.

  ‘One hundred per cent sure. Have you not had any reports about this yet?’

  The man shook his head.

  ‘Could the code have been activated by mistake?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I heard on the news that the outages began in Italy and Sweden. Is that true?’

  ‘They were among the first, yes.’

  ‘The two countries where practically every home is fitted with a Smart Meter. A strange coincidence, don’t you think?’

  ‘You think the meters were tampered with?’ asked a man with a moustache and blow-dried hair.

  ‘I was able to do it. Why shouldn’t somebody else be able to?’

  ‘Tens of millions, throughout Italy?’

  ‘The problem isn’t the meters,’ said Troppano. As he spoke he turned to the others, as if to remind them of something that had already been discussed. ‘We have instabilities in the grid that we’ve simply got to get a handle on.’ To Manzano he said, ‘Thank you for making the effort to come to us. Mr Curazzo will see you out.’

  Manzano was about to answer when Curazzo discreetly took hold of his elbow.

  On the way to the exit, Manzano urged Curazzo to look at the meters and to share what they found out with other companies. Had he sown a seed of doubt that would take root in the next few hours? He didn’t have much hope.

  Farm Near Dornbirn, Austria

  Sophia knocked a second time on the old wooden door. Their car was parked ten metres away, at the end of the drive that led to the farm. Lara, who could still remember German from her schooldays, stood patiently next to her. The mooing of cows floated in the air
.

  Still no one came to the door. It was clear that someone was there – the animals couldn’t look after themselves. So they went round the back to the cowshed. The door swung slightly ajar. The cows’ cries were so loud now that Sophia only made a show of knocking before pushing it open with force. The smell inside filled her with a warm, contented feeling. Inside stretched a long aisle of cows standing in stalls on either side. But no human in sight.

  ‘Hello?’ Sophia called out.

  ‘Hello!’ Lara called louder. Half hidden by a cow’s flank they spotted a farmhand sitting on a stool.

  ‘Hello! Excuse me!’ Sophia called out again.

  Years of working outdoors showed in the man’s face. He looked suspiciously at her. Then without standing up or taking his hands from under the cow, he said something.

  As best as her German allowed, Sophia introduced herself and explained what she was after.

  The man’s face didn’t get any friendlier, but he stood up and wiped his hands on his apron. He wore rubber boots and a patchy, oft-mended sweater. Behind him she could see a bucket of milk under the cow’s udder.

  Sophia still couldn’t understand what he was saying. With a smile she held her road map out. The farmer gave her a look, then ran his finger over the map. As he did so, he explained, now in more intelligible language, how they could get to the nearest train station.

  Sophia and Lara were about to leave when Sophia asked, ‘Why are the cows mooing so loudly?’

  ‘Their udders are killing them,’ he said grimly. ‘Without power the milking machines don’t work. So we have to do everything by hand – and with more than a hundred cows, it’s going to take ages. Their udders are already past full. So, excuse me, but I need to get back to work.’

  Sophia caught the look Lara was giving her. The same thought had popped into both their heads.