by Marc Elsberg
‘Plenty of US citizens buy real estate in Mexico.’
‘But only Butler has connections to Pucao and his cronies going back decades. The Mexican authorities have turned up a similar picture to the group’s Istanbul HQ: the building’s occupied by firms with convoluted structures and powerful Internet connections. They’ve put the place under surveillance.’
‘I’ll inform the president.’
The Hague, Netherlands
‘You want to leave? Now?’
Bollard heard the panic in his wife’s voice, knew how close she was to breaking point, but he had no alternative but to leave her.
‘Marie, we are so close to ending this disaster and catching the people who caused it – I have to go.’
They stood in front of the fire, the only warm place in the house. The kids pressed up close against their mother and looked up at him with frightened eyes. He gestured towards the boxes that he had placed next to the door.
‘That’s food and water for three days. You might already have power again by tomorrow morning. And the day after that, I’ll be back, I promise.’
‘Is it dangerous, what you’re doing?’ Bernadette asked, worried.
‘No, my darling.’
She looked doubtful.
‘Truly,’ he assured her. ‘The special forces guys will take care of me.’
His wife nudged the children off to the side. ‘Go and play.’
The two obeyed reluctantly, but didn’t stray far.
‘It’s anarchy out there,’ she hissed.
‘You have the pistol.’ The terrified look on her face revealed she saw the gun more as a threat than as protection. ‘The day after tomorrow, when the power is back …’
‘Can you guarantee that?’
‘Yes,’ he lied.
His wife looked at him for a long while before she asked, ‘Have you heard anything from our parents?’
‘Not yet. But I’m sure they’re fine.’
Orléans, France
‘You shouldn’t be watching this,’ said Celeste, resting her hand on Annette’s shoulder.
Annette didn’t try to shake off Celeste’s hand, but resisted her attempt to turn her away from the scene in front of them.
At a distance of about fifty metres, men with gloves and face masks were unloading lifeless bodies from the back of a flatbed truck. They grabbed them by their hands and feet and threw them into a ditch about twenty metres long and five metres wide. She could only guess at how deep it was.
A priest stood at the edge of the grave, sprinkling holy water. Stone-faced, hands clasped together, she watched the scene unfold. A few steps away, an older woman was standing by herself, a little further on a young couple hugged each other, sobbing. All together, more than two dozen people were in attendance for the makeshift burial.
Then Annette recognized the slender figure of her husband in the hands of the undertakers. They swung his body, picking up momentum, then he vanished into the hole. Annette thought of their daughter and of the grandchildren whose visit he had so looked forward to. She crossed herself, whispered a final ‘adieu’.
Command Headquarters
Siti Yusuf had been analysing the authorities’ communications since the beginning of the blackout. As the communications decreased in volume, something occurred to him. He went back and checked the frequency of certain key words and encountered an interesting fact. In the first week after the attack, the crisis centres and authorities had not only exchanged information about coordinating aid, but also about the search for the perpetrators. Words like ‘investigation’ and ‘terrorist’ featured again and again. But as communications had decreased, the incidence of these words had decreased too. Drastically. In fact, they had all but disappeared.
On Sunday they had become aware of the emails in which government institutions advised staff to turn on their computers only when strictly necessary. That had explained the decreased communications. Now Yusuf speculated that these emails had actually been directed at them, intended to lull them into a false sense of security after their surveillance had been discovered. When he voiced his suspicions, some began to panic, while others dismissed the possibility. Arguments had raged, but in the end they had agreed to exercise greater vigilance, just in case the police and intelligence agencies were on their heels.
Not that it would make any difference to their mission, either way. They had made contingency plans to ensure that, even if they were discovered, the final blow would be delivered.
Transall Aircraft, en route to Turkey
‘Yes!’ said Bollard, punching the air in celebration. No one heard him over the noise of the propellers.
Soon after the terrorists’ possible headquarters had been identified, Bollard had been flown by helicopter to the Wahn military airfield. There he had stepped on to a German army Transall aircraft, while GSG 9 teams began arriving from nearby Sankt Augustin. Taking advantage of the working satellite connection in the plane, Bollard had been keeping himself updated on the latest developments. It made up for his frustration at not being allowed to participate directly in any operation against the terrorists. Director Ruiz had reminded him that he was neither authorized nor trained to do so, but he had conceded to the request that Bollard be allowed to tag along as Europol’s representative. Which was how he came to be sitting in a noisy aircraft with sixty men in peak physical condition who appeared to be passing the time by telling jokes, judging by the laughter that rippled through their ranks.
Bollard was sharing a table with the two team commanders. He turned the computer so that they could see the screen and pointed to the latest photos of the building in Istanbul. Unfocused, grainy images showed two men leaving and entering, plus a third man and a woman standing at the window.
‘Pedro Munoz,’ Bollard announced triumphantly and pointed at the first surveillance photo. Next to it he brought up a photograph of Munoz. He pointed at the other individuals. ‘John Bannock. One by one he loaded photographs from the database, so that those seated around him could compare the faces with those on the surveillance shots.
‘Gentlemen, the target is confirmed. Your men can start preparing themselves for an operation.’
Brauweiler, Germany
Pewalski sat nervously in front of the screens, watching as Amprion’s operators attempted to rebuild the grid for southeastern Germany.
So far, he and his family had been well looked after. The backup power system in the basement had provided them with electricity; the cistern, installed for just such an event, with water. The hardest part for them had been dealing with neighbours and relatives in need. Pewalski had turned them away without exception; his wife, on the other hand, had let those who were freezing come inside, at least for an hour at a time. She had welcomed the hungry and the thirsty, too, which dug into their own supplies. But Pewalski had stocked up for three weeks. He didn’t have to worry yet. In any case, the crowds had started to peter out the day before yesterday, when word spread that they’d used up the last drop of their diesel reserves. Pewalski felt he’d more than earned the preferential treatment his family had received. The facility had been operating with a skeleton crew for days now, and he’d had to spend every waking hour at the operations centre, filling in for absent co-workers. Which was how he came to be sitting at a desk, keeping an eye on his own screen while trying to follow developments on his neighbour’s monitor, which showed work in progress on the eastern sector of the grid.
‘Markersbach and Goldisthal look to be back online,’ Pewalski confirmed. The two pumped-storage facilities near the Czech border had black start capabilities. All they had to do was allow water to flow down from the elevated storage reservoirs so it could pass through the turbines and generate electricity. Should this small grid-building succeed, it would create an island from which the country’s eastern grid would then be built up, bit by bit. In the process, the complex in which he now sat would also be supplied with voltage.
‘Come on!’ whispered
Pewalski. ‘Come on!’
Berlin, Germany
They were all gathered together on the screens again, including the new heads from Portugal, Spain and Greece. For the top brass at NATO, one screen had to suffice this time; the White House was also patched in.
On the six screens in the bottom row, Michelsen saw the buildings in Istanbul and Mexico City, captured from a variety of surveillance and helmet-mounted cameras. The images from Istanbul, where it was already night time, were green and full of shadows; in Mexico City the sun was shining. The moment the location of the terrorists’ headquarters had been identified, elite units had scrambled to take them out of commission. All communications had been conducted over absolutely tap-proof systems; they couldn’t risk the attackers finding out that they had been discovered. Units of Bordo Bereliler, the Turkish special forces division, would make the assault in Istanbul, backed up by teams from GSG 9 and the Secret Service. Two hundred Navy SEALs had touched down a short time ago in Mexico City to carry out the raid there, in cooperation with Mexican troops. The two attack teams on opposite ends of the world stood poised to launch a synchronized assault the moment the command was given. But first, all Internet and power connections for each building would be cut off. Then it would be the special units’ turn.
‘The indicators are overwhelming,’ announced the chancellor. ‘We say go. Any objections?’
No one said a word, not even the NATO generals whose China theory had been blown to shreds.
‘Then let’s give our people the order to engage,’ concluded the US president.
Istanbul, Turkey
He needed fresh air. They’d been sitting in front of the screens for eighteen hours a day or more. His head would explode if he didn’t get out once in a while.
They’d had this passageway specially built. Even though he knew some of the others weren’t observing the security measures, he stuck to them. So when he first stepped out into the night air, through the exit of the neighbouring building, he was two hundred metres away from their base. Outside it was five degrees above zero. The pavements were bustling with activity; traffic was backed up in the street. Hard to believe that just a few hundred kilometres across the Bosphorus, life had come to a standstill. In the coming weeks, the consequences would be noticeable here, too, and then the people would follow the citizens of Europe and the US in rising up against the old order.
Relaxed, he strolled past shop windows without a sideward glance. Nothing but junk on sale. When he heard the muted bang behind him he wheeled around in surprise. Their building. A helicopter descended to hover over it, bathing it in blinding light.
Passers-by turned towards the scene, transfixed. Bright spotlights were shining on the façade from all sides now. Announcements rang out that he didn’t understand. But their message was immediately clear. He felt his hands clench into fists in his pockets. Cautiously he looked around, observing the people, the cars. He had to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. Most of the pedestrians were still gawking, others hurried on their way; as he followed their progress down the street, he spotted a delivery van with dark windows. The back doors were open, he saw several policemen inside. One of them he recognized immediately. It was the Frenchman from Europol.
The Hague, Netherlands
Christ, it’s not a football game, thought Manzano when they’d invited him to join everyone in front of the big screens to observe the raid. He’d resolved not to watch, but the blurred images on the monitors – from Istanbul and Mexico City, four cameras in each location – had him transfixed. Manzano wondered who was selecting the angles. Was there a director somewhere in Langley or Berlin – or maybe in Hollywood? – giving orders to his crew: ‘Screen One, cut to Helmet-Cam 3!’
At that moment the special units in Istanbul were running through a dark hallway and crashing into a room full of desks and computers. Several people jumped to their feet, some put their hands up, others threw themselves under desks, behind chairs. The helmet cameras showed images of panicked, enraged faces. The microphones picked up screaming, shouting of orders, heavy footsteps, gunshots. It didn’t take long for the special troops to secure the premises. The cameras showed several prisoners lying on their stomachs, hands tied behind their backs. At deserted desks, screens were lit up; Manzano couldn’t make out anything on them. Two policemen stealthily worked their way into a neighbouring room. There was no one inside, but racks of servers were stacked up to the ceiling.
In Mexico City, two SEALs were kneeling next to a wounded man, applying bandages. The man cursed at them, but then grinned and hissed something that made them flinch. Ten minutes later the report came in from Istanbul: ‘Mission accomplished, target location captured, eleven target persons found. Three non-fatally wounded, three dead.’ Two minutes later, Mexico City reported. Thirteen target persons, one badly wounded, two dead.
‘Good work!’ They heard the voice of the American president in the speakers. Other patched-in politicians joined him in their own languages, filling the airwaves with a veritable babel of hearty congratulations.
Istanbul, Turkey
He took public transport to Atatürk airport. He always kept the key to the locker with him when he left the building. Forged papers and money were waiting for him inside.
If the police had found their headquarters, it was likely they now knew the cause of the outages and could reverse them. It would be only a matter of time until the first flights took off towards the major European cities. One question remained: how had the police discovered their group?
He had to assume, since they knew of the group, that they suspected him of being involved. Now that they had control of the building, they would start to pore over the evidence, trying to track down the ones who’d escaped the raid. Little did they know half of them were in Mexico. They’d no doubt be watching the airports, but he trusted his new papers, his changed haircut and handsome moustache.
He found a comfortable seat in the terminal, overlooking a large-screen TV tuned in to a news broadcast. Had they uncovered Mexico City too? Even if he couldn’t hear the anchorwoman delivering the news, the images would tell him enough. Well, he could wait. The precautions they had taken would carry forward their mission. Let them think that they’d won, that it was all over. He knew better.
Ybbs-Persenbeug, Austria
Oberstätter looked over the three red giants in the generator room of the southern power plant. The radio speaker crackled in his right hand.
The update from Talaefer had arrived three hours ago with a special messenger from the military.
‘That’s it?’ the IT technicians were amazed. Someone had manipulated a part of the program so that the displays would go crazy with false readings.
The company responsible is ruined, thought Oberstätter. They’ll never get a contract again; claims for damages would finish them off.
After the technicians had modified the system, Oberstätter and his colleagues in the control booth started the tests and preparations for resuming operation. No problems.
At first he heard nothing. Then the air began to vibrate, telling him that the control booth had diverted the Danube’s current over the turbines and on to the generators, inducing voltage in the coils for the first time in days. The quiver in the air grew into a faint, deep hum; rose, sounding richer, then stabilized into a mild drone, which Oberstätter greeted inwardly like the first cry of a newborn child.
Day 13 – Thursday
Rome, Italy
Once again, Valentina hadn’t slept a wink. Now she sat in the operations centre, where the IT forensics specialists had just declared the workspaces ready for use. It was still dark outside, but the news that the bug had been fixed was coming in from most of the deactivated power plants. They were ready to start. Neighbouring transmission grid operators in Austria and Switzerland were already making voltage available at the key international connection nodes.
On the large board the first lines on the northern borders were turni
ng green. The lines were connected from node to node, and one after another green lines began replacing the red ones. At the same time, the green glow from individual power plants was spreading, blanketing the entire country like rapidly growing roots.
The Hague, Netherlands
‘They’ve got a good setup here,’ Bollard’s voice announced as his helmet camera conveyed the images from the Istanbul command headquarters. ‘Every one of the captured and the dead features on our list of suspects. Some of the individuals on the list are missing – which doesn’t necessarily mean anything. It’s possible they weren’t involved after all.’
‘And are they saying anything?’ asked Christopoulos.
‘Some of them are only too happy to talk,’ answered Bollard. ‘Though a lot of it’s nonsense. They wanted to set up a new world order, more humane, more just. They believe the only way this can be achieved is through a massive rupture in society.’
‘Sounds like neoliberal shock doctrine,’ said Christopoulos.
‘Look outside!’ someone cried.
Marie was staring out at the wintry yard, lost in thought, when suddenly the refrigerator began to emit a tired buzzing. She turned in amazement, cautiously approached the appliance and opened the door. The light came on inside. Flickering and dim, but light all the same. In a rush she flipped the switch on the neighbouring wall. The ceiling lights came on.
‘Maman!’ she heard her children calling from the living room. ‘Maman!’
She hurried through. The floor lamps next to the sofa were glowing. Georges hit a button on the TV remote. Flickering grey colours appeared on the screen, a hiss came out of the speakers. Bernadette played around with the light switch for the chandelier, switched it on and off, on and off.