Foster leant back in amazement, looking from one man to the other. ‘Another hacker?’ he asked.
‘We think not,’ Grant replied. ‘It was another hacking incident all right, but we think it was most probably perpetrated by the same person. But this time he – or she – broke into the computer control system at another power station: Grandford North.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Foster exploded.
Grandford was one of the country’s newest and biggest power stations. Completed only a few months earlier, it had attracted much praise for its cleanliness and efficiency and because, unusually, it had been completed on time and under budget.
‘When did it happen?’ Foster asked. ‘The attack, I mean.’
Grant now looked down at the papers on his desk. He thumbed through them, then picked up a sheet and read from it: ‘It happened at precisely 7:39 this evening.’
Foster was startled by the coincidence: that was within a few minutes of the time that he had arrived at the Coopers’ home.
‘But on this occasion we were prepared,’ Grant continued. ‘The original consultants’ report had identified the modus operandi of the hacker’s efforts at Queensborough, and a bulletin had been issued to all power stations that used the same type of control system. A team of specialists was set up here in London, to be ready twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, waiting for the perpetrator to try and make a repeat attack.’
Something in his words made Foster frown. ‘You’re saying that the attack was specific to a particular type of system?’
‘Aye. An American system.’
Foster took a deep breath. It had to be Powerplant Dynamics. This was a Denver-based company that had been brilliantly successful with providing control systems for power stations around the world. Just a few years previously they had been an unheard-of upstart, but with the launch of their Generation 300 system they had captured the world market in this highly specialized field. They had set up subsidiaries in the UK and elsewhere, but these were little more than sales agents; the basic systems were designed and manufactured in Denver, high in the American Rockies.
Grant saw the understanding as it dawned in Foster’s face and nodded. ‘Aye, Powerplant Dynamics. And, as I said, everybody using one of those systems had been warned to be on the alert. Luckily, a vigilant engineer at Grandford was on shift duty this evening. When he saw the early indications that they were under attack he alerted our team of specialists. They were able to monitor the situation and trace the source of the attack. Unfortunately they were too late to prevent the power station being shut down.’
‘OK!’ Foster said. ‘But, from what you say, it sounds like the problem’s been solved! They know how it’s happened, so they’ll be able to build in defences.’ But he knew full well that it was a forlorn hope; if the problem had indeed been solved he wouldn’t have been brought all the way to Westminster in the middle of the night.
Grant confirmed it. ‘Unfortunately not,’ he said. ‘That’s not the end of it. The specialists were able to trace the attack to a small town in Connecticut. We informed the authorities in America, and normally that would have been the end of it.’
‘But it wasn’t?’
Again Forsyth stepped in. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I fear not. You see, we suddenly hit a brick wall. Quite unexpectedly. For some reason, the Americans, who are normally very helpful in these situations seem to be – now, what do they call it? – stonewalling us.’
Foster was beginning to see the way these two men worked: Forsyth dealt with the more political issues, Grant with the technical ones. This was confirmed as Grant spoke.
‘While we waited for them to act,’ he said, ‘we began to look into Powerplant Dynamics’ activities. It’s late in the day to muster all the facts, but it seems they have been extraordinarily successful in selling their systems to the power market around the world. It was our bad luck that the hacker chose the Queensborough system; it could easily have been one in a power station in Poland or Romania, or any plant in any of a dozen countries. And the next attack could be anywhere.
‘Meanwhile, as you may expect, the communication channels between London and Washington have been screaming with messages over the past few hours. At first, the Americans claimed that there were problems in localizing the source of the attack. But we knew that was nonsense. Our experts knew exactly which house, on which street the computer was located that had launched it. But when we told them the details of the location, our transatlantic friends suddenly clammed up.’
‘Strange. But how does this involve me?’
‘We need your specialized knowledge again, Foster,’ Forsyth said bleakly.
Grant picked up the thread and said, ‘It’s one matter getting hold of the culprit: but our experts have said that they need specialist knowledge to delve any deeper into his actions. They are computer experts: they know how the system had been infiltrated, but they are not power-station specialists. What they don’t know is the detailed mechanics of how the thing operated. It’s like catching a saboteur as he emerges from an industrial complex: we know he’s broken in, but we don’t know exactly what he’s done while he was there. And we do need to know.
‘You see, there’s something else. Somehow, in both attacks, the hacker managed to shut down the power station by disabling the control systems of all four generators. What’s more, once they’d been closed down the hacker went on to completely disable it. It was impossible to restart it – at least not for a long time.’
Foster stared at him in disbelief. When hacking had first been mentioned he had assumed that somebody had disabled the plant’s computers; now it seemed that the machines had carried on working, but doing something they shouldn’t have. ‘Good grief!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s incredible! Achieving either one of those things takes a lot of knowledge. It’s like landing an aircraft safely and then switching off the engines.’
‘Aye,’ Grant said. ‘Indeed. And it was done so thoroughly that it took the experts a wee while to find out what had happened and to get it all working again. It was the action of a real expert. We realized we’d need an equal expert to find out what happened and stop it happening again.’
Now Forsyth spoke. ‘So, naturally, after their brush with you over the matter in China, the government remembered you.’
Foster allowed himself a bleak grin. At times it helps to have been a thorn in the side.
‘So, what do they want from me?’
‘Ye’ll understand that the government attaches the highest level of priority to this. After the Oxford Circus incident, the PM’s insisted that he is kept closely informed. That’s why we’ve all been brought here – to be close to him and his advisers They want you to go to Connecticut and talk to the hacker.’
Foster considered it for a moment. Finally he nodded. ‘OK. I’ll do it’
Forsyth looked relieved. ‘Good man!’ he said. ‘Now, at this stage I’ll be bowing out of the picture.’ He gesticulated towards Grant. ‘My colleague here will be working with you from now on.’
Grant bowed his head briefly and said, ‘Here’s where we’ve got: we suspect the hacker’s a youngster; we’ve been able to find the name of the people who own the house where the computer is located. It’s owned by a couple, respectable professionals both of them. They have a son who is in his last year at high school. And we’re sure it must be him.’
Foster nodded. ‘Sounds likely. But he’s probably just a kid who doesn’t know anything about the systems he’s attacked. He’s just fooling around, trying out a trick or two. What can you expect me to find out from someone like that?’
‘We don’t know exactly,’ Grant admitted. ‘But we have to try and discover whatever we can. For a start, it would be useful to know how he gained access to the system.’
‘We can probably work that out from here.’
‘Aye, but when we tried we found several problems. Let me read you something from the preliminary analysis that was carried out by the expe
rts – the government’s consultants.’ He riffled through the papers on his desk and selected one. Peering at it through his glasses he read, ‘The hacker seems to have invoked a very specific set of commands that in a deliberate and co-ordinated way initiated the complex chain of actions that are used to shut down a functioning power station. It then disabled all the output channels, making it impossible to restart the system. All efforts to identify any software block or blocks that combined all these sequences into one shutdown command failed. We could not find a likely routine, despite extremely thorough and detailed analysis of the system.’
‘Here, let me read that,’ Foster said, reaching out for the sheet. He furrowed his brow in thought as he read it, then took a sip of his coffee and said, ‘I can imagine the designers of the system including a shutdown command like that, though I must say that I find it hard to believe they’d allow it to be initiated from a remote site. But, ignoring that for a moment, studying the software should easily identify the command, so why can’t the experts find it?’
‘We can’t tell. As you’ve just seen, the software bears no trace of the … the routine. Do they call it that?’
Foster nodded agreement and Forsyth came in again. ‘That’s where you come in, Foster. It’s only a small chance, but we felt that you may be able to find out something by talking to this, er, this hacker.’ Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, ‘I think you’ll be finding that the financial terms are quite attractive.’
Foster smiled. The money would indeed be useful. Then he sighed, leant back in his chair and looked up at the ornate mouldings on the ceiling above. He was deep in thought and it was a while before he returned his attention to Forsyth. ‘It’s possible, I guess,’ he said. Then he squared his shoulders and nodded. ‘OK, I’ll give it a try. So when do I go, and how do I handle it?’
Clear relief showed in Forsyth’s face. ‘Well,’ he replied, ‘we need to set up the preliminaries, but those shouldn’t take too long. And as for the details of how it is to be handled: once we’ve finished with the formalities your name will be made known to the laddie’s father and you will merely then need to introduce yourself and question the son.’ A thoughtful look crossed his face as he went on, ‘Best not to mention your personal involvement, Foster.’
‘I won’t.’
‘All right,’ Forsyth concluded. ‘Go home now and you can expect to hear from Hamish here some time tomorrow. Once again, I do apologize for calling you here so late, but we have to act quickly; we must stop this before the youngster tries to do it again.’
They all shook hands and Foster felt a small sadness at the possibility that he might not be seeing Forsyth again soon. He had developed a strong liking for the man since the Hong Kong incident.
There was virtually no traffic on the roads at that time of night, and that gave Foster an opportunity to wonder about the implications of the night’s proceedings all the way on his long drive back to Kingston. He decided to make contact with an old friend as soon as possible. It was too late now, but he’d get on to him first thing in the morning. He was an engineer working at Queensborough. Foster hoped he would be able to throw some light on what had happened there that summer. But right now he needed to go to bed and sleep for a few hours.
When he arrived back on Lake Goddess, in spite of his tiredness, he decided to check on something before he went to bed. He switched on his computer and, while it started up, he went to the saloon and poured himself a dram of Balvenie. He added a small slug of fresh water and quietly gave the Gaelic toast, Sláinte Mhath, raising the glass to nobody in particular as he thoughtfully took a sip. He looked through the saloon window at the dark silhouettes of the trees across the river. It was always beautiful here at this time: mostly, there were only the gentle sounds of the river lapping against the hull and the occasional brief cry of a night bird. Occasionally, there was a bellow from the deer rutting in the adjacent park.
He returned to the computer, sat down and quickly checked his emails. Seeing that there was nothing that couldn’t wait until morning, he then Googled ‘Powerplant Dynamics’. He scanned through the references, then selected one and when it had downloaded read it carefully.
When he had finished reading, he leant back in his chair and stared in amazement at the words on the screen. ‘Well now,’ he breathed, ‘ain’t that interesting? Ain’t that very interesting indeed?’
FOUR
There Came a Big Spider
As his car swept up the imposing drive, past the tall flagpole with the Stars and Stripes hanging limply from its head, Foster had to admire the Colonial-style house that stood ahead of him. Not so much a house – more a gracious mansion surrounded by several large outbuildings. Encircled by smooth, neatly trimmed lawns, their sunlit white boards stood out glaringly bright against the beautiful russet, orange and yellow of the New England autumn. Behind them, the blaze of colours extended as far as the eye could see into the slightly smoky distance. The air was heavy with the many scents of autumn.
In terms of driving hours, his hundred-mile journey from JFK had actually taken just over two hours. The Van Wyck Expressway had been busy, but as soon as he passed over the Whitestone Bridge the traffic had begun to thin out, and after that things had improved considerably: both the New England Thruway and Merritt Parkway had been almost deserted. However, the flight from Heathrow had been long and dreary and, on top of his early departure from Kingston, the trip had been tiring. He had felt the need to take a break, so he had taken a slight diversion to Waterbury where he had stopped for lunch. After that he headed for Watertown.
It was almost three in the afternoon here, but his body clock insisted on telling him it was eight in the evening. He parked the rented Buick and stepped out into the pleasant warmth of the afternoon and, as he walked up the gravelled path to the main house, he wondered about the family he would be meeting. His briefing had told him little more than the bald facts: Cyrus Proctor was nearing fifty and was a senior partner in a respected firm of architects; his wife, Hilary, had been a realtor but had retired a few years earlier; their son, Luke was in his last year at high school. Foster had been told that the parents would be expecting his arrival; Cyrus Proctor had even taken a half-day’s break from his office to be there.
Foster parked in front of the house and climbed the few steps on to the front porch, walked past a white-painted rocking chair, and pressed at the polished brass button. From somewhere deep inside the house came the muffled sound of a chime and, after a few moments, the front door was opened by a distinguished-looking, well-built man with irongrey hair. He was dressed in a smart white Ralph Lauren polo shirt and blue jeans, and he smiled and offered his hand. ‘Dr Foster?’ he asked. ‘We were expecting you.’
Foster shook his hand and smiled.
‘We’re intrigued by your visit,’ Proctor said, stepping back to let his visitor pass. ‘A guy from the State Department called by here yesterday and told us you’d be coming to meet with us. Name of Worzniak, Joe Worzniak. Know him?’
Seeing Foster shake his head, Proctor continued, ‘Fact is, my wife’s quite excited by all this; we’ve never heard of any of our circle getting calls like that. And visitors from England? Not many of those lately.’
Foster was still considering the implications of Proctor’s statement as they entered the cool interior of the house but he broke free of his thoughts and said, ‘You have a beautiful house, Mr Proctor.’
‘Cyrus, please. Glad you like it. This was a farm once.’ He nodded to indicate a barn at the far edge of the property. ‘Some of the original working buildings are still here, like that barn over there. Things keep changing. Once, farming was what everybody did around these parts. Then industry came along: foundries, mills, manufacturers of all sorts, including clocks and watches. The farmers probably complained about the loss of jobs then, and now the wheel’s turned right round and the industries are gone. Or at least, they’re fading away.’
‘It’s the same everywhere,�
� Foster agreed.
They entered the reception room where Proctor’s wife was waiting. She was a petite redhead and she offered her hand. ‘Dr Foster, I’m Hilary. We’ve been looking forward to meeting you. But first, what’ll you drink?’
Foster doubted they’d have Balvenie so he said, ‘Can I have a Scotch please?’ Then, quickly, knowing the American habit of chilling everything to the point of extinction, he added, ‘No ice. Just a drop of water. Oh, and by the way, I’m Dan.’
‘OK, Dan,’ she said, smiling, ‘and yes, we have some twelve-year malt: Glenmorangie. Would that be OK?’
His smile showed his real pleasure. He nodded and she went over to a large Shaker-style cabinet to pour the drinks, saying over her shoulder, ‘Your usual Martini, honey?’
Drinks in hands, they settled back on two settees and Proctor asked, ‘Forgive me if I’m too blunt, but I’d appreciate you telling me what’s going on. The guy yesterday said that Luke, our son, had gotten involved with something, and that an expert was coming over from England to talk with him. That’s all he’d tell, but it was enough. Kind of took the shine off the excitement.’
Foster was amazed. He had expected the Proctors to have been told a little more about their son’s activities, if not the devastating consequences, rather than leave it to him to break the news. Still, he had no option but to press on. ‘This man Worzniak, did he talk to Luke?’
The Proctors exchanged worried glances. ‘Well, yes,’ the husband responded. ‘I don’t know what he said, and Luke said it was nothing. Would you believe that? Nothing! Somebody from the State Department appears, out of the blue, to talk to a teenager and it’s nothing. And Luke’s been acting pretty strange since then.’
‘Luke’s … well, he’s kind of quiet,’ Hilary Proctor elaborated. Her voice was soft, her expression concerned. ‘Real nice, but quiet. It’s been difficult of late, him being our only son. We tried not to spoil him, but since he’s started … well, growing up, we’ve had a few problems….’
The Darkfall Switch Page 5
