by Marc Elsberg
‘Do we really believe,’ someone spoke up, ‘that a handful of overprivileged, overgrown adolescents could bring Western civilization to its knees?’
‘Why not?’ asked Bollard. ‘In Germany in the seventies all it took was a handful of terrorists in the Red Army Faction to change the lives of sixty million citizens. The societal consequences could be felt for decades afterwards. The founding group of the Red Brigade in Italy consisted of fifteen members and fewer than two dozen men carried out the 9/11 attacks. I’d say we can absolutely assume that a few dozen people with sufficient know-how and financial means are capable of causing the devastation we’re now looking at.’
‘That’s the crux of it,’ Christopoulos spoke up now. ‘Finance. Even if these guys have the relevant know-how, for such an undertaking you need serious money.’
‘Which brings us to Balduin von Ansen, Jeanette Bordieux and George Vanminster. What makes them distinct from the other persons of interest on our list is that they are heirs to substantial fortunes. Von Ansen, son of a British aristocrat and a German banker; Vanminster, US citizen, heir to the multinational conglomerate Vanminster Industries; and Bordieux, daughter of a French media baron. Together, they are worth over a billion euros. All three generously fund social and political projects. All three have been in close contact with Pucao and the other suspects for years.’
‘Why should such people—’
‘Why not? There are enough examples. We owe the publication of global literary successes like Doctor Zhivago and Il Gattopardo to the Italian publisher Giangiacomo Feltrinelli, son of one of the richest families in Italy. But that same Feltrinelli was also responsible for the famous image of Che Guevara that still today adorns millions of T-shirts and teenagers’ bedroom walls. Not only did he have connections to Italian extremist groups, he founded his own, joined the underground, provided weapons to German terrorists – and died in an attempt to blow up a transmission tower. And then there’s that other millionaire and godfather of terrorism, Osama bin Laden. Trust me, there are extremists among the rich too.’
Orléans, France
Annette had grown used to the smell and the constant noise in the shelter, but the faces depressed her. The woman from the Red Cross had assigned the Doreuils and the Bollards four beds in a row, near the back of the hall. True, it meant a long hike to the showers and toilets, but any disadvantage was outweighed by the benefits of escaping the noxious stench that surrounded her now, as she queued to use the bathroom. Annette had demanded to be checked for radiation several times, but had always received the same answer: insufficient personnel and no equipment.
She heard raised voices from the entrance. A few people hurried into the sleeping area and spread out. Across the vast room, she could see her husband and the Bollards asking their neighbours what all the commotion was about. More and more people began flooding towards the exit, loaded with packs, bags and suitcases. They were fleeing the shelter! There were so many trying to get out that bottlenecks were forming at the exits.
‘There was another explosion at the power plant!’ Vincent said urgently as Annette reached them. ‘The wind is blowing a radioactive cloud straight towards Orléans!’
He began to stuff the few possessions that lay on their beds into his suitcase.
‘We have to get out of here!’ her husband shouted.
Annette hesitated. ‘Come on,’ Bertrand urged her. He pressed the lighter of the two bags into her hand while he took the suitcase. He grabbed his chest for an instant, his face twisted. Then he marched off, ensuring that Annette was following. The grimace on his pale features unnerved her more than the latest evacuation, but she took the bag and hurried after the others in silence as they weaved their way between the beds. By now there were huge crowds trying to force their way out of the exits, which were completely jammed with the crush of bodies. Ahead of Annette, her husband turned to look over his shoulder. He called out to her, but she couldn’t hear him above the terrible din of panic and disorder. And then he staggered, dropped the suitcase, collapsed to his knees. She threw down her own bag and raced to his side, screaming his name.
He looked up at her, and in his eyes she saw the pain and the fear.
‘Bertrand!’ she sobbed, clutching her husband’s shoulders, trying to support his weight. The Bollards, unaware of what was going on behind them, were continuing towards the exit. She screamed their names as loud as she could. Celeste turned, saw her, tugged Vincent’s arm to get his attention, and the two of them abandoned their suitcases and pushed their way back through the exodus. By the time they got there, Bertrand’s face was chalk-white and covered in sweat; his lips had turned blue and his whole body was trembling. His fingers clutched weakly at his chest. Annette laid one hand over his, all the while stroking his face and murmuring words of comfort. His eyes stared at her, but he didn’t seem to see her.
‘His heart!’ Annette screamed at the Bollards. ‘A doctor! He needs a doctor!’
His eyelids fluttered. His lips opened and closed like a fish’s. He tried to speak. As Vincent and Celeste looked helplessly around them, calling for a medic, while Annette cradled him in her arms, Bertrand stopped gasping for breath.
Brussels, Belgium
‘I can’t believe I’m doing this,’ Sophia whispered as they parked the bikes in front of the European Commission building.
‘Me neither,’ Shannon replied.
As casually as they could, the trio ambled up to the building’s entrance. They made it to the lobby without being stopped, but when Sophia held her ID up to the electronic lock on the door, it remained locked.
‘Damn!’ she hissed. ‘Already deactivated.’
They had caught the attention of a security guard. He came across to where they stood, one hand hovering near his holstered weapon. ‘Show me your ID,’ he said.
Sophia handed the plastic card to the guard. He studied it, raised his eyes to Sophia, then back to the card. He handed it back, then eyed Manzano and Shannon.
‘They’re with me,’ said Sophia.
‘The electronic entry has been deactivated,’ the guard said. He opened the door with a key and looked at the clock over the reception desk: quarter past eight. ‘Don’t work too late.’
Sophia managed a laugh. ‘We won’t, thanks.’ When they were out of the guard’s sight, Sophia ordered the other two to wait while she crept ahead, casting a glance into every office left and right. At last she signalled for them to follow. Manzano and Shannon hurried along the corridor and darted into the open doorway next to her. As soon as they were inside, Sophia closed the door behind them. It was the room they had been led out of the night before.
‘Hey, my rucksack’s still here!’ Shannon was amazed.
‘But my laptop is gone,’ said Manzano.
The Hague, Netherlands
‘I ask myself whether we’re safe here,’ Marie said to her husband. They were sitting by the fireplace, wrapped in blankets. The kids were already asleep.
‘It’s no better anywhere else,’ he said. She’d never seen him so exhausted. ‘I’ll be right back.’ She heard him go down to the basement. Two minutes later he came back, a small bundle in his hand. He unwrapped it. In the flickering light of the flames she saw a pistol.
‘Where did you get that?’ she asked, shocked. ‘You know we’re not allow—
‘You never know, my love,’ he cut in, looking into her eyes. ‘I brought it for safety’s sake. It’s been locked away in the basement.’
When they went upstairs to the bedroom, he set the gun on his bedside table.
Brussels, Belgium
‘Here, I’ve got another laptop,’ whispered Sophia. She closed the door quietly behind her and set the computer down on the table.
Manzano flipped it open.
Sophia went back to the door to listen for anyone approaching.
Thankfully, Manzano had memorized the IP address. He logged into the guest Wi-Fi, typed it in, arrived at the RESET site and entered the user
name and password that had got him in last time.
The list of conversation threads appeared before him. He scrolled down until he found a sub-register.
‘There sure are a lot of them,’ Shannon observed.
Manzano clicked on one at random.
Proud: Did you get the codes from deelta23?
Baku: Yep. He set up a nice little back door. See attachment.
Proud: Ok. Put them in.
‘Back door?’
Manzano didn’t respond. He clicked on an attachment. A document popped up on the screen, full of lines of letters and numerals.
‘What the hell is that?’
Manzano was silent, reading intently. ‘It’s a code fragment,’ he said. ‘In a nutshell: the back door to a computer system. Programmers write something like this into a program so that if anything happens they’ll still have access to it later, even if it’s not designed to allow them access. And of course such a thing can be built in after the fact as well, if you’re clever enough.’
‘Does that mean they’re talking here about how they tampered with the networks?’
‘They’re not just talking,’ confirmed Manzano. ‘They’re putting it together … Give me a minute while I …’
He scrolled down, opened another thread.
Date: thu, -1,203, 14:35 GMT
‘Kensaro: B.tuck signed Stanbul,’ Manzano read out. ‘The transaction should be completed by the end of the month.’
Simon: ok. Send it by Costa Ltd. and Esmeralda, fifty/fifty.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘No idea. Transaction could mean a money transfer.’
‘What’s Stanbul?’
‘Haven’t the foggiest … Istanbul?’
‘What are you two whispering about over there?’ Sophia hissed from her position at the door. She came over and crouched by the table. ‘What have you got?’
‘The holy grail,’ Manzano replied quietly. ‘Maybe.’
‘What is all this gibberish?’
‘It’s possible our friends made a capital error when they planted emails on my computer. They did it directly from their central communications platform, without rerouting it. Or at least, that’s what it looks like. And if that’s the case, then …’
‘Then?’
‘We’ve got a problem,’ said Manzano. ‘This site could give us all the information we need to put a stop to the catastrophe out there – and maybe even to catch these bastards.’
‘Hell, if you’re right – that’s a goddamn monster of a puzzle!’ said Shannon. ‘A little info here, a little there. To read through it by ourselves would take years!’
‘I said we had a problem.’ He turned to face the two women. ‘We can’t do this by ourselves. We need to get the pros involved so they can analyse everything, put the puzzle together. Fast. It’s going to take hundreds, thousands of them.’
‘And who are these pros?’
‘No idea! The NSA, CIA – every intelligence agency in the world and every institution that investigates terrorism.’
‘The police always did think highly of you, right from the beginning,’ Shannon teased.
‘I know,’ sighed Manzano. He closed his eyes, pinched the sides of his nose with his fingers. ‘But what choice do we have?’
Day 11 – Tuesday
The Hague, Netherlands
‘Wow.’ It was all Bollard could manage.
He bent over the computer, spellbound, and clicked through the RESET site that Manzano had led him on to a few minutes earlier. Christopoulos and two more of his colleagues stood staring over his shoulder.
‘You have to secure this information as quickly as possible,’ Manzano’s voice commanded over the telephone. ‘Before our break-in is discovered.’
Bollard nodded, thoughts spinning inside his head. He whispered to Christopoulos. ‘Tell IT – they must start immediately.’
The Greek ran to the telephone at the next desk.
‘How am I supposed to know this is real?’ said Bollard, wondering if the Italian could have fabricated this site to put them on the wrong track. He clicked through a few threads at random. Fortunately, he knew this hacker language well enough to follow the discussions.
‘Are you kidding! You can see for yourself how much there is. It would be impossible to fake something like this.’
‘How did you find it?’ asked Bollard.
‘I tracked down the IP address they were using to access my laptop. Turns out these jerks have been seriously careless in the security department. I’ll give you the whole story when I have the chance.’
Bollard stopped randomly clicking through the databank. He had seen enough. If this was genuine, the Italian had hit the jackpot. He had to admit he was impressed by the man’s fervour – and his stubbornness.
‘If this platform holds what you say it does …’
‘I’m pretty certain it does. But you’ll need a hell of a lot of resources to analyse it fast enough. Who can you tap?’
‘Everybody.’
‘Who’s everybody?’
‘From the NSA to the Police Nationale to the BKA. Everybody …’ There was a pause, and then Bollard said, ‘I heard you got shot. How are you doing?’
A snort of derision from the other end of the line, then, ‘I’ve been better, thanks.’
Brussels, Belgium
He’s never hugged me like that, thought Shannon as she watched Manzano say goodbye to the tall and lovely Sophia. She felt a tiny stab of jealousy, although she wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting from the Italian. They had gone through so much together. Probably some of the most emotional moments of her life.
Manzano pulled himself away from Sophia’s embrace. An officer was waiting by the SUV parked in front of the Commission building.
Shannon climbed into the back seat, Manzano sat next to her. In the front passenger seat, their escort pulled four sandwiches and two large bottles of water out of a bag and handed them over.
‘With warm regards from Monsieur Bollard,’ he said, then ordered, ‘Buckle up, please. Even if there’s almost nobody on the road.’
The Hague, Netherlands
The Hague offered a grim picture: burned-out cars and smouldering ruins lined the streets.
‘Where are we headed?’ Manzano asked their driver.
‘The hotel is full. You’ll be put up in provisional quarters at Europol.’
Tanks were patrolling the streets surrounding the compound.
‘Did I just hear gunshots?’ asked Shannon.
‘Could very well be,’ said the driver.
To reach the building they had to pass a checkpoint that was guarded by heavily armed soldiers.
‘This place looks like a war zone,’ Shannon remarked.
‘It’s pretty close to one,’ said the driver.
‘I’m not happy about her being here,’ said Bollard, pointing at Shannon.
Manzano went to the window and looked out over the city. Columns of smoke rose above the buildings from east to west. In the distance, he heard the sirens of emergency vehicles, the rattling of helicopters crisscrossing the murky skies.
‘Without her, we wouldn’t have got my laptop back and would never have found the RESET site,’ he said.
Bollard clamped his eyes shut, worked his jaw.
‘OK. But no reporting,’ he ordered.
‘You have my word,’ Shannon promised. ‘Not until you give the OK.’
She whispered to Manzano, ‘But I really do need some equipment: cameras, a laptop.’
‘We need laptops,’ Manzano told Bollard. ‘And she gets a camera.’
He could see that Bollard was close to exploding, but he reckoned they were entitled to make a few demands.
‘Fine, I’ll get you the gear.’ Bollard shot them an angry glare. ‘But remember: no reporting.’
Shannon nodded fervently. ‘Only when you’re ready to see the monumental work you’re doing documented for the public.’
�
��Find somebody else to bullshit,’ Bollard snapped.
‘How far are you with RESET?’ said Manzano.
‘The information is now with Interpol, NATO, the Secret Service, the NCTC and a number of others,’ said Bollard. ‘We’re dividing responsibility for the analysis between us.’
In the conference room, two dozen men were seated in front of computers. Bollard, Manzano and Shannon placed themselves behind one of them.
‘Using what parameters?’ asked Manzano.
‘Whatever we can come up with. Search terms, for example: we found a number of chats in which the topic was “zero days”.’
‘What are those?’ asked Shannon.
‘Vulnerabilities in systems and programs that the manufacturers themselves are unaware of and there’s no protection against,’ Manzano explained.
‘We’re also looking into the various users,’ Bollard continued, ‘scanning their discussions for certain terms …’
‘Terms,’ echoed Manzano. ‘Am I one of those “terms”?’