Blackout: Tomorrow Will Be Too Late

by Marc Elsberg

  ‘It is therefore imperative that we do not delay in getting information to the general public while we still can. The various emergency services – paramedics, fire departments, police and federal relief agencies – still have functional communications networks. We must secure these networks and use them to inform the public as to what measures need to be taken. The employees of these agencies, in addition to their traditional duties, must now assume the role of an information service.’

  ‘What is the prognosis for re-establishing a nationwide power supply?’ asked the chancellor.

  ‘We are not in a position to make any predictions at this stage,’ Rhess answered. ‘Much will depend on the cooperation of our fellow member states and global allies. I ask therefore that we continue to support Europe-wide cooperation as much as it is in our power to do so. The Foreign Office is also seeking international aid—’

  ‘International aid?’ the minister-president of Brandenburg cut in. ‘Where’s it supposed to come from?’

  ‘From the USA, Russia and Turkey, for the most part.’

  ‘And you say we still have no idea who launched this attack?’ asked the minister-president from Hessen.

  ‘No,’ said Rhess. ‘Investigations are proceeding at full speed.’

  ‘Why Europe?’ asked the defence minister. ‘It makes no sense. From an economic standpoint, no one will benefit from doing this much harm to one of the world’s largest and strongest markets. We have half a billion consumers who boost the economies of Russia, China, Japan, India, Australasia and the USA by buying their goods. If things aren’t going well for Europe, those economies will suffer too.’

  ‘Could it be a military attack?’ asked Rhess.

  The defence minister shook his head. ‘It’s true there have been tensions recently with Russia and China, and naturally we’re in constant contact with NATO headquarters, monitoring developments on that score. But at this time we have no indication of hostile activities by any nation.’

  ‘Organized crime, to extract a ransom?’ suggested the minister of health.

  ‘Surely we would have been issued with their demands by now, if that were the case. Besides, anyone who tried something like this would be pursued throughout the entire world. There’d be no safe haven for them.’

  ‘And with that we come to the most likely scenario: an act of terrorism,’ said Rhess.

  ‘On this scale?’ asked the defence minister, incredulous.

  ‘Maybe it wasn’t planned to be this big. Let’s remember 9/11. The terrorists wanted to hit the towers of the World Trade Center, but they may not have been expecting them to collapse.’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the chancellor interrupted the discussion, ‘in light of the situation I’m recommending we declare a state of emergency. As of now, the government in Berlin will take over leadership and coordination.’

  Day 3 – Monday

  The Hague, Netherlands

  Shannon woke to a stabbing pain in her neck. Then it hit her that something was different. The noise of the bus’s engine had stopped, she didn’t feel it vibrating any more. She opened her eyes. Her eyelids felt swollen. Outside, the darkness was total. She could hear passengers standing up to get their luggage down from the racks, and cursing as they jostled for the exit. Slowly she stretched her stiff limbs and looked out the window for some indication as to where she was.

  In the darkness she spotted a sign: The Hague.

  Shannon rubbed her eyes and checked the time. A little before seven. The bus was late. More than ever she longed for a hot bath and a steaming cup of coffee, but judging by what she could make out through the window, she wouldn’t be getting either in the foreseeable future. As in Paris, there were no streetlights, just darkened buildings, few people. She waited till everyone else had disembarked before leaving the bus. A biting cold wind assailed her cheeks, nose and ears. She pulled up the hood of her jacket and took out her gloves while trying to get her bearings. It seemed they had arrived at a train station. She found her way into the central hall, where a few travellers stood helplessly around. She approached a man who looked more switched on than the rest. ‘Are you from here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She held the sheet of paper up to him on which she had written François Bollard’s address in capital letters.

  ‘Any idea where this is and how long it’ll take me from here?’

  The man studied the paper. ‘About half an hour on foot,’ he said, pointing down the long straight road that led from the station. ‘Just head that way and keep walking.’

  He was right: twenty-eight minutes later she stopped in front of the house, double-checked the address on her piece of paper. So, this was where her neighbours’ son-in-law lived. There was no sign that anyone was home, but with everywhere in darkness it was hard to tell. She knocked hard on the elegant wood door. Then waited a moment before knocking a second time. Since there was no electricity, there was no point in her trying the doorbell. She put an ear to the door. Not a sound. Knocked again. Waited, listened.

  After ten minutes she gave up. François Bollard wasn’t home. All at once she could feel the accumulated weariness of the last few days – indeed, of the last few years: the cold, the hunger and thirst, her longing for a shower. She began to shiver, her eyes welled with tears. She felt suddenly alone. Her lips quivered, she gasped for air and took deeper and deeper breaths to calm herself down. She had to find someone who could tell her the way to Europol.

  The Hague, Netherlands

  Bollard had barely slept. He’d slipped out of bed at five in the morning and stealthily left the small apartment in the farmhouse. A half-hour later he was sitting at his desk in the Statenkwartier. He wasn’t the only one. Half his team had spent the night in the office. One of the technicians, Christopoulos, waved a stack of printouts at him.

  ‘We’ve finally got the facial composites from Italy and Sweden. Six of them in all.’ Bollard took them and went to the incident board to post them: three images for the Swedish group, three for the Italian. All the suspects were male. As usual, the e-fit computer renditions seemed ageless and soulless. It must have something to do with the eyes, thought Bollard.

  He stepped back to look at the board. Five with dark hair, two with stubble, one moustache, two full beards. One had Oriental-looking eyes.

  ‘According to witnesses, they were between twenty and forty. Four of the six were described as Mediterranean, possibly Arabic – though one witness had them down as Latin American or Asian.’ Christopoulos shrugged.

  ‘About what you’d expect from witness reports … In Sweden, though, there was also a blond guy with them. At the moment the images are being circulated among the power companies, but they’ll probably draw a blank. None of the utilities’ service schedules show any appointments for the days and addresses in question, so it’s unlikely these are bona fide employees.’

  ‘It’s a start, though. Anything in our database?’

  ‘We’re running them through now. Interpol and the FBI are working on it as well.’

  ‘That’s everything?’

  ‘On these investigations, yes, unfortunately. A few reports have come in from the IAEA in Vienna. Temelín in the Czech Republic is reporting ongoing problems with its cooling systems, but the authorities say it’s only INES level 0 – the same in Olkiluoto in Finland and Tricastin in France.’

  ‘Let’s hope it stays at level 0,’ said Bollard.

  ‘There is one plant experiencing more serious problems with its emergency cooling systems,’ Christopoulos continued. ‘The Saint-Laurent reactor in France.’ Bollard felt as though someone had tightened a thick belt around his throat, cutting off his air supply. The facility at Saint-Laurent-Nouan was twenty kilometres away from his parents’ house.

  ‘What’s the INES level?’

  ‘Hasn’t come in yet. All I know is there’s talk of increased pressure and rising temperatures.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Bollard.

  He hu
rried into his office and turned on the computer, scanning in vain for reports on the incident. Surely if it had been made public, there would be something? He checked the time: a little before eight. He dialled his parents’ number.

  The line was dead. Bollard nervously pressed the hook, tried it again. Nothing.

  Manzano was lounging on the sofa in his hotel room and working on his laptop when there was a knock at the door.

  Bollard stepped inside.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ he asked.

  ‘I did. Had a decent breakfast too,’ replied Manzano. Yet he didn’t seem at all comfortable in his surroundings. He’d been much more relaxed last night, less jittery.

  ‘Grab your coat – we’re going shopping,’ said Bollard.

  ‘Are the shops open again?’

  ‘For us they are.’ They drove through the empty streets, Bollard making small talk along the way, pointing out a few landmarks.

  They drove past a large department store. Bollard parked the car on a side street.

  ‘We’ll take the side entrance,’ he said, pulling a bag out of the boot.

  At the delivery entrance a middle-aged woman let them in after Bollard exchanged a few words with her and showed her an ID.

  It was so dark inside Manzano could barely see. From his bag, Bollard took out two large torches. He handed one to Manzano. He pointed the other across the expanse of floor, throwing light on shelves, tables and racks crammed with clothes.

  ‘Pick some things out for yourself.’

  ‘I feel like a burglar,’ Manzano remarked.

  ‘You should be used to that by now,’ Bollard replied.

  Manzano didn’t understand the remark, and he didn’t care for the tone.

  ‘As a hacker, I mean,’ Bollard added.

  Manzano said nothing, determined not to engage. But Bollard wouldn’t let up.

  ‘You’re breaking in and trespassing on other people’s property there, too.’

  ‘I never broke in, I used security gaps. And I didn’t steal or damage anything.’ Manzano felt compelled to defend himself now. To end the conversation, he went over to another table, shone his torch on the shirts.

  ‘If you forgot to lock your door,’ Bollard stubbornly kept at it, ‘would you think it was all right for complete strangers to walk into your apartment?’

  ‘Do you want to argue with me or work with me?’ asked Manzano. He picked up a sweater, held it up to his chest. ‘This might do.’

  The Dutch police officer had watched the screen as Bollard and the Italian left the hotel room.

  ‘And that’s my cue,’ he said to his partner. ‘Back in a second.’

  He left the surveillance room and took the stairs, two flights down to the Italian’s room. Using the duplicate key, he let himself into the suite. Manzano’s laptop was on the desk. They had already seen the password on the surveillance cameras. Next he inserted a USB stick. He entered a few commands until the download bar came up on the screen. Two minutes later the program was installed on the computer. Three minutes after that he had covered his tracks and hidden it well enough that the Italian wouldn’t be able to find it. He shut down the computer and left it exactly as he had found it. He went to the door, took one last look, turned off the light and left the room as quickly and inconspicuously as he had entered.

  Shannon had walked forty-five more minutes in the cold to Europol headquarters. In the new building’s lobby, she had been informed that François Bollard wasn’t in the office but was expected back soon. She plopped down in one of the clusters of chairs. It was warm here, and she could use the bathroom, of which she had already taken advantage, washing herself as best she could. Shortly after ten, Bollard walked in, accompanied by a lanky man with a freshly stitched-up wound on his forehead, his hands weighed down with shopping bags.

  ‘Hello, Mr Bollard,’ she introduced herself. ‘Lauren Shannon, I’m a neighbour of your mother- and father-in-law in Paris.’

  Bollard looked at her, alert.

  ‘What are you doing here? Is there something going on with the Doreuils?’

  ‘That’s what I’d like you to tell me,’ answered Shannon.

  ‘You go on ahead,’ Bollard said in English to the other man. Once he was out of earshot, he continued, ‘I remember you. The last time we saw each other you were working for some TV network.’

  ‘Still am. Yesterday afternoon your wife’s parents left Paris in a big hurry – the in-laws of the man heading up counterterrorism at Europol. They were off to stay with your parents, Mr Bollard, if I understand correctly. As they were leaving, your mother-in-law let slip a comment that piqued my curiosity.’

  ‘It must have done, if it brought you here from Paris in the middle of the night. All the same, I can’t help you. Members of the media must deal with our press office.’

  Shannon hadn’t expected him to tell her anything willingly. ‘So we don’t have to consider the power outage as in any way related to a terrorist attack? Or that the blackout might go on for quite some time?’

  ‘When the power comes back on, you’ll have to ask the electric companies, not me.’

  He made a show of stepping past her.

  ‘So terrorists aren’t behind the outages?’

  ‘How familiar are you with the European power system?’

  ‘I see and hear that it’s not working. That’s enough.’

  He was right. She didn’t have a clue.

  ‘Not entirely,’ he answered with a pitying smile. ‘Because if you understood how the system works you would know how complex it is. You can’t simply turn the whole continent off like the lights in your living room. Now, if you would excuse me, please. Our press office will be happy to answer any further questions.’

  ‘So why were your wife’s parents in such a hurry to get out of Paris?’ she called after him. ‘To stay with farmers who have their own well, can burn wood in the fireplace for heat and – how did Madame Doreuil put it? – simply slaughter a chicken from the coop whenever they need something to eat.’

  He turned, walked back to her.

  She continued, ‘Sounds to me like the actions of a couple who know this situation is going to go on for some time. And who else could they have found this out from?’

  Again Bollard considered her with a forbearing look, as if dealing with a child who was acting up.

  ‘With all due respect to your imagination and your efforts, Ms …’

  ‘… Shannon, Lauren Shannon.’

  ‘… I have work to do. Even if it’s not what you’re thinking. I suggest you go back to Paris.’

  It was slightly warmer outside. A few raindrops fell from the sky. Manzano hurried to reach the hotel before the rain got heavier. On the way, he stayed alert, keeping an eye on his fellow pedestrians and the occasional driver passing by. He envied their ignorance of what lay in store for them.

  He’d no sooner stepped into the entrance of the hotel than he heard a woman’s voice behind him, speaking in English. ‘Excuse me, didn’t I see you earlier with François Bollard?’

  Behind him stood an attractive brunette carrying a small rucksack. Aside from the receptionist, there was no one in the foyer. Her face seemed familiar.

  ‘You’re the woman from the lobby at Europol,’ he said, responding in English.

  ‘I’m a neighbour of Bollard’s wife’s parents in Paris,’ she replied. To Manzano’s ears she sounded American.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘This is a hotel. I’m looking for a room.’

  ‘I’m afraid the place is full – it’s one of the few places with a functioning backup power supply and running water. But what I meant was: what are you doing in The Hague?’

  ‘I’m a journalist. I saw Bollard’s in-laws leave Paris in a hurry yesterday afternoon. I don’t believe it’s a coincidence that the in-laws of the man in charge of counterterrorism at Europol would take such a trip during the biggest blackout in the history of Europe. Bollard wouldn’t tell me a
nything.’

  ‘You followed me here from Europol.’

  ‘I have to know what’s going on. I spent the whole night on a bus for this.’

  ‘You look like it, too.’

  ‘How charming, thank you.’

  Her eyes shone, and she jutted her chin at him defiantly.

  ‘The whole night on a bus? And nowhere to stay? Have you eaten since you arrived?’

  ‘A couple of candy bars.’

  Manzano went up to the receptionist. ‘Is there a room available?’

  ‘No,’ the man answered.

  Manzano turned back to the young woman and shrugged apologetically. ‘As I thought. And I bet you’re desperate for a shower right now.’

  ‘And how!’ she sighed.

  ‘Then come on. I’ll treat you to one.’

  She eyed him warily.

  Manzano had to laugh. ‘Not what you’re thinking! I prefer to eat lunch with people who wash. You’ve got to be hungry, I’m sure.’

  She still looked hesitant.

  ‘Suit yourself. I’ll wish you the best of luck then.’

  He started to walk up the stairs.

  ‘Wait!’

  While his new acquaintance was busy in the bathroom, Manzano hung up his new clothes in the wardrobe. Then he read the latest news on the Internet. The first rumours had surfaced of police raids in Italy and Sweden that were supposedly connected to the power outages. There was no comment on this from official sources. Manzano didn’t think this was the best strategy. The governments knew by now that they were dealing with an attack. It had to be clear to them that large parts of the population would have to manage without power for days to come.

  Shannon came out of the bathroom in a bathrobe, drying her hair with a towel.

  ‘That was fantastic. Thanks!’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  ‘Is there anything new?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Well, you were right about one thing,’ she said. ‘I am so hungry. . .’

  Ten minutes later Shannon was sitting with Manzano in the hotel dining room. Half the tables were occupied. He ordered a club sandwich. Shannon asked for a hamburger.