by Marc Elsberg
Tommy Suarez was standing in a packed carriage of the Brooklyn-bound A train. Fellow passengers were wiping snow from their steaming clothes, texting their friends, reading, listening on earphones or staring into space. Then the lights went out.
The squeal of brakes fused with the cries of the passengers. Strangers’ bodies slammed into Tommy’s, the handrail cut into his wrist; he felt like he was in a giant washing machine, caught up in the spin cycle, his ribs, spine and legs getting painfully pounded. Then, with an almighty jolt, everything came to a stop. The stillness in the car stretched for the span of a single breath, before people started screaming. Suarez had no idea how far it was to the next station. He hoped the train would be able to continue on its journey; he didn’t want to have to walk through the tunnels or spend hours stuck down here. The voices around him grew louder. He looked at his watch. Quarter to seven. Where was the announcement from the conductor?
‘Great!’ said an old woman somewhere behind him. ‘I hope it’s not another blackout! I was stuck in one of these things for two hours back in 2003!’
‘Two hours?’ cried a young woman, barely suppressed panic in her voice.
‘And I was one of the lucky ones!’ the old woman went on, relishing the effect her words were having. ‘Some people were trapped—’
‘I’m sure it’ll start moving in a second,’ Suarez cut her off, before she could frighten the young woman any more than she already had done. Not everybody could keep their cool in dark, cramped spaces, surrounded by a lot of people. Especially not with the prospect of having to endure it for several more hours. He knew how the young woman felt. ‘Nothing bad can happen to us.’
Next to him he could hear someone tapping on their mobile phone.
‘Figures, this thing doesn’t work either.’
‘What do we do if this keeps up?’ asked a man with a Southern accent.
‘If what keeps up?’ asked a woman.
‘The lights are off, we’re not moving.’
‘I can tell you that,’ the old woman spoke up again. ‘Wait. Wait and freeze.’
Suarez would have liked to belt her one to shut her up, but it would have been like hitting his mother.
‘And what if we’ve been hit too?’ asked a woman. ‘Like in Europe?’
The young woman, now in full panic mode, began to whimper, then to scream. Suarez felt his blood run cold, felt her panic spreading to him and the others. He had to stop himself from shouting at her, instead he attempted to reassure her, patted her on the shoulder, tried to take her in his arms.
She lashed out.
‘Leave me alone! I want to get out of here!’
The Hague, Netherlands
Bollard walked into the hotel room two floors above Manzano’s and saw that the towers of surveillance equipment had been dismantled and were now being packed away.
‘I’m heading off,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you back at the office.’
‘Before you go,’ said the Dutch officer who’d planted the bug in Manzano’s laptop. ‘That American journalist took off immediately after Manzano did. Where she’s headed, we don’t know.’
‘Probably chasing him,’ said Bollard. ‘He was good for one story, she’s probably hoping for another.’
The Dutchman pointed to his computer screen. ‘Shortly before he set out, he sent an email.’
Bollard leaned over to read the message: Headed to Talaefer. Looking for a bug. Won’t find a thing. Will keep you posted.
I knew it! thought Bollard triumphantly.
‘Who was it sent to?’
‘A Russian address: [email protected]. That’s all we know so far.’
Bollard reached for the telephone to call his boss. When he finished briefing him, Ruiz cursed under his breath.
‘We can’t take any more risks. Inform that guy at the BKA who’s working the Talaefer case – what’s his name again?’
‘Hartlandt,’ answered Bollard.
‘Right. They should arrest the Italian and see what they can get out of him. I’m sure the CIA will be more than happy to help.’
‘Why the CIA?’
‘Haven’t you heard the news?’
‘What news?’
Berlin, Germany
‘The USA?’
For an instant the Interior Ministry’s operations centre was like a freeze-frame. Everyone stood, frozen in midstride, to stare at the few active screens. The clocks showed 14:07.
‘The same as us?’ someone asked.
Rhess nodded. He held a phone pressed to his ear and kept on nodding. Michelsen’s gaze jumped back and forth between the TVs and the state secretary.
‘If that’s true,’ her neighbour whispered, ‘we’re completely fucked – pardon my language.’
Rhess hung up. ‘The foreign minister has confirmed that large parts of the US power grid have collapsed.’
‘No coincidence,’ someone said. ‘Less than a week after Europe.’
‘So we won’t be getting any help from there,’ stated Michelsen.
‘The West is under attack,’ Rhess declared. ‘Minutes from now, NATO high command will gather for an emergency meeting.’
‘They don’t think it was the Russians or Chinese, do they?’
‘Every possibility has to be taken into consideration.’
‘Heaven help us,’ whispered Michelsen.
Command Headquarters
The American power grids had turned out to be far easier than they had imagined. After what had happened in Europe, they’d assumed security would be tightened, loopholes closed and connections to the Internet guarded with new improved firewalls. Given the choice, they would rather have struck both continents simultaneously. But as it turned out, this way was good too. Even better, perhaps. For almost a week the world had been speculating over who was behind the attacks. The outage in the USA would feed new rumours. The military would be champing at the bit. Such a far-reaching attack pointed to a nation-state as the likely culprit. A few came to mind: Iran, North Korea, China, even Russia. Naturally, they would all deny it, but so long as the true perpetrators remained undetected, who would believe them? There were no tracks that could lead back to the culprits; in the global network, it was far too easy to cover them. In the meantime, theories would pile up. Investigators with the police, military and intelligence agencies would chase clues, leads, tangents; there would be so many leads they’d have no option but to divide their resources, leaving time for only the most cursory investigation.
The psychological effect would be even more devastating than in Europe. The world’s last superpower, already reeling from the economic crisis, and now unable to defend itself. Pearl Harbor and 9/11 would pale into insignificance in comparison. Soon the American public would see that this couldn’t be fixed by sending in the army. Because they didn’t know where to send it. Then they would realize how helpless they were. How helpless their government was, their so-called elite, their entire system. A system in which they had long since ceased to feel at ease, let alone content, but which they chose over the unfamiliar.
They would understand that they had been left behind. A new age was dawning, and the United States of America would be powerless to stop it.
Ratingen, Germany
For the first few miles, Manzano had tinkered with the radio, trying to pick up stations, but only static emerged from the speakers. Since then, he had driven in silence. It felt good after the excitement of the last few days.
The satnav led him off the highway and through the suburbs of Ratingen to a fifteen-storey glass-and-concrete monolith. Manzano parked the car in a visitor’s spot. He took his laptop with him. The rest of his luggage he left in the boot.
At reception he asked for Jürgen Hartlandt. Two minutes later he was greeted by a man of roughly his own age; he looked as though he spent a lot of time in the gym, but this was no muscle-bound plod. His light-blue eyes seemed to assess Manzano in a heartbeat. He was accompanied by two younger men, also in casual attire.
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‘Jürgen Hartlandt,’ the leader introduced himself. ‘Piero Manzano?’
Manzano nodded, and the two others placed themselves on either side of him.
‘Follow me, please,’ said Hartlandt in barely accented English, and without introducing his colleagues. He led Manzano into a small conference room and closed the door behind them. One of his men remained standing by it.
‘Please sit. I’ve received a message from Europol. For security reasons I need to look over your computer before we start.’
Manzano frowned. ‘It’s private property.’
‘Do you have something to hide, Mr Manzano?’
Manzano started to feel uneasy. He didn’t like Hartlandt’s tone and wondered what he was getting at. He’d come all this way at their invitation, so why were they treating him with suspicion?
‘No. But I like to protect my privacy,’ he replied.
‘We’ll do it another way then,’ offered Hartlandt. ‘Explain to me please who [email protected] is.’
‘Who’s it supposed to be?’
‘I’m asking you. You sent an email to that address.’
‘Definitely not. And even if I had, how would you know?’
‘You’re not the only one who knows his IT and can look around in other people’s computers. Europol had you under surveillance, of course. So who is [email protected]?’
‘Again, I don’t know.’
One of Hartlandt’s men took Manzano’s laptop bag from him before he could stop him. Manzano jumped up. Hartlandt’s other colleague pressed him back down into the chair.
‘What is this?’ cried Manzano. ‘I thought I was supposed to be assisting you?’
‘That’s what we thought too,’ said Hartlandt, turning on the laptop.
‘Fine, I’ll be leaving then,’ Manzano said.
‘No, you won’t,’ replied Hartlandt, without looking up from the screen.
Manzano tried to stand but was again held back.
‘Please remain seated,’ ordered Hartlandt. He turned Manzano’s laptop around so that it was facing him. ‘So you deny sending this email to [email protected].’
On the screen Manzano saw an email sent from his address.
Headed to Talaefer. Looking for a bug. Won’t find a thing. Will keep you posted.
He read it again. He looked at Hartlandt, speechless. Stared at the screen again. Finally managed to get the words out. ‘I neither wrote nor sent that.’
Hartlandt scratched his head. ‘But this is your laptop, yes?’
Manzano nodded. His thoughts were racing. He saw the time stamp on the email. Somewhere around the time he had set out from The Hague. He crossed his arms over his chest. ‘I didn’t write this. I have no idea who did. Search the computer. Maybe it’s been tampered with. I’d be happy to do it myself, but I’m guessing you won’t allow that.’
‘You’re right there. We’ll be the ones searching the computer.’ He handed the laptop to one of his men, who left the room with it. ‘In the meantime, we can talk a little more about your email contacts.’
‘There’s not much to talk about,’ replied Manzano. ‘I don’t recognize that message or the address. Therefore I can’t tell you anything about them.’
Hartlandt brought up a file on his own laptop and scanned the contents. ‘You are Piero Manzano. In the eighties and nineties you enjoyed some notoriety as a hacker, quite a brilliant one, it seems. You were also a political activist; at the G8 summit in Genoa you were briefly detained.’
‘Please don’t tell me my life story, I know what I’ve—’
‘Somebody out there is attacking Europe and the United States! And your email gives us every reason to—’
‘Wait a minute, wait a minute! What do you mean, the United States?’
‘—suspect that you are in contact with those responsible.’
They suspected that he was one of the people behind this? That he was some political cyber-activist turned terrorist!
‘This is … this is … absurd!’
‘That’s for us to find out,’ replied Hartlandt, a deep fold between his eyebrows.
‘Well, you need to get on and find out fast. What’s this about the USA?’
‘Didn’t you hear it on the radio?’
‘I couldn’t pick up any stations still on air.’
‘As of this morning, large parts of the United States are without power.’
‘Oh my God … you’re not serious.’
‘I’m in no mood for jokes. And it’s better you start talking now, before the CIA takes an interest in you, too.’
Shannon reached for her wool jacket on the Porsche’s cramped back seat and put it on. It was freezing inside the car. She had been waiting for an hour outside the giant office building on the outskirts of the city. The top storey was emblazoned with ‘Talaefer AG’; under normal circumstances, she would have swotted up on the company while she waited. But these weren’t normal circumstances; she had no Internet connection and even the radio wasn’t working. The wait was shaping up to be quiet and boring.
So she climbed out of the car and took a walk. Still a couple of cars here, she thought. Maybe they have backup power inside.
In the lobby a woman sitting alone in the vast space greeted Shannon with eyebrows raised.
‘What can I do for you?’
Shannon looked around, nonchalant. A little stand on the desk held company brochures. German version. English. Perfect.
‘Do you speak English?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘I think I’m lost. I need to go to Ratingen.’
The woman’s expression brightened. In clumsy English she told Shannon that all she had to do was take a right from the car park and after about a kilometre she would be in Ratingen.
Shannon thanked her, casually flipped through one of the brochures and tucked it away before turning to leave.
Back in her ice-cold car she nestled deep into her jacket and studied the brochure, every now and again stealing a quick glance at the doors through which Manzano had vanished.
Nanteuil, France
‘I’m out,’ said Bertrand, shaking the empty pill packet. ‘I’ll have to get more, I can’t do without my pills.’
‘But we’re not supposed to leave the house,’ said his wife.
‘I can leave the house and get right in the car. What’s going to happen?’
He went down to the kitchen, and Annette followed. Celeste Bollard was sitting at the table plucking a chicken. She was collecting the feathers in a large basket, but more than a few were landing on the kitchen floor.
‘I haven’t done this in years,’ she sighed. ‘I’d completely forgotten what a tedious chore it is.’
Vincent Bollard walked in through the door, huffing as he carried a basket full of firewood in each hand. With a crash he set them down.
‘Where’s the nearest pharmacy?’ asked Bertrand.
‘Blois,’ Vincent told him. ‘Assuming it’s open. Is it urgent?’
‘Yes, my heart medication.’
Vincent nodded. His wife exchanged a glance with Annette.
‘We really aren’t supposed to go outside, you know,’ puffed Bollard, still short of breath. ‘But if we must, we must.’ He gave his wife a kiss on the cheek. ‘We’ll be back in a while.’
Ratingen, Germany
Hartlandt had grilled Manzano for a full two hours.
‘What do you mean: Won’t find a thing? Is there something to find – did you come here to stop us finding it? Or is there nothing to find? What have you given away already?’
Endless questioning. Manzano fired back his own questions.
‘Why would I be so stupid as to send a message like that without encryption? I would just press delete as soon as I’d sent it.’
The door opened and a police officer walked in with Manzano’s laptop tucked under his arm. ‘We found more emails in which you give information to various recipients about your stay in The Hague.’
‘Th
at’s crazy,’ said Manzano. ‘What the hell do you mean?’
Hartlandt sat up. ‘Mr Manzano, we’re placing you under arrest. The Central Intelligence Agency has also expressed an interest in questioning you.’
At the thought of the American intelligence agency’s infamous methods, Manzano grew sick with fear.
Nanteuil, France
At the sound of a car pulling up outside the house, Annette hurried into the hallway. The two men came through the door, breath steaming, and closed it quickly behind them.
Her husband held up a pill packet, and she felt the relief sweep over her.
Then he crumpled it in his large fist. It had been the old, empty one.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘No more stock anywhere now.’
Düsseldorf, Germany
After driving for half an hour, they approached signs for Düsseldorf. Hartlandt’s driver steered the car into a sprawling building complex. A few spaces in the car park were occupied by droning generators, the exhausts fouling up the air around them. Thick bundles of cables snaked through a small flower bed on their way into the building.
Manzano felt the cold strike his cheeks as he got out. Hartlandt hadn’t considered it necessary to put him in handcuffs.
‘I have to go to the toilet urgently,’ he said. ‘I can’t wait till we get inside. Can I step over there really quick?’
Hartlandt gave him a look. ‘Before you piss your pants on us.’
Manzano hurried over to the generators, Hartlandt and his man following closely behind. Manzano placed himself next to the machines, gave the two of them a glance to say don’t look and unzipped his trousers. The two of them ignored him and stood as close as they could. Manzano could hear their breath while he surreptitiously inspected the machines and their cables. There was nothing for it. He turned around and directed his stream towards Hartlandt’s colleague.
‘Son of a bitch!’
The man leapt back. Manzano swung over towards Hartlandt, who also jerked backwards. Both men looked down in horror at their trousers. Manzano used the moment and took off running.