The Blacklist--The Beekeeper No. 159

by Steven Piziks

  Keen crawled deeper into the brush, then cautiously raised herself up a little higher so she could run in a crouch. She took a moment to fumble for her cell phone, but it had no signal. Of course.

  The shooting stopped. Keen halted, confused. Where was she? Greenery surrounded her on all sides, and the escape had disoriented her. The canopy obscured the sun, so she couldn’t even use that as a reference point. Mouth dry, she circled around to her left a little, hoping to flank the group at the road, but she didn’t dare move faster for fear of drawing attention to her presence.

  “Elizabeth!”

  The harsh whisper snapped her head around. Dembe was peering around a large tree and gesturing at her. She duck-walked over to him, adrenaline touching every vein and muscle. Behind the tree was Reddington, looking as angry as she ever saw him.

  “Are you all right, Lizzie?” he asked, calling her by the nickname she allowed no one but Reddington to use.

  “I’m not hurt,” she said.

  “What’s this, then?” He put out a finger and didn’t quite touch her cheek. She had forgotten about the cut, but now that he had brought it to her attention, she felt the sting.

  “It’s nothing,” she said. “Where’s Stuart?”

  “I have no idea,” Reddington said. “I was hoping he was with you. Have you seen Donald?”

  She tightened her jaw again. Ressler had covered her and Stuart while they ran for the trees. She had left him behind. It had been the right thing to do, absolutely by the FBI’s extensive book, but that didn’t stop the sharp pang of guilt and wave of worry. She thought of him sprawled on the ground beside Gillford, his sightless blue eyes staring up at the equally blue sky, scarlet blood pouring out of his chest. No. He wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be dead.

  “I don’t know what happened to him,” she admitted.

  “And the Bodysnatcher?” Dembe said.

  “I didn’t even see him,” Keen replied, peering around the tree. “Are we worried about him?”

  “Not overly,” Reddington said. “Neither of us can get a cell phone signal out here. I don’t suppose…?”

  “No,” Keen said.

  “It’s either the mountains or the Beekeeper, or both,” Reddington said.

  “Take this.” Dembe handed Keen a pistol. “It’s my extra.”

  A motor coughed to life in the distance, followed by a second. Voices shouted, doors slammed. The motors faded away. Reddington and Dembe exchanged looks.

  “I will go see,” Dembe said.

  “I’ll come with you,” Keen said, but was halted by Reddington’s firm grip on her elbow.

  “You need to stay here with me, Lizzie.” His voice was calm but firm, a father speaking to a daughter.

  “It’s my job, Reddington,” she said, torn between exasperation at him and worry for Ressler. Hell, she was even a little worried about Stuart Ivy, and she had only just met him.

  “And my job is to keep you safe,” Reddington countered. “There’s nothing you can add to Dembe’s woodcraft anyway. See? He’s already gone and you won’t catch up with him.”

  He was, too. Keen sighed heavily and bit back a sharp retort. Instead, she said, “You know I work with the FBI, and danger is part of the career description. When you try to shield me, it looks like I can’t do my job.”

  Reddington looked truly surprised. “When have I ever been concerned with what anything looks like?”

  “An interesting question from someone who makes a living deceiving other people,” Keen couldn’t help saying.

  Reddington turned his hat in his hand. Jesus, he still had his hat.

  “Lizzie, you’ve examined human psychology carefully, and I’m in genuine awe of your skill. I’m sure that all your training and instincts tell you that human beings are never completely consistent. No matter how many claims they make to the contrary, inconsistencies eventually show themselves. The politician who defends family values visits prostitutes. The man who keeps a spotless home drives a car filled with trash. The police officer who tickets others breaks the speed limit on his way home from work.”

  “Are we really having this conversation right after a gun fight?” Keen asked.

  Reddington ignored her. “But I’ll tell you that human beings are marvelously consistent. Underneath, at the base, they always—always—act the same. Their surface behaviors may change, but underneath, we all stay the same. Even I. When I look at you, I can’t see the FBI. I see the daughter of my best friend in her Hello, Kitty pajamas and I see a promise I made. So I do what I need to keep you safe. I’m perfectly consistent that way.”

  Keen shook her head. He made sense, sure, but…

  “You’re also stalling me so I won’t go after Dembe.”

  “See? Consistent,” he said, shaking a finger. “And here’s Dembe back again.”

  Dembe emerged from the bushes, not bothering to hide his movements, which told Keen a great deal all by itself.

  “Is he dead?” she blurted. “Ressler?”

  Dembe spread his hands.

  “I do not believe so. All the cars are gone. So are the bodies. I had a look at the tracks, and I saw no blood near the place where Mr. Ressler was standing. If he was shot, he shed no blood.”

  Keen’s knees weakened a little, and she let herself lean against the tree.

  “What else?”

  “I did not find Mr. Ivy anywhere. I believe he was captured. The other agents were killed and their bodies dragged into the van.”

  A heavy wave of grief came over Keen, and she closed her eyes beneath it. She hadn’t known Gillford long, but it had been long enough. Now she wished she had paid more attention during their conversation.

  “I’m sorry, Bethany,” she whispered, and she wasn’t sure whether she was talking to Gillford’s daughter or to her own memories of loss.

  “We need to keep moving,” Reddington said. “The Beekeeper will be looking for us.” He reached into his jacket pocket. “He and his people will be watching us, probably expecting us to follow the road and try to locate a cell signal, and they know this area.”

  “We can’t leave Ressler and Stuart Ivy with the Beekeeper,” Keen said.

  “Hold on,” Reddington said and he produced from his pocket a folded piece of paper the size of a mailing envelope. It took Keen a moment to understand what it was. As if they were in a French café instead of a forest surrounded by an army of armed madmen, Reddington unfolded the paper to the size of a poster, studied it, and turned to check his orientation against the road far behind them.

  “A map?” Keen peered over his shoulder.

  “The current generation is too dependent on technology, Lizzie.” He looked at the map again, then uphill at the low mountain ahead of them. “This way.”

  He strode off into the woods.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “The Hive guys went that way,” Keen protested, following Reddington. He made for a strange figure, tromping through the woods in his still-impeccable suit and alligator shoes.

  “That’s why we’re going this way,” Reddington said. “Would you say this is north?”

  “A little more to the left,” Dembe replied. He plucked the map from Reddington’s hands. “Allow me, my friend.”

  “Thank you, Dembe. Must we climb?”

  “A little.” Dembe traced a route with a finger. “But not as much as you might think.”

  “Where are we going?” Keen demanded.

  “Somewhere safe so we can work out the next step,” Reddington said. “Coming, Lizzie?”

  Keen checked her phone again. No signal. Of course. All her instincts screamed at her to run back, to go after Stuart Ivy and Ressler, but she was outnumbered and outgunned. Reddington was right. Besides, if they reached higher ground, they might eventually get a signal and be able to call Cooper. He would be worried by now anyway—he hadn’t gotten an update in over an hour.

  The trio tramped through the hills and woods. Undergrowth scratched and tore at Keen’s skin and
clothes. It came to her that Dembe was following a faint trail, probably one created by animals. That was smart of him—on a trail there would be fewer traces if someone from the Hive decided to track them. She tried to avoid snagging her clothes on bushes. The close, humid air prickled around her neck and scalp, and she was sweating heavily.

  “There.” Dembe pointed. Halfway up the slope perhaps forty yards ahead of them was a large, tumbledown wood cabin with an old-fashioned stone foundation that said Civil War era to Keen. It was partly built into the side of the hill and half hidden by trees and undergrowth. Vines crawled across the walls and what remained of the roof. Keen doubted she would have noticed it if not for Dembe’s pointing finger.

  “There what?” Keen said.

  “We can regroup,” Reddington said. “Come along.”

  Dembe led them around one side of the cabin to a rickety-looking door. The place smelled of moss and old leaves, and the trees leaned in protectively. A surreal feeling stole over Keen, as if she were in a fairy tale. It wouldn’t have been out of place for an old woman in a long black dress to cackle at them from one of the second-story windows. Keen shuddered despite herself. Dembe pushed the door open to reveal a small entry area, reached around inside the jamb, and touched something. There was a harsh screech and a shuttered metal door rushed upward. Keen jumped. The shutter door had been painted to blend in with the back wall of the entrance.

  Reddington gestured. “After you, Lizzie.”

  Keen cautiously crossed the threshold. The interior was bright and airy, though stuffy and warm. Rustic wood paneling, exposed beams, high ceilings, comfortable raw-wood furniture, stone fireplace, marble kitchen, shiny steel refrigerator.

  “What—?” Keen sputtered. “Where—? How—?”

  Reddington tossed his fedora on the long dining room table.

  “I’m appalled at your low opinion of me, Lizzie. When have I ever entered a place where I had no safe house?”

  “In a federal park?” she squawked.

  “The house actually belongs to a dear friend in the Russian mafia,” Reddington said. “He comes to the country only infrequently, but when he does, he likes to keep a low profile.”

  “Does the Beekeeper know about this place?” Keen demanded.

  “We wouldn’t be having this conversation if he did. What are you looking for?” he asked.

  Keen was searching the cupboards and tabletops. She opened doors and checked under the end tables. “The phone,” she said. “I need to call Cooper. Now.”

  “A landline in this day and age?” Reddington dropped onto a couch.

  She made a face at him. “Fine. We have no cell phones and no landlines. Logic says we should start walking until we get a signal, call the Post Office, and get a task force in here right away. God only knows what the Beekeeper is doing to Ressler and your friend.”

  “No.” Reddington shook his head. “The Beekeeper and his Hive will be watching the roads and the trails out of here for us, and they know the area. They will find us, and quickly, if we try to leave.”

  “What about the park rangers?”

  “A number of them are working for the Beekeeper.”

  “Which,” Keen said slowly, “is how the Hive knew we were coming. The one who checked your card at the gate recognized you.”

  “Indeed.”

  Keen checked her phone again, hoping against hope. No signal. “I don’t understand why I’m not getting a thing. Don’t the parks have cell towers?”

  “The Beekeeper at work,” Reddington said. “I believe he and his Hive have gained control of a large portion of this park. It is likely they have a signal disruptor that interferes with cell phones and GPS.”

  “GPS?” Keen repeated. “So Aram doesn’t know where we are?”

  “I doubt it very much,” Reddington said. He seemed perfectly calm, as if they weren’t trapped in the middle of a trackless wilderness. “Aram and Director Cooper have no doubt decided we are somewhere in this park, but as Stuart pointed out, the place is a third the size of Connecticut, with fewer street signs, and very difficult to search. The Beekeeper chose his hiding place well. Dembe, would you be so kind as to check the solar generator? We’ll need baths tonight, I’m sure. And turn on the air conditioning.”

  Dembe nodded and left.

  Keen perched on the edge of an armchair. “What’s your connection to the Beekeeper, Reddington?”

  “My connection?”

  “It’s clear you don’t care one way or the other about the Bodysnatcher. You want the FBI to take out the Beekeeper.” Keen warmed to her subject. “The Bodysnatcher was nothing but a starting point, just like you said. You arranged for Stuart Ivy to find the Bodysnatcher and confirm that he was taking people to the Beekeeper. Once you knew that for certain, you had us switch targets. Why? What’s the Beekeeper to you? And what’s Stuart’s role in this?”

  “Stuart’s role?”

  “He’s more than just a contact. You’ve known him for a long time. There’s something about his wife that you two won’t talk about. I need to know, Reddington. Our lives might depend on it.”

  Reddington cocked his head. “The Beekeeper has used the Bodysnatcher for years to bring people into his Hive. He’s holding dozens, perhaps hundreds, of people prisoner. He brainwashes them into obedience and raises them like children. His army is growing bigger and bigger, and he’s become a threat. Isn’t this something the FBI wants to stop?”

  “You always have an angle, Reddington,” Keen countered. “Some personal reason to go after a Blacklister. You treat the FBI like your personal set of attack dogs, and believe me, it gets tiring.”

  “I don’t think we’re in much of a position to argue about it, Lizzie. It’s unlikely the Beekeeper will find us here, but we can’t stay holed up forever.”

  Keen changed tactics. “What’s the deal with Stuart Ivy?”

  “The deal?”

  “The two of you have a long-time connection, that much is clear. When did you meet him?”

  Reddington paused for a long moment. There was a whoosh, and cool air drifted through the room. Dembe had found the air conditioning.

  “Stuart is a dear friend,” Reddington said at last. “I honestly don’t remember what year we met, but it hardly matters. I was green around the edges, and Stuart was… well, he was Stuart. A gentleman. Genteel. Gentle. And his wife Vivian was the sweetest lady who ever packed a .32. But then Vivian died, and it all fell apart. Stuart fell apart.”

  “How did she die?” Keen asked.

  Reddington rose and headed for the gleaming bar.

  “You know, I believe my Russian friend always keeps his liquor cabinet stocked with the ingredients for the best Black Russians in the world. You can take the man out of Moscow…” He clinked around behind the bar and came up with coffee liqueur and vodka. “Here we are! Care for one? Best fermented potatoes and coffee beans money can steal.”

  “None for me.” Keen sighed. “We need to figure out what to do next. We can’t run, and we can’t hide here forever, and we can’t leave Ressler and Stuart in the Beekeeper’s hands, either. He might be torturing or killing them right now.”

  “Doubtful.” Reddington dropped ice into a shaker with a set of silver tongs. Clearly whatever generator Dembe was checking on worked a treat, even with no one around. “The Beekeeper is a master at psychological conditioning, Lizzie. His preference is not to kill, but to assimilate.”

  “Assimilate,” Keen echoed.

  “Of course.” Reddington poured dark liqueur into the shaker, and Keen caught the rich coffee smell. “He only killed the agents because he assumed they had come to kill his own people. Once that threat ended, he took prisoners. After a few weeks of his treatments, they’ll beg to do whatever he wants.”

  “Ressler’s a strong guy, and not stupid,” Keen objected.

  Reddington unscrewed a bottle of top shelf vodka.

  “Donald has a sharp mind and he’s a fine agent. But the boy takes to rules
like a baby to his bottle. Starve him, drug him, hypnotize him, give him a new set of rules, and he’ll turn his considerable brain power to any cause you like. He won’t be able to help himself. And Stuart—”

  “What about Stuart?”

  “Stuart is looking for something, I fear.” Reddington poured in a measure of vodka, thought a moment, and poured in a drop more. “He’s alone in the world. He doesn’t have anyone to hold onto. Prime material for the Hive, even if he is of the older generation.”

  “Then we need to act,” Keen said.

  Reddington shook the shaker amid a rattle of ice as Dembe re-entered the room.

  “The generator is working fine,” Dembe said. “We have enough power and hot water for quite some time.”

  “Thank you, Dembe.” Reddington poured the drink and ice into a glass. “What about ammunition and weapons? We can—”

  “I know what to do,” Keen interrupted.

  Both men turned to look at her.

  “You do?” Reddington said.

  “I’m a profiler,” Keen said. “I’ve studied Dr. Griffin and people like him, and I know how they work. I know their methods and their tricks. I can be a double agent within the Hive.”

  “No,” Reddington said flatly.

  “My training and experience put me on equal footing with the Beekeeper,” Keen continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Now that I know what’s going on, I’m in the perfect position to let myself get captured, find Ressler and Stuart, and take down the Hive from within.”

  “No,” Reddington repeated.

  “They won’t be able to hurt me. I know what they’re doing and how to prevent them from harming me. Even better, I know how to fool them into thinking I’m the perfect little bee.”

  “No.”

  “The clock is ticking, Reddington,” Keen said. “You’ll have to do better than no.”

  “I won’t send you into danger like that,” Reddington said.

  “This is my job, Reddington,” Keen snapped. “These people are in danger, and I can save them. That’s what I do. It gets dangerous sometimes. You need to live with that.”