sounding nerdishly impressed. ‘Then all they’ve got to do is copy it, run a password recovery program . . .’
Alan Cummins had started breathing very hard.
‘A dictionary attack, a Rainbow Table algorithm—’
Cummins slammed his fist down on the table, narrowly missing Dewey’s keyboard.
‘Shut up! Just shut up and get them out.’
‘We can’t get them out, sir,’ said Dewey, who was rather enjoying himself, like he was in a sci-fi movie or something. Playing the hero. Bruce Willis. Or, better, Steven Seagal. ‘They control the system. All we can do is shut the whole thing down.’
‘Then do it!’ yelled Cummins. ‘If the environment brigade gets hold of a fraction of the—’ He broke off, clenching and unclenching his fist.
‘Sir, to shut the system down every single employee in every single office in every single city has to logout,’ said Springer. ‘Basically the company has to stop operating.’
Cummins pulled at his hair. ‘We’ll lose millions,’ he groaned. ‘Millions.’
There were a lot of people in the office now, all of them crowded around Dewey’s desk, including the spicy security guard, who had stuck around for no obvious reason and was now standing just behind Cummins, his hand on his sidearm like some sort of half-arsed gunslinger. Everyone was silent.
‘Sir?’ asked Dewey.
Cummins was still tugging at his hair.
‘Sir?’
A few more seconds passed, then the CEO of Deepwell Gas and Petroleum let out a pained sigh and dropped his hands.
‘Do it,’ he said. ‘Close it down. All of it.’
Dewey reached for his phone. As he did so, the screen in front of him suddenly morphed from pale blue to brilliant red. There was a pause, then a flurry of white letters appeared, whirling around like leaves in a breeze before resolving themselves into five words that filled the entire screen: WELCOME TO THE NEMESIS AGENDA.
Despite himself, Dewey McCabe smiled. Whatever was going on here, it sure as hell beat laying a crap on Denise Sanders’ mouse mat.
J ERUSALEM
The Kishle detectives worked out of a dingy suite of ground-floor rooms on the opposite side of the station to Leah Shalev’s office. They used to be up on the first floor, but a couple of years back the station had been reorganized and they’d been dumped down here, much to their collective annoyance.
The section was accessed by a low door at the back of the building, and Ben-Roi paused here to give Sarah another call. This time he got through. She was still pissed off with him for ducking out of the scan, although less so than she had been earlier and they were able to conduct a reasonably civil conversation, which made a change. The upshot was that all was well with the baby – ‘Bubu’, as they had nicknamed him or her – and another antenatal appointment had been scheduled in six weeks. He didn’t bother writing down the date and time – Sarah would remind him of them at least once a week until the appointment came round.
‘And please don’t forget about tomorrow,’ she said.
Tomorrow was Saturday, his day off, and he had promised to go over to her flat in Rehavia – what had used to be their flat – to decorate the baby’s room.
‘Of course I won’t forget,’ he said.
‘Somehow your “of courses” don’t fill me with confidence.’
Ben-Roi grunted, acknowledging that he was indeed an un reliable fuck-up. There was a silence, then Sarah spoke again, her voice softer suddenly, more intimate.
‘There’s lots of movement today. It feels like Bubu’s turning cartwheels.’
Ben-Roi smiled, leaning back against one of the air-conditioning units bolted to the wall beside the detective-section door.
‘The features were so clear on the scan,’ she said. ‘The nose, the eyes. I think he’s going to be very handsome. Or she’s going to be very beautiful.’
‘Takes after their mother, thank God.’
There was an amused grunt at the other end of the line. For a moment he thought she was
Alan Cummins had started breathing very hard.
‘A dictionary attack, a Rainbow Table algorithm—’
Cummins slammed his fist down on the table, narrowly missing Dewey’s keyboard.
‘Shut up! Just shut up and get them out.’
‘We can’t get them out, sir,’ said Dewey, who was rather enjoying himself, like he was in a sci-fi movie or something. Playing the hero. Bruce Willis. Or, better, Steven Seagal. ‘They control the system. All we can do is shut the whole thing down.’
‘Then do it!’ yelled Cummins. ‘If the environment brigade gets hold of a fraction of the—’ He broke off, clenching and unclenching his fist.
‘Sir, to shut the system down every single employee in every single office in every single city has to logout,’ said Springer. ‘Basically the company has to stop operating.’
Cummins pulled at his hair. ‘We’ll lose millions,’ he groaned. ‘Millions.’
There were a lot of people in the office now, all of them crowded around Dewey’s desk, including the spicy security guard, who had stuck around for no obvious reason and was now standing just behind Cummins, his hand on his sidearm like some sort of half-arsed gunslinger. Everyone was silent.
‘Sir?’ asked Dewey.
Cummins was still tugging at his hair.
‘Sir?’
A few more seconds passed, then the CEO of Deepwell Gas and Petroleum let out a pained sigh and dropped his hands.
‘Do it,’ he said. ‘Close it down. All of it.’
Dewey reached for his phone. As he did so, the screen in front of him suddenly morphed from pale blue to brilliant red. There was a pause, then a flurry of white letters appeared, whirling around like leaves in a breeze before resolving themselves into five words that filled the entire screen: WELCOME TO THE NEMESIS AGENDA.
Despite himself, Dewey McCabe smiled. Whatever was going on here, it sure as hell beat laying a crap on Denise Sanders’ mouse mat.
J ERUSALEM
The Kishle detectives worked out of a dingy suite of ground-floor rooms on the opposite side of the station to Leah Shalev’s office. They used to be up on the first floor, but a couple of years back the station had been reorganized and they’d been dumped down here, much to their collective annoyance.
The section was accessed by a low door at the back of the building, and Ben-Roi paused here to give Sarah another call. This time he got through. She was still pissed off with him for ducking out of the scan, although less so than she had been earlier and they were able to conduct a reasonably civil conversation, which made a change. The upshot was that all was well with the baby – ‘Bubu’, as they had nicknamed him or her – and another antenatal appointment had been scheduled in six weeks. He didn’t bother writing down the date and time – Sarah would remind him of them at least once a week until the appointment came round.
‘And please don’t forget about tomorrow,’ she said.
Tomorrow was Saturday, his day off, and he had promised to go over to her flat in Rehavia – what had used to be their flat – to decorate the baby’s room.
‘Of course I won’t forget,’ he said.
‘Somehow your “of courses” don’t fill me with confidence.’
Ben-Roi grunted, acknowledging that he was indeed an un reliable fuck-up. There was a silence, then Sarah spoke again, her voice softer suddenly, more intimate.
‘There’s lots of movement today. It feels like Bubu’s turning cartwheels.’
Ben-Roi smiled, leaning back against one of the air-conditioning units bolted to the wall beside the detective-section door.
‘The features were so clear on the scan,’ she said. ‘The nose, the eyes. I think he’s going to be very handsome. Or she’s going to be very beautiful.’
‘Takes after their mother, thank God.’
There was an amused grunt at the other end of the line. For a moment he thought she was
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