by Marc Elsberg
Sophia stood outside the bathroom in her jeans and a wool sweater.
‘Ah, that was wonderful. So what’s the latest?’
‘Nothing we don’t know already.’
She took hold of her travel bag and swung it by her side.
‘I’m ready.’
Together they went down to the lobby.
She gave him an earnest look. ‘Good luck,’ she said, then hugged him.
‘You too,’ he said, hugging her back. For perhaps a while longer than would have been usual for people who had just met.
‘When all this is over, let’s get a drink together, yeah?’ she suggested when they finally let go of one another. He noticed that she had to force herself to smile.
She slipped her business card in his pocket.
She stepped into the car and was gone. Manzano felt a lump in his throat as her blonde head receded into the distance. Then the street was empty.
Paris, France
‘All right, what have we got?’
Blanchard wiped the sweat from his forehead. He had gathered the software specialists together in the computer centre of CNES. Nearly a dozen men clustered around their laptops.
‘We have a virus in the system,’ explained Albert Proctet, the acting head of IT, a young man with a three-day beard and a loud shirt.
‘A virus?’ Blanchard roared. ‘What do you mean, a virus?’ He realized he was shouting and lowered his voice. ‘We have one of the best security systems in France, and you’re telling me someone has breached it?’
Proctet shrugged. ‘There’s no other explanation for the crashes. Right now we’re scanning the system with anti-virus software. So far without any success. And it’s going to take a long while yet.’
‘No, it will not!’ Blanchard was shouting again. ‘An hour ago I stood out there and praised the reliability of the French power grid! We’re making fools of ourselves in front of the entire world! Why are we paying millions for this technology if anybody can just waltz right in and shut it down? What about the backups?’
Like most grid operators, CNES cloned its systems as a backup, so that in the event of files becoming corrupted or infected by a virus, they could simply load the cloned version.
‘Same thing,’ said Proctet. ‘Somebody did a thorough job here.’
‘Somebody has caused a shitstorm!’ Blanchard roared. ‘People are going to lose their heads for this, you can bet your life on it.’
‘At the moment we need all the heads we’ve got,’ Proctet reminded him, unfazed.
The young man’s refusal to be cowed by his rage only infuriated Blanchard all the more, but he made an effort to rein in his anger before he spoke again. ‘What sort of timetable are we looking at here?’
‘Right now we’re restarting the system, per the standard installation protocols,’ Proctet explained. ‘We’ll let it run for a while and then we’ll test it. That’s going to take a few hours. The problem is that many of the software packages that we’ll need for our investigation are only available on the Internet. And thanks to the power outage, some sites are out of action and the Internet itself is overburdened.’
Blanchard groaned. ‘This cannot be happening – any of it! How come we don’t have these things here on DVDs or servers?’
Proctet grinned at him.
‘Unfortunately, we don’t have DVDs, and the servers are infected.’
‘For God’s sake, what kind of security—’ Once again Blanchard bit down on his anger, struggled to compose himself before continuing. ‘OK. Now what?’
‘Once we’ve got the software we need, we’ll check over the systems. We’ve also called in a few specialists. They’re on their way.’
The Hague, Netherlands
With help from Bollard’s map, Manzano reached Europol headquarters in ten minutes flat. He saw no signs of the power outage in the building complex. Silhouetted against a murky grey sky, light shone out from some of the windows. Busy people strode across the courtyards and through the halls. Manzano announced himself at the reception desk. Bollard himself showed up to collect him.
At a conference table sat a small, heavy-set man, a laptop in front of him. Bollard muttered a French-sounding name and explained, ‘He’ll scan your computer.’
Manzano reluctantly handed over his laptop. While the man started it up, Bollard handed Manzano a document.
‘A confidentiality agreement.’
Manzano scanned the text, but kept an eye on his laptop screen as he did so.
Standard boilerplate; he’d signed identical contracts for the many private firms that used his services. He wasn’t counting on learning or having to keep quiet about any grand secrets. He scrawled his name on the form and gave it back to Bollard. Then he turned back to the IT technician.
The phone rang. Bollard answered. Manzano could hear the voice of the person on the other end but couldn’t make out what he was saying.
‘I see,’ said Bollard. Then, ‘OK. I understand. Not good.’
He hung up, went to his desk and checked something on the computer.
‘Not good,’ he repeated. He jabbed hard on a button. The printer next to the desk came rattling to life. Bollard pulled out the papers and waved them in the air.
‘There’s been a development.’ He looked at the clock. ‘Damn! You’ll have to excuse me – our meeting’s about to start but I’ve got two phone calls to make.’
‘You’re still able to use the telephone?’
‘We’ve got backup power systems that also feed the telephone equipment. With long distance you can still get through from time to time. Locally, it’s as good as never.’
Bollard dialled, waited, then started speaking in French. Manzano had taken four years of French in school so he had no trouble understanding ‘Maman’ and could pick up enough of the words that followed to get the gist of Bollard’s conversation. He was warning his mother.
‘No, I can’t say any more right now. Tomorrow, or at the latest the day after that. Now, listen to me very carefully: take the old radio out of the garage and keep it on. Be careful with the food you have stored up. Make sure the well stays in good order. I’m going to try to send the Doreuils to you from Paris. Please be nice to them. Put Papa on.’
He went silent, held the receiver to his ear.
Sitting at the table the little fat man snapped his laptop shut and said, ‘Everything checks out. Thanks.’
‘So the Internet’s still working?’ Manzano asked him.
‘For the general public, barely. Here, we’ve got a direct connection to the backbone.’ Meaning to the good and thick cables whose substations could be provided with sufficient backup power. ‘It’s remained stable so far.’
He gave Bollard, still on the telephone, a thumbs-up and left the room.
Manzano put his computer away while Bollard carried on his conversation.
‘Papa, I’m trying to arrange for the Doreuils to come and stay with you. Please treat what I’m about to tell you in the strictest confidence. Tomorrow morning, as soon as the bank opens, take out as much cash as you can get. I don’t want to cry wolf here, but make sure that your rifles are cleaned and loaded and that you have enough ammunition. But say nothing to Maman and the Doreuils. Let’s hope I’m worrying for no reason. I love you both, salut.’
Manzano tried not to show his astonishment. He wondered what kind of news was on those printouts Bollard was clutching. Meanwhile Bollard dialled a new number. Again he spoke in French. Manzano realized he was speaking with his father-in-law. After he had ended the call, his face seemed paler and more haggard than before. He turned to Manzano.
‘Time for our meeting. Let’s go.’
The conference room was dominated by a large oval table. Six large screens hung on one wall. Most of those present were men. Manzano spotted only three women. Bollard showed him to his seat and then took his place at the table, directly under the monitors.
‘Good day, ladies and gentlemen,’ Bollard addressed
the meeting in English. ‘If one can call a day like this a good one.’
He held a remote in his hand. A map of Europe appeared on the screen above him. The majority of the continent was in red. Norway, France, Italy, Hungary, Romania, Greece and numerous small regions in other countries were cross-hatched red and green.
‘Until further notice, this room is our base of operations. By the end of this briefing, you will understand why. As you are aware, for almost forty-eight hours now, large areas of Europe have been without power, although intermittently some areas have managed to secure a basic supply. The latter are shown as cross-hatched on the map. This morning we learned that this outage was brought about deliberately, by persons unknown.
‘It started when a code was fed into the Smart Meters of half a dozen private homes in Italy and Sweden. It has now been reported that a significant number of power plants are experiencing difficulties with their computers that are preventing them coming back online.’
‘Stuxnet?’ someone asked. ‘Or something like it?’
‘They’re looking into it now. Of course it could take some time until they find anything. Since ten o’clock this morning, computer crashes have taken out the headquarters of grid operators in Norway, Germany, Great Britain, France, Poland, Romania, Italy, Spain, Serbia, Hungary, Slovenia and Greece.’
Countries that were previously cross-hatched on the map began to turn red. From the audience came gasps of shock and dismay.
‘As a result, many of the grids that were in the process of being restored have broken down a second time. Initially, each of the companies affected assumed they were the victim of an unfortunate malfunction, but as one after another was hit it became clear that this was no accident. Ladies and gentlemen, someone is attacking Europe.’
A stunned silence.
‘Do we have any idea who?’ a man at the other end of the table asked.
‘No,’ answered Bollard. ‘And so far we have little to go on. The operators identified six meters which were used to feed in the malicious codes – three in Italy, three in Sweden.’ The screen filled with images supplied by the Swedish and Italian authorities.
‘The residents at each address stated that they had been visited by service technicians from the local power company days before the outage. Despite initial doubts, their statements have checked out. With their help, facial composites of these supposed technicians are being prepared.
‘I don’t need to tell you that the outage is hampering our investigations more with every day the power stays off. Despite those difficulties, I must stress the need for close cooperation with liaison officers in each country. Independent national initiatives will be futile in the face of this pan-European threat.’
‘If the public finds out about this,’ murmured a man on Manzano’s left.
‘They won’t – not for the time being,’ Bollard said firmly.
Manzano waited for Bollard outside the conference room.
‘Do you really mean that?’ he asked him.
‘What?’
‘That the public won’t be getting any information.’
‘The public will be informed that the outage could go on for another few hours, or in some areas a few days. If they were told about the attack, it would only trigger panic.’
‘But it’s not going to be just a few days in a couple of areas!’ protested Manzano, appalled.
Bollard gave him a penetrating look, then set off in the direction of his office.
Manzano followed. He wasn’t done asking questions.
‘The software for the operation and control of power grids and power plants is very complex and highly specialized. Worldwide, there are only a few companies that are capable of developing these kinds of systems. Stuxnet was just mentioned. Would it be possible to put together a list of all power plants, grid operators and other energy companies that are having problems, together with a list of their software providers?’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Paris, France
The lift in Shannon’s building was, of course, not working. Exhausted, she climbed the stairs to her apartment. At least it warmed her up after the long, cold walk home.
When she got upstairs, she saw suitcases and bags in front of her neighbours’ door. Bertrand Doreuil was in the process of balancing another piece of luggage on the pile. Before his retirement, the tall, gaunt man with the scant grey hair had been a leading official in one of the ministries. She knew him as a witty conversationalist and a helpful neighbour.
‘Good evening, Monsieur Doreuil. Making a run for it?’ she asked, laughing. ‘I can understand why.’
Doreuil gave her a confused look.
‘Huh? Oh, no. We’re going to stay with my son-in-law’s parents for a few days.’
Shannon eyed the luggage. It didn’t look like a few days to her, more like a trip around the globe.
‘You’re taking a whole lot of gifts for your hosts, I see,’ she said, nodding at the suitcases. ‘Hopefully there’s power where you’re headed.’
His wife appeared behind him. ‘Pssh, the Bollards burn wood for heat when they have to. And when we want something to eat they take a hen out of the coop and slaughter it,’ she joked.
Her husband smiled sourly.
‘I’ve just come from a press conference where a director of CNES declared that everything will be running again soon.’
‘Oh, I’m sure it will,’ Madame Doreuil sing-songed.
‘Moments after the press conference ended, the power went out again.’ Shannon watched as they each took a suitcase from the pile. ‘I thought your daughter and her family were supposed to be coming for a visit?’
‘Oh, they had to postpone the trip on account of the power outages. And my son-in-law can’t leave The Hague at the moment.’
Her husband gave her a sharp look. Annette smiled at him sheepishly and then turned back to Shannon. ‘Um, could you be a dear and keep an eye on our post while we’re away?’
Too many ohs and ums. This awkwardness didn’t suit the Doreuils. They were normally so poised.
‘But of course,’ Shannon replied as casually as possible, while thoughts raced through her head. She had met the Doreuils’ son-in-law a couple of times. He was a high-ranking officer in Europol – responsible for counterterrorism, if she remembered correctly. Why would a power outage force him to cancel his vacation? And why had Doreuil given his wife such a scolding look when she mentioned it? Shannon’s journalistic instincts were stirring.
‘Is your daughter doing well?’ she asked.
‘Well, there’s no electricity where they are either, but, yes, she’s doing fine. We just spoke with our son-in-law—’
‘Annette,’ her husband cut in, ‘we need to get going, else it will be dark when we arrive.’
Shannon sent up a silent prayer of thanks that neither her landlady nor her roommates had ever invested in a fancy new telephone. After a few tries with the old-fashioned landline she reached the production studio.
‘There’s something behind it,’ she told Laplante. Turner couldn’t be reached. ‘Notify the correspondent in Brussels.’
‘I can’t get through to her.’
‘Then I’ll go to The Hague myself. If I take the car, I can be there in five hours.’
‘You don’t have a car.’
‘Well, here’s the thing. I thought maybe you could lend …’
‘And how am I supposed to get between the office and home when there’s no public transport?’
‘The network could spring for a rental car …’
‘Because you’ve got a vague hunch that something’s not right? No way.’
‘So you’re not interested?’
‘I’ll keep trying to reach our correspondents for the Benelux countries—’
‘By the time you do, there won’t be a story any more.’
She hung up.
She packed a rucksack full of warm clothes. On top of that her two digital cameras, all the s
pare batteries she could find, lastly her laptop. She put on her woollen jacket and heavy boots, shouldered the rucksack, took one last look around, stepped out and slammed the door.
The Hague, Netherlands
‘So what’s he up to?’
Bollard had given a cursory knock and walked straight into the hotel room. It was different from other guests’ accommodation by virtue of the towers of electronic equipment stacked up on top of and next to the desk. Three small screens showed black-and-white scenes from another hotel room. On the middle screen, Bollard recognized Manzano, who was sitting on his bed, the laptop on his lap. He seemed to be reading intently, but every now and then his finger briefly touched the keys.
‘Not much,’ answered Manzano’s tail, a surly thirty-something in a denim jacket. ‘Made three phone calls. The first was to MIC in Brussels – asked for Sophia Angström. Next he tried her personal number. Couldn’t reach her there either, though. The third was to an Austrian number. A resort near Ischgl. But that one was dead. Since then he’s been sitting on the bed, reading on his computer.’
‘Nothing but reading?’
‘As far as I can tell, yes.’
‘OK, then I’m out of here. Let me know if he does anything suspicious.’
A dozen cars were parked in front of the farm. Bollard left his among them, rang the doorbell and was let in by the proprietor, a blonde woman who introduced herself as Maren Haarleven.
‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Your family is sitting down to dinner.’
Bollard followed her into a dining room with a few large tables that were all occupied. He recognized a number of faces. After he had secured a place for his family, he had passed the address along to his colleagues.
His children greeted him with excited patter about the farm and its animals. During the meal they didn’t mention the power outage. Only when the children were asleep did Marie finally ask him quietly, ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’
‘You three will have to stay here for a couple of days. The kids certainly seem to like it.’
