Blackout: Tomorrow Will Be Too Late

by Marc Elsberg

  ‘Was it easy for you to just leave Milan at a moment’s notice? No wife, kids?’

  ‘Neither nor.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Is that important?’

  ‘Pure curiosity – work-related illness. Besides, we’ve got to talk about something.’

  ‘Hasn’t happened yet.’

  ‘Aha! Looking for Miss Right? I thought it was only women who did that.’

  ‘You, for example?’

  She laughed. He liked her laugh.

  ‘What about your parents? Are they in Italy?’

  ‘They’re dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Car accident. It was twelve years ago now.’

  He remembered the day when he’d heard the news. The strange numbness he had felt.

  ‘Do you miss them?’

  ‘Not … really.’ He realized that he hadn’t thought about them in a long time. ‘Maybe there would’ve been something more for us to talk about. You know, some things you’re only ready to discuss later in life. But maybe, even then, you still don’t talk about them. I mean, who knows. And yours?’

  ‘Got divorced when I was nine years old. I stayed with my mother. My father moved to Chicago, then to Seattle. I didn’t see him very often.’

  ‘And since you’ve been in Europe?’

  ‘I Skype with Mom. Sometimes with Dad. They always say they’ve got to come visit me sometime. But so far neither of them has come.’

  ‘Siblings?’

  ‘A half-sister and a half-brother, the kids from Dad’s second marriage. I barely know them.’

  ‘An only child then.’

  ‘As good as,’ she replied, twisting her face into a dark grimace and declaiming in a theatrical voice, ‘Stubborn. Egotistical. Inconsiderate.’

  ‘My girlfriends always say the same thing.’

  ‘The current one too?’

  Manzano’s expression left the question unanswered.

  ‘What’ll she say when she finds out that you’re sharing a bed with me?’ asked Shannon.

  ‘She won’t find out a thing from me.’ He stuck with the singular. He had no interest in explaining his open relationships with Paola and Giulia, or worse, in having to justify himself. Sophia Angström popped into his head. ‘And what about Mister Right?’ he asked.

  ‘He’ll turn up one of these days,’ she replied, taking a sip of wine. Her eyes flashed flirtatiously at him over the rim of the glass.

  Ybbs-Persenbeug, Austria

  Oberstätter walked through the deserted hallways of the power plant. Only a few technicians were present, the minimum number of staff necessary to get the plant running again – if they could get to the bottom of things, that was.

  Oberstätter asked himself where things went from here. Already the damage was devastating. The farmers in the area had lost large numbers of livestock. The cattle and sheep had starved or frozen to death, the dairy cows died in pitiful agony from their swollen udders. For days the cries of pain could be heard for miles. The father of one of his friends had a stroke and died because the ambulance arrived too late.

  Some people had simply taken off, and who could blame them. Since the news had emerged that some parts of Austria were able to maintain a basic power supply, more and more people had been trying to reach them.

  For his part, he continued to live here in his tiny paradise. Like his co-workers, he also brought his family in from time to time, so that they could warm up and experience a sliver of normalcy, at least for a few hours. As soon as Oberstätter reached the south generator room, he radioed the control booth.

  ‘Are you all set?’ he asked.

  Upstairs, five engineers were anxiously watching the displays. Once again they were going through the steps to bring the power plant back online. So far the system hadn’t reported any problems. One more button to push and they’d be generating electricity again.

  ‘Here we go!’ He heard crackling through the speaker.

  In front of him, the red giants sprung to life with a deep throb.

  ‘We’re rolling!’ Oberstätter cried into the microphone.

  ‘Woo-hoo! They’re working!’ his colleague yelled back.

  Oberstätter was flooded with relief. His whole body trembled with hope. For four days they had received error signals in every single phase of activation. The team had been working round the clock, inspecting components or replacing them.

  ‘Shit!’ Oberstätter heard from the radio.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘They’re spinning too fast!’

  ‘No they’re not, I would hear it,’ shouted Oberstätter.

  ‘But that’s what we’re reading up here.’

  ‘They’re fine, I tell you.’

  ‘It’s too risky. We’re shutting down.’

  ‘Let them run!’ ordered Oberstätter. ‘If it’s critical, they’ll shut themselves down.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’

  ‘Down here everything sounds normal,’ said Oberstätter.

  ‘The displays are giving us the order to shut down,’ yells came crackling over the radio. ‘We have to. We can’t risk the generators!’

  The quiet drone grew weaker until it had faded completely.

  ‘Dammit,’ whispered Oberstätter.

  He marched upstairs to the control booth.

  ‘It’s not the machines,’ Oberstätter said. ‘Those generators were purring like kittens. The problem must be with the software.’

  ‘The SCADA system’s?’ asked the IT expert. ‘They’ve been checked from top to bottom.’

  ‘We get error signals, we switch out the components and the error signal goes away – only for another one to pop up. There can’t possibly be as many broken parts as we’ve replaced. I swear to you, the machines are working perfectly. It’s the software, it’s been giving off false alarms the whole time.’

  The man shook his head. ‘Why should this problem pop up now, of all times? And if it were a virus, how could it possibly have got in? The SCADA suppliers are giant corporations with massive quality-control mechanisms and security protocols.’

  One of his colleagues disagreed. ‘I think there might be something to this theory. We should go ahead and report it to headquarters in Vienna, see what they’ve got to say.’

  Day 5 – Wednesday

  Zevenhuizen, Netherlands

  François Bollard was woken well before dawn by noises he couldn’t at first place. With an effort he got up, crept barefoot to the window. Below, about twenty people had gathered at the front door and were demanding to be let inside. He pulled on yesterday’s clothes and rushed downstairs. He couldn’t get past the landing. A throng of people, all talking over each other, were pressuring Jacub Haarleven to open the door. The proprietor, a rifle held level with his chest, was keeping the mob at bay.

  His time as a police officer on active duty was long in the past, but it was clear to Bollard that, ultimately, Haarleven didn’t stand a chance. From outside came the dull thud of someone pounding on the door; inside, people were muttering ominously. He ought to take the rifle away from Haarleven, before he was forced into doing something stupid.

  ‘Get back,’ the proprietor said to the group in front of him and let the gun drop. ‘I’ll open the door, but you have to understand you still won’t be able to stay. The authorities will take care of you.’

  ‘They haven’t so far!’ someone shouted.

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘They let us starve!’

  ‘And freeze to death!’

  Bollard was already thinking of where else he could put his family. The way things were looking, they would have to go back home. They had enough wood for the fire. But neither food nor water. He himself would still be provided for by Europol for a while yet. But for how much longer?

  From another room came the ugly sound of glass shattering, followed by a thud, then more shattering. Haarleven clutched his rifle, took a step forward. The crowd backed up. Bollard hurried o
ver, gently pressed the gun down in Haarleven’s arms.

  ‘Somebody broke a window!’ a woman yelled from the breakfast room. ‘Stop!’

  On the stairs Bollard caught sight of his wife’s anxious face. He motioned for her to go back upstairs. He had made his decision.

  ‘We’re packing,’ he said. ‘Fast.’

  Marie didn’t need an explanation.

  Twenty minutes later they were clattering down the stairs with their luggage.

  They loaded both cars, Marie’s and Bollard’s. ‘The kids are riding with me,’ said Bollard.

  They backed out of the packed car park. A few minutes later the two cars had swerved out of the property. Within moments, the low-fuel warning light in Bollard’s car began to flash. Bollard cursed and banged his hands on the wheel. There was no way he’d used it all. When he arrived the night before, the tank had been half full.

  They had barely reached The Hague city limits when behind him his wife began to flash her headlights. Bollard slowed down, but Marie had already stopped on the side of the road and put her hazard lights on. He reversed and parked in front of her.

  ‘You two stay here,’ he said to the kids and got out.

  ‘I’m out of petrol,’ Marie said. ‘But I’m sure that the tank was almost full when I got to the farm on Sunday. I haven’t driven anywhere since then.’

  ‘So I was right,’ he replied. ‘I’m driving on fumes too.’

  They checked the fuel cap covers. Both had been tampered with.

  They moved the suitcases over, pushed Marie’s car off the main road and drove on together in his car.

  ‘I hope we can still make it home,’ Georges spoke up quietly from the back seat.

  ‘When will this end?’ whispered Marie, tears in her eyes.

  The Hague, Netherlands

  François Bollard stayed home long enough to help Marie unpack the car, then drove on to Europol.

  So here Marie was, home again. First she lit a fire in the living-room fireplace, so that at least one room in the house was warm. After putting away the suitcases, she inspected the refrigerator. She had already used up frozen items and quick-to-spoil foods on the first days without power. There hadn’t been much left after that. Since they had planned to stay on the farm, they hadn’t bothered to stock up. During their absence, most of what remained had gone off. In the pantry she found various canned goods, enough for one or two days – there would be some odd mixes of ingredients, but now wasn’t the time to be fussy. It was important to get herself up to speed. Maybe their neighbours knew where you could get food. Maybe François knew, or perhaps he could use his connections. Next she tried the TV and the telephone, already knowing that she would get not so much as a flicker out of them. Her thoughts turned to her parents. Without television, she’d have no way of knowing what was happening with the reactor at Saint-Lauren-Nouan. She wondered whether it was better not to know.

  + Breaking News: France Evacuates Population +

  The French Interior Ministry confirms that an evacuation has begun for the population within a five-kilometre radius of the Saint-Laurent power plant in the département of Loir-et-Cher. Affected areas include cities such as Blois, with its world-famous chateau, and suburbs of Orléans, among others. Further evacuation measures have not been ruled out.

  ‘My God,’ moaned Bollard. Nanteuil lay between Blois and Saint-Laurent. Again he reached for the telephone.

  + Cash Withdrawals Limited to 100 Euros per Day +

  After yesterday’s run on banks in most European countries the European Central Bank is calling for calm. ‘The supply of paper money is secure,’ stresses President Jacques Tampère. However, until further notice withdrawals will be limited to €100 per person per day. Tampère confirmed that the ECB made an additional €100 billion available to prop up markets.

  + Radioactive Cloud Headed for Paris? +

  Since early this morning reports of a cloud bearing radioactive particles from Saint-Laurent being driven towards Paris by winds have been causing concern. According to the nuclear plant operator EDF, mildly radioactive steam was released from the plant yesterday in order to reduce pressure in the reactor. According to statements made by EDF, however, the amounts were not health endangering.

  There was a knock at Bollard’s door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Manzano stepped inside.

  ‘Do you have a minute?’

  Bollard put the receiver back down and motioned him towards the conference table.

  ‘You look pale,’ Manzano remarked.

  ‘I haven’t had enough sleep these past few days.’

  ‘Who has?’ sighed Manzano. He opened the laptop in front of Bollard. ‘You remember the information on software providers for power plants that I asked you for?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think I’ve found something there that could shed light on the mysterious technical problems at the power plants. Now, their software is very specific and very complex. So complex, that mounting a far-reaching attack on this many power plants is far too complicated. I asked myself how I would go about launching such an attack, if I had the time and money to prepare. For a start, I’d need a gateway that would grant me access to as many potential targets as possible. Something that is the same for as many power plant control systems as possible. Thinking along these lines, it doesn’t take long to narrow it down to SCADA, the software systems that power plants use. Of course, the developers do design specific solutions for each power plant, but certain parts of the software are replicated on most systems. So, as an attacker, all I need to do is manipulate some of these parts.’

  ‘But SCADA systems are extremely secure, by virtue of their structure,’ countered Bollard. He furrowed his brow. ‘Unless …’

  ‘… we’re dealing with an inside job at the SCADA manufacturer,’ Manzano finished Bollard’s thought. ‘At this point, I’ve reason to believe that could be the case. In the last couple of years, SCADAs have become increasingly less secure.’

  ‘Less secure in what way?’ asked Bollard.

  ‘Relatively speaking, only the first-generation SCADA systems were secure, those for which the manufacturers used their own software protocols and architecture. Modern SCADA systems increasingly make use of standard protocols used on every computer and on the Internet. This consistency makes them easier to use, but it drastically increases the security risks,’ Manzano explained. ‘I have to stress, though, at this stage this is just a suspicion based on a few random statistics.’

  On the monitor, he brought up a map of Europe with many blue dots.

  ‘These are the power plants that have been affected, according to the latest information. I’ve run a simple comparison of the software provider for each. The results are striking.’

  He pressed a button. Most of the points turned red. ‘Every one of these power plants was outfitted by one SCADA manufacturer.’

  He waited to allow the words to sink in.

  ‘Naturally, I cross-checked to make sure. The remaining twenty-five per cent were supplied by other large SCADA suppliers. But an overwhelming majority of the power plants that are unable to function are working with systems that come from the one outfitter: Talaefer.’

  Command Headquarters

  The Italian was starting to get tiresome.

  Of course they had taken into account that thousands of investigators across Europe would find a lead sooner or later. But they had expected it to happen significantly later. And again the Italian was to blame. First the electrical meters in Italy and Sweden, now this. It was time they set a trap for him – after all, they had access to his computer. They’d have their fun with the bastard yet. He typed a few commands on his keyboard. On the screen in front of him appeared a list of names, Manzano’s among them. Next to it was the word ‘offline’. As soon as the Italian turned his laptop back on and went back online, he’d find a little surprise waiting for him.

  He couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for the gu
y. Like them, Manzano had stood against the cops, had taken a beating from their batons. Like them, he had dared to enter forbidden territory, effortlessly hacking his way across the unending expanses of the net, surmounting and dissolving barriers. But at some point, he, like so many others, had taken a wrong turn. Now, it was time to put him back on the right path.

  If they couldn’t, they would have to eliminate him.

  The Hague, Netherlands

  ‘What do you think?’

  Frowning, Bollard looked into his laptop camera. In a small window in the upper right-hand corner of his screen he saw Carlos Ruiz. Europol’s director was travelling again, this time in Brussels, to confer with various leading officials of other EU organizations.

  ‘It’s a lead that we should pursue,’ said Ruiz. ‘We can’t afford to ignore information that might help put a stop to this. Time is getting away from us.’

  ‘How about,’ Bollard suggested, ‘we send Manzano to Talaefer as support, to help them out?’

  Bollard waited with bated breath for the response. This was the opportunity he had been waiting for. Manzano’s cooperation with the American journalist had confirmed his worst fears. Even if, strictly speaking, Manzano hadn’t broken the confidentiality agreement, he trusted him less than ever. He wanted this criminal pseudo-revolutionary out of there. Let the Germans deal with him.

  ‘If you don’t need him …’ said Ruiz.

  ‘We need every man we’ve got, but if there’s something to his theory, I’m sure Talaefer will be happy for the help.’

  ‘Go ahead and recommend it.’

  Finally, thought Bollard. Ciao, Piero Manzano!

  Ratingen, Germany

  ‘They want what?’ asked Wickley.

  ‘To get at the software,’ repeated the chief technology officer. He had managed to obtain a satellite telephone and had the Bangalore office on hold. ‘We were just now able to re-establish contact. We’re only getting through three or four times a day.’