sober up. Logging out of Sanders’ account, he tried his own again. Still no joy. He typed in Kevin Speznik’s details, which he also knew. Speznik’s account was blocked as well, which was interesting because Speznik was one of the three administrators.
‘Could you move back a bit?’ he said, flapping a hand at the guard, who smelt of some kind of spice and was really starting to piss him off. ‘There’s something going on here and I need to . . .’
He tailed off, scratching his head and staring at the row of clocks on the opposite wall, each of which showed the time in one of the company’s sixteen offices around the world. It was 2.22 in San Diego, 4.22 in Houston, 5.22 in New York. Way too early for anyone to be in. Or late, depending on which way you looked at it. 10.22 in London, though. Better. He paused, then picked up the phone and dialled, asking the London switchboard to put him through to Rishi Taverner in IT. Voicemail. Bollocks.
‘Is there a problem, sir?’ repeated the guard, whose spicy smell was still clearly detectable even though he had backed off a few paces. Dewey didn’t answer. He called Frankfurt, where he also got a voicemail, and then, working eastwards, Tel-Aviv. Their system administrator was on lunch.
‘Does no one fucking work any more,’ he muttered, checking his extensions list and tapping in the number for Delhi. Here he got through to a guy called Parvind, who spoke like someone out of one of those old black-and-white movies and told him that they too were experiencing administrator problems. Three further calls revealed a similar story in Kuala Lumpur, Hong Kong and Adelaide. Dewey’s head was really starting to clear. He pulled out his mobile and scrolled through its contacts list to the number he wanted, then hit dial. His boss, Dale Springer. Home landline. It took eleven rings before Springer picked up.
‘Yeah.’
The voice was thick and bleary, like it was coming from underwater.
‘Dale, it’s Dewey. I’ve been locked out.’
‘Unh. What?’
‘I’ve been locked out.’
A befuddled pause, then: ‘Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do about it? Go sleep on a park bench. Jesus, what the hell—’
‘Locked out of the system,’ said Dewey, cutting him off. ‘I’m in the office and I’ve been locked out of the system. So has Speznik. And so have the administrators in our other offices. Normal accounts seem to be OK. It’s just those with admin rights.’
There was a silence, then a sound of sheets rustling as if someone was getting out of bed. When Springer spoke again he sounded much more awake.
‘Diagnostic.’
His boss was always using dickhead words like that. He’d been watching too much Star Trek .
‘Diagnostic,’ said Springer, louder. And then, before Dewey could answer: ‘We’re being hacked.’
‘Certainly looks like it.’
‘Oh fuck.’
After that everything started moving fast. Very fast. Springer was in the office within twenty minutes – his pyjama bottoms sticking out from beneath his jeans – followed by a steady stream of management, including Alan Cummins, Deepwell’s CEO. Dewey had been with the company eight years and had never got within a room’s length of Cummins. Now, suddenly, he was leaning right over his shoulder.
‘Get them out,’ he snarled. ‘Get them out now.’
‘It’s not as easy as that, sir,’ said Springer. ‘They seem to have got sole administration rights to the domain controller.’
‘What the fuck does that mean?’
‘Basically, they’re God,’ said Dewey, who was feeling amazingly clear-headed given how hammered he’d been less than an hour previously. ‘They control the whole system. They can do what they want, go where they want, look at whatever they want.’
‘Accounts? E-mails?’
‘Everything.’
‘ My e-mails?’
Dewey nodded.
‘Christ fucking Jesus!’
‘They must have got hold of someone’s login and used that to access the SAM file,’ said Springer,
‘Could you move back a bit?’ he said, flapping a hand at the guard, who smelt of some kind of spice and was really starting to piss him off. ‘There’s something going on here and I need to . . .’
He tailed off, scratching his head and staring at the row of clocks on the opposite wall, each of which showed the time in one of the company’s sixteen offices around the world. It was 2.22 in San Diego, 4.22 in Houston, 5.22 in New York. Way too early for anyone to be in. Or late, depending on which way you looked at it. 10.22 in London, though. Better. He paused, then picked up the phone and dialled, asking the London switchboard to put him through to Rishi Taverner in IT. Voicemail. Bollocks.
‘Is there a problem, sir?’ repeated the guard, whose spicy smell was still clearly detectable even though he had backed off a few paces. Dewey didn’t answer. He called Frankfurt, where he also got a voicemail, and then, working eastwards, Tel-Aviv. Their system administrator was on lunch.
‘Does no one fucking work any more,’ he muttered, checking his extensions list and tapping in the number for Delhi. Here he got through to a guy called Parvind, who spoke like someone out of one of those old black-and-white movies and told him that they too were experiencing administrator problems. Three further calls revealed a similar story in Kuala Lumpur, Hong Kong and Adelaide. Dewey’s head was really starting to clear. He pulled out his mobile and scrolled through its contacts list to the number he wanted, then hit dial. His boss, Dale Springer. Home landline. It took eleven rings before Springer picked up.
‘Yeah.’
The voice was thick and bleary, like it was coming from underwater.
‘Dale, it’s Dewey. I’ve been locked out.’
‘Unh. What?’
‘I’ve been locked out.’
A befuddled pause, then: ‘Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do about it? Go sleep on a park bench. Jesus, what the hell—’
‘Locked out of the system,’ said Dewey, cutting him off. ‘I’m in the office and I’ve been locked out of the system. So has Speznik. And so have the administrators in our other offices. Normal accounts seem to be OK. It’s just those with admin rights.’
There was a silence, then a sound of sheets rustling as if someone was getting out of bed. When Springer spoke again he sounded much more awake.
‘Diagnostic.’
His boss was always using dickhead words like that. He’d been watching too much Star Trek .
‘Diagnostic,’ said Springer, louder. And then, before Dewey could answer: ‘We’re being hacked.’
‘Certainly looks like it.’
‘Oh fuck.’
After that everything started moving fast. Very fast. Springer was in the office within twenty minutes – his pyjama bottoms sticking out from beneath his jeans – followed by a steady stream of management, including Alan Cummins, Deepwell’s CEO. Dewey had been with the company eight years and had never got within a room’s length of Cummins. Now, suddenly, he was leaning right over his shoulder.
‘Get them out,’ he snarled. ‘Get them out now.’
‘It’s not as easy as that, sir,’ said Springer. ‘They seem to have got sole administration rights to the domain controller.’
‘What the fuck does that mean?’
‘Basically, they’re God,’ said Dewey, who was feeling amazingly clear-headed given how hammered he’d been less than an hour previously. ‘They control the whole system. They can do what they want, go where they want, look at whatever they want.’
‘Accounts? E-mails?’
‘Everything.’
‘ My e-mails?’
Dewey nodded.
‘Christ fucking Jesus!’
‘They must have got hold of someone’s login and used that to access the SAM file,’ said Springer,
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