The Darkfall Switch (7 page)

The husband interrupted his thoughts. ‘I hoped … I rang the ambulance, but it was too late. The police came and asked some questions. Then, when I showed them Joe Worzniak’s card they told me I should ring him.’

‘Which you did?’

‘Yes. Couldn’t reach him, so I left a message with his office.’

He looked at his wife tenderly before saying. ‘There’s something else. Luke left two notes. One was to us, apologizing for bringing us sadness….’

‘Apologizing!’ Hilary had been trying to compose herself but at these words her will broke and tears streamed down her face once more. ‘Apologizing. To us! Good Lord!’

Her husband put his arm round her. She collapsed into his embrace and pressed her tear-stained face into his shoulder.

‘The second note was for you,’ Proctor went on, addressing Foster. ‘It was folded with a message on the outside, saying that we shouldn’t tell anybody else about it, just to give it to you.’ He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a slip of paper.

Foster took it in silence and read the jerky, immature sentences inside. Some of the words were crossed out and others substituted, but the essence of the message was clear:

Foster’s mood was sombre as he entered the office of Arnold Coward and Partners in London. He was still puzzling about what had happened in Connecticut. It had been two days since he had left the Proctor parents to their grief and checked out of his hotel. But before leaving he had made a brief call to Worzniak.

He had found the American’s card, and keyed in the number that was printed on it. While he waited for a response he studied it a little more carefully than he had done previously. It was unusually plain: at top centre was the familiar bald eagle with its displayed wings and its talons grasping the arrows and olive branch: the Great Seal of the United States. Worzniak’s name was underneath, followed by ‘Office of Strategic Projects’ and the telephone number. He thought it a little odd that there was no mention of the State Department on the card. When Cyrus Proctor had first mentioned that the department was involved he had been surprised, but on reflection he realized that it was logical: as he understood it, the State Department did, after all, deal with foreign affairs, which this matter definitely was.

The familiar bark came through the earpiece: ‘Worzniak.’

He told the American about his meeting with the Proctors, carefully leaving out any reference to the second note. Worzniak had been coldly polite, dismissive even, so much so that when he hung up Foster felt no regrets at the prospect that their paths were never likely to cross again. He didn’t usually make instant judgements about people, but something about the bulky American repelled him. He remembered his coldness
when news of Luke’s suicide had reached him. There had been no trace of shock or pity in his face as he told Foster what had happened.

Now, back in London, as he shook Forsyth’s hand he looked at the other people in the room. Apart from Forsyth’s technical right-hand man, Grant, there was a tall, distinguished-looking man in a smart
pinstripe
suit, and a short woman with grey hair – ‘comfortably-built’ was the description that came to Foster’s mind. The man’s suit was complemented by a salmon-pink shirt with a fashionable and
expensive-looking
silk tie. The woman looked the epitome of the modern businesswoman; she had on a simple grey jacket and skirt with a pearl necklace.

Forsyth introduced them. ‘Foster, this is Sir James Ballantyne. From the Cabinet Office, and Mrs Andrews, from the Foreign and Commonwealth Office.’

Foster struggled to suppress a smile: first Grant, now Ballantyne; it was like the spirits counter of a supermarket. But he won his battle with himself and reached out his hand, shaking the woman’s hand first. She smiled. ‘Margaret,’ she said. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

Ballantyne’s handshake was firm and confident, his eyes shrewd and intelligent. ‘Pleased to meet you, Foster,’ he said, as he presented his card. Foster looked at it and saw that, apart from being a knight, Ballantyne was a well-qualified physicist, with a string of qualifications and affiliations after his name.

‘Technical Adviser?’ Foster observed.

‘Yes.’ The reply came in a clipped Oxbridge accent. ‘These days, in an increasingly complex and technical world, the Cabinet often needs detailed technical advice and assistance. I act as a channel of communication between the specialists and my masters. I demystify some of the more abstruse documents that members of the Cabinet need to study.’

Foster raised an eyebrow. It was encouraging to think that the Cabinet was willing to listen to technologists, and to pay for the best.

They took seats facing each other across the conference table that was linked to Forsyth’s desk in a T-shape. After the Scotsman had poured coffee for them, he came and sat alongside him, leaving his usual chair vacant on the other side of the desk. ‘Foster,’ he began, ‘I’ve been telling Sir James and Mrs Andrews, as best I can, what you told me on the
telephone. They have some questions for you. But first, can you tell them the story in your own words?’

Foster gave a summary of what he had so far discovered. It wasn’t much, but at least the boy’s note had provided a key that might possibly open a few doors.

When he mentioned Worzniak, Sir James interrupted to ask if he had the American’s contact details.

Foster took Worzniak’s card from his folder and handed it to Ballantyne. ‘There’s something that’s a bit odd,’ he said. ‘It just says Office of Strategic Projects. There’s no reference to the State Department.’

Sir James scanned the card, pursed his lips and handed it back before scribbling a few words in a notebook. Then he looked up and said, ‘I’ll check on who he is. But I’m intrigued by the conclusion to the boy’s suicide note. “Darkfall Switch”? Any idea of what that may be?’

‘Not sure. One guess I’ve made is that it could be some sort of subroutine, but the word switch puzzles me.’

‘Why?’ Grant asked. ‘Surely a switch is a common concept.’

‘Yes, it is,’ Foster agreed, ‘but I’ve never heard of one being labelled in that way – Darkfall. But I need to talk to the people in Powerplant Dynamics before I can go any further. They may be able to tell me more. I’ll try their UK office first.’

‘They’re in Gloucestershire, aren’t they?’ Forsyth asked.

‘Little place called Birdlip,’ Foster confirmed. ‘Near Cheltenham. They set up there so as to be close to Barnwood.’

The sprawling, luxurious office complex at Barnwood, with its integral banks, shops and coffee bars had, in its heyday, been the headquarters of the Central Electricity Generating Board; now it was owned by British Energy, the operator of many of the nation’s nuclear power stations. Either organization would have been a key client for the American company, and in any case Birdlip was near enough to the headquarters of another major prospective client, NPower at Swindon.

‘But I suspect they’re only a sales office,’ Foster continued. ‘I’m pretty sure that all the real engineering work is done in Denver, Colorado.’

‘Have you spoken to them?’ Sir James asked. ‘The British office, I mean.’

‘Not yet. I’ll set up a visit there soon. But I suspect I won’t get much out of them. From what I could find out from their website, all the
people with the real technical knowledge are in the States. I’ll probably have to go there and talk to their engineers.’

Forsyth questioned, ‘Can it be done by phone?’. Foster guessed that he was probably thinking about costs. Flying this man around the world in First Class was proving to be expensive.

‘I’ll give it a try,’ Foster answered. ‘But I’m pretty sure I’ll need to make another visit to the States.’

‘You’ve just come back!’ Sir James commented, but there was a smile on his face as he said it.

‘I know,’ Foster grinned back. ‘But I couldn’t go to them straight away. It’d be abortive if I don’t have enough facts. I need to ask a few questions here first.’

‘Such as?’ Mrs Andrews asked.

‘Well, do any of the system’s British users recognize that phrase, Darkfall Switch?’

‘Users?’

‘Yes. Power stations over here. I have some contacts. I can ask them.’

‘You needn’t rely on your own contacts,’ Forsyth said. ‘We can set up meetings with anybody you like.’

‘Thanks. But let’s start with the people I already know.’

Ballantyne nodded, then Mrs Andrews consulted her notes and said, ‘You referred to a subroutine. What’s that?’

‘It’s a bit of computer code that runs inside a larger program. These things carry out specific, repetitive tasks. They’re usually relatively independent of the main program.’

‘And can you find out what this one does?’ she asked.

‘It depends. If it’s a standard feature of Powerplant Dynamics’ system, the users should recognize it and they’ll tell me what it is. Otherwise, I’ll have to ask the systems designers what it does.’

‘All right,’ Forsyth said. ‘But how long before you have any information for us?’

‘Yes,’ Sir James interjected. ‘This matter is extremely urgent. We’re very vulnerable. In case some other hacker does what that boy did.’

‘I’m fully aware of the urgency, Sir James,’ Foster said quietly. ‘You can rest assured that I’ll be working fast.’

The room fell silent as everybody thought over Foster’s words.

‘I think that ends it,’ Forsyth said finally, looking round the table and, as everybody nodded, he added, ‘Thank you, Foster. You’ll keep me
informed, won’t you?’ Foster nodded and they all stood up.

As Mrs Andrews shook his hand she hesitated for a while, looking seriously into his eyes. Finally, in a quiet voice, she said, ‘That boy. Luke Proctor. What happened was a real tragedy. A terrible thing.’

Foster returned her look. ‘Yes. I felt really sorry for the parents. They seem to be a very nice couple. He was their only child.’

‘Awful.’

‘Absolutely. It’s destroyed a huge part of their lives. They’ll get on, but it’ll never be the same for them.’

Her voice became even more quiet. ‘It was suicide, wasn’t it?’ she asked, and Foster stiffened. He frowned and looked at her. Until now, the thought that it might have been anything else had simply not occurred to him.

‘I’m sure it was,’ he said. ‘The lad was very upset when I met him. I found him a very quiet, withdrawn sort. I suppose, if I was asked to identify likely suicide candidates, I’d put him down as the kind that might just do that type of thing. But I don’t really know; you’d need to talk to a psychiatrist I guess.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Anyway, I’m sure there’ll be an inquiry. The American police will find out what happened.’

‘I’m sure they will.’

As he waited at the gatehouse to be admitted to Queensborough Power Station, Foster looked out of the window at the massive bulk of it, now so close. Seasoned old hand that he was, he was still stimulated by the power and noise of the great machines that generated electricity. The deep, all-pervasive hum of huge transformers, the smell of steam and hot oil, had thrilled him on his first visit to a power plant as little more than a boy, and it had lured and entrapped him ever since.

The Queensborough plant was huge. Massive pale-grey walls enclosed it, but even at this distance you could hear the powerful hum of the machinery within. A few yards further and you would be able to feel it.

Two tall chimneys reached dizzyingly skyward in the distance, with only a slight plume of white drifting almost lazily downwind, showing that the plant was generating power. Enough to feed cities.

On arriving, he had announced his name into the intercom at the
red-and-white
barrier across the road. The tinny voice of the guard told him to park in the visitor’s car-park before returning to the gatehouse and signing in while his host was called. Slowly, the barrier lifted and Foster drove in.

The day before, after he had returned to
Lake Goddess
he had telephoned his contact at Queensborough. Bill Kirkland was pleased to hear from his old colleague and gladly agreed to a visit the next day.

Foster finished writing his details in the Visitors’ Register and the guard tore off a page, carefully folded it and inserted it into a clear plastic wallet which he handed over, pointing out a notice on the back that contained security information and evacuation instructions for use in the event of an emergency. As Foster clipped the pass to his top pocket a car drew up noisily outside and Kirkland emerged from it, leaving the door open and the engine running. The guard scowled out of the window, evidently disapproving of the careless parking across a couple of marked-out bays. Oblivious of this disapproval – or perhaps immune to it – Kirkland came marching across the remaining few feet of tarmac before running up the few steps into the gatehouse.

He was a short, stocky man in his late forties, with receding red hair. He was wearing a crisp white boiler suit and carrying two safety helmets. He handed one over and said, ‘Bloody stupid rules, Dan! But we have to wear these all times on site – even in the car-park. In case a passing albatross drops something on our heads, I suppose.’ He put out his hand. ‘Anyway, haven’t heard from you for some time. How’re things?’

Foster grasped his hand. ‘Pretty bloody,’ he said grimly.

Kirkland’s welcoming smile froze and he looked quizzically at his guest. There was a short pause before he said, ‘Yes, I heard about Fiona. Terrible thing.’ His jaw clenched as he looked down at his shoes before adding gruffly, ‘I should’ve phoned you, Dan, but….’ He looked up. ‘Well, I just didn’t know what to say.’

‘No worries, Bill,’ Foster reassured him. ‘We engineers aren’t too good at the sympathy thing, are we?’

‘I suppose not.’

They got into Kirkland’s car and chatted about times past as they sped the short distance to the rear of the power-station building. This time Kirkland managed to straddle three marked-out parking bays but, as his was the only vehicle in sight, it didn’t seem that it would be a problem. The two men entered the building through a massive steel door and took
the lift to the site man’s office, where two cups of coffee were waiting, still steaming, on the desk.

‘I presume coffee’s OK, Dan?’ Kirkland asked. ‘No sugar, I remember.’

Foster smiled. ‘Your memory’s still good, Bill.’ He sipped at the coffee and said, ‘I guess you’ve worked out why I’m here?’

‘I suppose it’s the shutdown in the summer.’

‘Yup! I’ve been dragged in. I didn’t want to get involved, originally.’

‘Why not? It’s right up your street. When it happened I even suggested that we should call you in. The station manager seemed keen, but he never got round to doing it. Typical of the guy, I’m afraid.’

‘I expect he’s under a lot of pressure.’

‘Certainly is. Bad enough when we get a single unit trip, but all four? And then when it contributed to the national blackout? You should’ve been here, Dan. Shit pouring into fans is an understatement.’

‘I can imagine. But, tell me, did you track down what happened here?’

‘No. It was bloody strange, though. All I know is that it was in the Powerplant Dynamics system.’ He brightened and said, ‘We’ve got their latest and best here, you know: it’s called Generation 300. Anyway, whatever it was, it managed to shut down all four units just as effectively as if an operator had done it purposely.’