The Blacklist--The Beekeeper No. 159

by Steven Piziks

  The boy nodded, then flinched. What had the Beekeeper done to deserve such fear and such loyalty all at once? Reddington half despised, half admired it.

  “All I want is information,” Reddington said reasonably. “I’m not going to get angry at you. I’m not Dr. Griffin.”

  “He’s the Beekeeper,” said the boy. “He keeps us.”

  “Keeps you.”

  “Keeps us safe. Keeps us happy. Keeps us us.”

  “Be that as it may,” Reddington said, “I want to know how us hides from outsiders so well. The park is big, but no one can hide an operation that size for years, or even months, without outside help. You have to get food and supplies in there, not to mention equipment, machinery, and weapons, and it’s simply not possible without attracting attention.”

  The boy hesitated again, and again Mr. Brimley raised the coffee cup.

  “We have a bunch of… advanced members,” he said. “They make the supreme sacrifice.”

  “Sacrifice.”

  “They leave the Hive and work elsewhere,” the boy clarified. “They only come back to visit sometimes. And taste the honey.”

  “The park rangers,” Reddington said. “They’re Hive.”

  “Not all of them. But a lot of them. And we have people in town, too.”

  “This honey,” Reddington said. “What’s in it?”

  “I don’t know,” the boy said, and Mr. Brimley tapped the coffee mug. “No! I really don’t know. Only the Beekeeper knows.”

  “Laces it with a touch of his own potion,” said Reddington, “to ensure loyalty and keep you coming back. I’ve seen the method used before. It takes a careful hand.”

  “Amateur,” scoffed Mr. Brimley. “I’ve never had to use drugs in my work.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Brimley. We’re all proud.” Reddington took from his jacket pocket the much-abused map of the park and pointed at a spot on it. “This is where we are now. Tell me, and quickly please, where the closest outpost of Hive park rangers might be.”

  * * *

  “The Hive will have noticed by now that one of their own is missing,” Dembe said. “It is dangerous for us to be out and about. You have the satellite phone from the house, you know.”

  “Actually, I don’t.” Reddington consulted the map again. His navy training allowed him to read it more easily than most people, but said training had been… a few years ago and he was decidedly rusty. He had changed into khakis and an absolutely dreadful green golf shirt he had found in one of the bedroom dressers—fortunately he and his Russian friend were of a size, though he had been forced to wear his own shoes. Luck of the textiles apparently only took one so far. Reddington had also scrounged up a straw bowler to protect his head. It wasn’t Savile Row or even Fifth Avenue, but it would have to do. He did have to admit that the golf shirt was more practical out here than his suit. Descriptions of sun-dappled glades, shady glens, and majestic mountains always left out the heavy heat, oppressive humidity, and omnipresent insects.

  “The satellite phone connects to a single Russian satellite and only operates when that happy example of Soviet technology is above the horizon,” Reddington continued, “which it is only between the hours of three and five-fifteen A.M. Sufficient for getting Mr. Brimley here, but not for what we need next.”

  Dembe knew better than to ask what next was, which was one of the many reasons Reddington liked having him around. They ghosted through the woods—or rather, Dembe ghosted and Reddington followed as best he could. Twice Dembe gestured Reddington to the ground, and Reddington dropped like an anvil. Both times, heavily armed drones jogged past them, the plastic eye shield on their masks glinting in the patches of sunlight that found their way through the heavy forest canopy.

  “They are on alert,” Dembe said softly when the second group went by. “They are looking for the missing boy.”

  “They won’t find him,” Reddington said. “Mr. Brimley is an experienced jailor.”

  “We need to ensure they don’t find us,” Dembe said. “Come.”

  They followed the contours of the map until they emerged from the woods onto a paved road. About a hundred yards ahead of them was a log cabin made of that fake dark-brown wood so often found in state and federal parks. A sign on the road pointed up and proclaimed PARK RANGER. Reddington appreciated the delightful irony of putting park rangers in patently fake log cabins. When tourists arrived in their air-conditioned cars towing air-conditioned camper trailers that would allow them to experience a real wilderness, they found fake outdoorsmen in fake cabins. How splendid! Reddington, at least, admitted that he had no intention of experiencing the wilderness if he could possibly avoid it. There was no control in the forest, nature was unpredictable. People were another matter entirely. People he could handle.

  “I don’t like this idea,” Dembe said, shifting the jacket he had swiped from a closet back at the house. He was sweating in the heat.

  “I have every faith in you, my friend,” Reddington said. “Shall we?”

  They ambled toward the cabin. Reddington held the map up, obscuring most of his and Dembe’s faces, and they argued loudly as they approached. The cabin seemed to stare at them through blank glass windows, and shadows moved inside. Reddington could almost feel the target sketched on his chest, but he ignored it and continued walking. Dembe gesticulated, but was careful to keep his face down. Reddington pointed at the cabin, and the two of them stormed up to a side door, which had an OPEN sign on it. Reddington pushed inside, the map still in front of his face.

  Cool air wafted over him. Of course. The interior was darker than outside, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. A counter split the large room in half, much like a police station. The obligatory display of pamphlets took up one wall, and a large map of the park took up another. Behind the counter were three male park rangers, all dressed in brown. Each had a desk, and Reddington’s quick eye picked out a satellite phone in its charger on one of them.

  “I’m telling you it’s farther north,” Reddington said. “We’re completely off the route.”

  “No,” Dembe said. “It’s here.” He stabbed a finger at a random place on the innocent map in Reddington’s hands. “And we are here.”

  “Do you need help?” said one of the rangers pleasantly, and Reddington saw the head of a honeybee tattoo peeking out from the cuff of his left hand. The holstered semi-automatic at his belt also caught his eye, and how many park rangers went armed this way? None.

  “Can you believe? We seem to be lost,” Reddington chuckled.

  “We are not,” Dembe said, edging closer.

  “Where are you trying to go?” asked the ranger. The two remaining rangers, one of whom had a bee tattoo on his neck, exchanged looks. One of them slid open a drawer.

  Reddington kept the map up with one hand and slipped his hand into his pocket with the other.

  “My friend here hasn’t read a map in twenty years, but on our first hike, he insists on taking charge. Maybe this will set us on our way.”

  Dembe whipped the young drone’s pistol from under his jacket. Reddington flipped a small object over the counter and dropped straight down. Dembe fired two bullets into the first ranger even as the other two snatched weapons of their own from the desks. Dembe flung himself flat. The stun grenade Reddington had taken from the captive drone exploded in a blinding flash and an ear-splitting bang that blew the papers off desks and tossed telephones from their cradles. The two remaining rangers both wrapped their arms around their heads, blinded and deafened. Dembe, who had been protected by the counter, popped up and fired shots into the Hive rangers. They went down in a cloud of cordite smoke.

  Reddington came up from behind the counter. “Well done.”

  “It took too long to bring down the other two,” Dembe said.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, my friend.” Reddington patted his shoulder. “A basic cleanup should do for now. I saw a wheelbarrow out back.”

  Dembe nodded and the two of them
set to work. Reddington stripped the rangers of their weapons and Dembe used the wheelbarrow to cart the bodies outside. Reddington didn’t spare another thought for the dead drones. They—or their compatriots—had killed a dozen FBI agents, and weren’t worth considering further. Instead, he tidied up the mussed papers and righted the phones. Through the window, he saw Dembe pushing the wheelbarrow with a lumpy bundle covered in a tarp into the woods. He would find a good spot to stash the bodies, cover them with logs and deadfalls, and return. It wasn’t worth the time it would take to bury them—it didn’t matter much if anyone, including the Hive, found out they had been killed, at least not for a few days, and Reddington suspected it would indeed be a few days before anyone thought to check this outpost. Reddington stepped outside, changed the OPEN sign to CLOSED, and went back in.

  Reddington checked the desk’s landline telephones. They worked, but they were restricted to dialing within the park only. The satellite phone, the object of their current quest, came to life with satisfying ease. While Dembe continued to haul bodies, he made a call.

  “Good afternoon, Gareth,” he said into the phone. “It’s me. I’m fantastic. How are those beagle puppies? Wonderful! You know, when they’re old enough, I know a prince in Dubai who will pay top dollar for two of them. I’ll be happy to pass your name along if—of course! Listen, I’m calling because I have to move forward on that delivery soon, and I need the materials by tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow.” He paused. “Then you’ll just have to rearrange your schedule. I’m sure King Busari will understand, especially since he’s still in arrears with you. That’s wonderful to hear! Looking forward to it, Gareth.”

  He made two more calls while Dembe found a mop and a utility sink and got to work on the blood spills. The job wouldn’t fool a competent police investigation—for that, Reddington would need Mrs. Kaplan and her strict standards—but it would do for now. Reddington made one more call.

  * * *

  Aram Mojtabai jumped when his phone rang. He always jumped when his phone rang. His phone only rang when someone from the Post Office was in trouble—they needed a database hack right now, or a face recognition on a blurry photo immediately, or a way to stop a computer virus before it accidentally launched a nuclear weapon. It would be nice to get a problem he could take his time with, and maybe even fail to solve, without worrying the world would end.

  More than once he had considered leaving the Post Office, getting his clearance revoked, and working IT for a nice, dull corporation. Or maybe even opening his own computer shop, where he could fix laptops for middle-schoolers who downloaded viruses with their video games and rescue grandmothers who forgot their passwords on Facebook.

  On the other hand, if his day were filled with those kinds of problems, he would probably go quietly insane. He worked sixteen-hour days at the Post Office mostly because he had literally nothing to do at home except get on his own computer, which was too much like work anyway. He had no challenges at home. If he also had none at work, what would he be?

  Aram knew the answer to that. He’d be yet another Arab-American bachelor with a mother who begged him to find a nice wife and get on with those grandchildren, and a father who took him aside at least once a year to seriously ask if living in Washington had turned him gay. No, thank you. At the Post Office, Aram was still an Arab-American whose mother wanted grandchildren and a father who worried his son might be gay, but he was also a secret agent, and that, at least, made him different and interesting, even if he was the only one who knew it.

  So Aram slapped the button that activated his earpiece and braced himself for another world-shaking problem. “Agent Mojtabai.”

  “Good day, Aram.”

  The familiar baritone on the other end sent ice down Aram’s back. He put a hand to his ear. “Mr. Reddington? You’re alive! Let me call Mr. Cooper. We’ve been so—”

  “No, no,” Reddington interrupted. “I want this between you and me, Aram. Are you alone?”

  Aram automatically glanced around. The bullpen was never completely empty, but no one was close to him, and he always talked through his earpiece, so it was unlikely anyone would overhear.

  “I… mostly.”

  “Perfect. Listen carefully to me, Aram. Lizzie and Donald are in the hands of the Beekeeper and his Hive. I believe them to be uncomfortable in the short term and in danger in the long term.”

  “Where are you?” Aram said nervously. His palms were already sweating and he felt a trickle drip down his back. He hated that. Ressler could talk face-to-face with Reddington and not turn a hair, but something in the man’s eyes chilled Aram’s blood and made him think of cement boots and corpses wrapped in chicken wire. “We lost your GPS days ago. We have agents scouring the area, but so far, nothing.”

  “What about local and state police?” Reddington asked.

  “We can’t get them involved without telling them about the Post Office and the task force. Classified information takes precedence even over an agent’s, or even several agents’, lives.”

  “Good,” Reddington said, to Aram’s surprise. “Let’s keep it that way.”

  “I don’t understand.” Aram glanced around again. “Look, we can have agents there in a couple hours. What are—”

  “The Beekeeper is heavily armed,” Reddington interrupted. “And by heavily, I mean, machine guns and grenade launchers. If you bring the FBI in here, it’ll create an abattoir. I will not put Elizabeth in further danger or allow anyone else to do so. Do I make myself clear, Agent Mojtabai?”

  More sweat popped out on Aram’s forehead and he swallowed hard. “I understand. Look, I want her back, too. And Ressler.”

  “Wonderful. What I need from you is a key.”

  “A key?” Aram continued to click over his boards, but he was coming up empty. Someone or something was stopping a trace, and Aram was good at tracing. He could tell right off that the signal was a satellite, and there were only so many satellites above the horizon at a given moment. On a second screen he called up the list and orbit patterns. Two hundred and sixteen candidates. Okay, eighty-three of them were military, and forty-seven were television. These sixty-four were GPS—he highlighted those to explore later, in case they turned out to have useful tracking information anyway—which left twenty-two that could carry a satellite phone signal. Eight of them were Chinese. Unlikely. That left fourteen for Reddington.

  “A computer key that will intercept and override a series of class four military helicopter drones,” Reddington clarified. “I need it delivered to the eastern entrance of the Sumter National Forest within twenty-four hours.”

  This got Aram’s full attention. “Wait—an override key for helicopter drones? What for?”

  “That’s unimportant. I don’t care if you buy it, build it, or steal it, but you will bring it to the east entrance of the park exactly twenty-four hours from now.”

  “I will?” Aram squeaked.

  “How else will you get it to me without telling anyone else of its existence?” Reddington said reasonably.

  The entire world tilted sideways, draining away Aram’s self-satisfaction like the last drop of tea from a cup. He said, “Right.”

  “And you won’t finish that trace on this call,” Reddington continued. “I doubt it would work anyway.”

  He clicked off, leaving Aram staring at his blinking screens. Then he slowly shut down the tracing program and began a software search:

  helicopter drone override key

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Footsteps sounded, bringing Keen instantly awake. The guard drones approached the cages. Keen blew out a breath. Her skin itched all over, and she could feel the dirt on her face and arms. She had lost all sense of time. “Morning” was now defined as “when the sleep cycle ends.” Meals were so irregular, she had stopped calling them anything like “lunch” or “supper.” They were just meals. She had endured two more sessions in the Beekeeper’s circle, one with drugs and one without. The Beekeeper himself continued to ke
ep his distance from Keen, despite her machinations. She even imitated Stuart’s behavior to the best of her ability, but something seemed to tell him she wasn’t entirely “ready” for the Hive.

  Twice, however, she had managed to catch Mala alone, and both times Mala had talked about Iris.

  “The Bodysnatcher killed Iris,” she said once. “And he’s in that cage right next to you. I can’t… I don’t know what to think of that.”

  “You don’t have to think anything,” Keen said, playing the therapist. “How does it make you feel, though?”

  “I’m… angry,” Mala said. “The Beekeeper is supposed to protect us. The Hive is supposed to protect us. But he brought a killer to us.”

  “Doesn’t the Hive kill?” Keen countered. “I’ve watched them do it. They killed my friends.”

  “That’s… different,” Mala said, but she didn’t sound convinced.

  “Have you ever killed anyone, Mala?” Keen said.

  Mala hesitated. “Yes. The Beekeeper wanted me to. He told me it would be all right. But I didn’t do it. I… missed. With the pistol. I failed him. But then he grabbed my hand and made me shoot again. That time it… I killed him.”

  “Sounds to me like the Beekeeper did it and blamed you,” Keen said.

  “I’ll have to kill for us eventually. Outsiders are coming for us. They are.”

  “Of course they are.” Keen nodded. “That’s why we’re here, where it’s safe. Is that why you joined the Hive, Mala? Because it’s safe?”

  “My father,” she said. “He’s… not a good man. My whole life, he wasn’t. After my mom died, he spiraled down to even darker places, and he dragged me with him. I got away, but he kept following me. He gave me money, he tried to trick me. He made that stupid Stingster app to shame me. I thought about going back, but Iris stopped me. Then I heard about the Hive, and how they always keep their people safe. They don’t move you from school to school, and they don’t use their connections to shut off your electricity, and they don’t hound you on the Internet. They keep you safe, and they don’t change. They keep you safe from them.”