* * *
“The Bodysnatcher makes people disappear for money,” Keen said, tapping at a computer. “Lots of people. Lots of money.”
The computer was in the center of the Post Office. Few people knew that the basement of a dull, warehouse-like structure in the middle of Washington DC housed a warren of offices, a crowd of FBI agents, and a large, circular meeting area, or war room. The building had once belonged to the real Post Office, so the agents who worked there told anyone with a lower security clearance that they worked at the Post Office, and the name stuck. A dozen computer monitors banked one wall of the war room, and a haphazard huddle of desks lay scattered about the floor. An electric hum crackled in the air—a case was in the making.
“Usually it’s celebrities or criminals or other people who want to vanish permanently,” Keen continued. “But, as you can imagine, the Bodysnatcher operates in ways that are bigger and more complicated than a new ID and social security number. Damn it, where is that missing persons file?”
“Here, let me,” said Aram Mojtabai. Like everyone else at the Post Office, Aram was technically a Special Agent, but he had been hired for his computer savvy, not his field skills, and he almost never left the Post Office except to ride his bike home.
Peering over Aram’s shoulder at one of the monitors was Donald Ressler. Keen gave an inward sigh. Lately she found herself going back and forth on Ressler. At one time, she had considered that there might be something between them. He was damned handsome, that was for sure—blond, blue eyes. But when circumstances had forced Keen into becoming a fugitive, Ressler had become her most dogged pursuer, which had put something of a strain on attraction. They’d had a couple-three “We’re good, aren’t we?” conversations since her return, but Keen still harbored a tinge of resentment toward him. On the other hand, Ressler had gone out of his way to be overly nice to her ever since, and there weren’t a lot of people in her life who did that. So who knew?
“Maybe we should wait for Cooper,” Keen said.
“He’s on the phone in his office,” Ressler told her. “Something big from the higher-ups. He said we should start without him.”
“Is this the file?” Aram asked, and Keen looked.
“Thanks,” she said. “According to Reddington, sometimes the Bodysnatcher’s… people want to disappear and sometimes they don’t, but they always vanish without a trace. Have you heard of Christian Heller?”
The photo of a red-haired, muscular man appeared on the screens.
“Oh yeah. The soccer guy who disappeared at sea,” Ressler said. “Supposedly killed by his father-in-law, but never proved.”
“Yes. Very difficult to find someone who disappears in the Pacific Ocean.” Keen flicked the mouse. “What about Garrett Ivers?”
A slender man with brown hair and a scruffy beard popped onto the monitor.
“Everyone knows him,” Aram said. “The reporter who was arrested in North Korea last year for taking unauthorized photos. The State Department shouted, but North Korea claims they never heard of him. No one believes it.”
“Exactly,” Keen said. “Heller vanished, with no way to look for him.”
“The Bodysnatcher’s work,” Ressler said, grimly folding his arms.
“Who else is in that file?” Aram asked.
“Two Russian crime bosses, a poppy farmer from Pakistan, and an English politician who supported BP after the oil spill and needed to disappear fast,” Keen said. “And those were just the ones Reddington knew about. They all wanted to disappear in ways that made it look accidental.”
Ressler thought about that. “You said some of the Bodysnatcher’s people don’t want to disappear. What about them?”
“That’s the other half of his business. Those people just vanish. On behalf of someone else. The Bodysnatcher has raised kidnapping to an art form. No sign of struggle, no clues, no leads, no witnesses. Most of the time, no one investigates because this class of clientele no one bothers about—homeless people, residents of mental hospitals, street kids.”
“What’s the Bodysnatcher’s real name?”
“Even Reddington has no idea. The man keeps an obsessively low profile. It’s one of the reasons no one has managed to catch him.”
“Why does he grab victims who don’t want to disappear?” Aram asked.
“The Bodysnatcher does a lot of work for clients who need a steady stream of people,” Keen said. “He vets the victims, chooses those who both fit the type his client desires and are unlikely to be missed—or missed right away. His clients need labor for prostitution, domestic work, experimentation—”
“Experimentation?” Ressler interrupted. “The Bodysnatcher grabs people for laboratories?”
Keen nodded grimly. When you worked with Raymond Reddington, you learned more about the underworld than you cared to. “There are underground labs that, for a price, will circumvent a number of FDA regulations.”
“Keen!” The voice belonged to Director Harold Cooper, who was smart-stepping it across a catwalk and toward the staircase that led down into the war room. His dark eyes missed nothing, and the staircase made his already impressive height even more imposing.
Following him toward the stairs was Cynthia Panabaker, an older, wiry woman with auburn hair and a sharp nose. Panabaker was the Post Office’s third liaison with the Department of Justice. Keen had barely said ten words to her so far and had yet to form an opinion of the woman, though in Keen’s experience, DoJ liaisons caused more problems than they solved. Panabaker said something to Cooper at the top of the catwalk stairs, then turned and went back into the office while Cooper descended the metal steps.
“You’ve briefed the others on this Bodysnatcher character?” he said in his husky baritone.
“Just finishing,” she said.
“I’ve got something to add,” he said. “Listen up, everyone!”
He tapped at the boards and on one of the screens, an animated wasp stung a cartoon face that wore a smug smile. The cartoon face made a surprised O and deflated like a balloon as the wasp flew away. YOU’VE BEEN STUNG! read the caption.
“What’s that?” Keen asked.
Aram blinked up at the monitor. “Stingster.”
“Stingster,” Keen repeated.
“It’s a revenge app,” Aram added. “You download it, use it to mark embarrassing photos of an ex who did you wrong, and let it upload the photos to shame sites all over the Internet. It made the inventor rich. What was his name? Russalko… Ravinko…”
“Rudenko,” Cooper said. “Pavel Rudenko.”
“That’s it!” Aram snapped his fingers. “Nowadays Rudenko has his fingers in lots of other pies, like airline travel, munitions for the army, even an actual pie company. All from this little app.”
“I know that name,” Ressler said. “He’s huge.”
YOU’VE BEEN STUNG! blinked the caption again.
“What’s this have to do with the Bodysnatcher?” Keen asked, puzzled.
Cooper said, “His daughter has been kidnapped.”
A moment of silence passed at that. Finally, Keen said, “Who’s the victim?”
Cooper clicked a mouse and a twenty-something woman with a round face and short brown hair flashed onto one of the screens. “Mala Rudenko. Pavel’s daughter. Born and bred in America. She disappeared a few weeks ago. No traces, no ransom demand, no nothing.”
“Weeks,” Keen repeated, confused. “Wait a minute—this isn’t a kidnapping. It’s a missing person’s case.”
“Well—” said Aram.
Keen interrupted. “Why are we even involved?”
“Because of her father,” Cooper said. “Pavel Rudenko is insanely wealthy, and he provides weapons and training for the military. When Mala didn’t return his texts or calls, he became convinced someone snatched her up. Rudenko is friends with our new government liaison Cynthia Panabaker. So she—”
“Pressure,” Keen finished. “Got it. We’ll probably spend a big chunk of our budget to find her on a
beach somewhere.”
Behind them, Raymond Reddington cleared his throat. Keen and the others turned and blinked at him in surprise. Reddington rarely entered the Post Office. Too few exits, Keen suspected. His double-breasted Martin Greenfield suit fit him perfectly, all the way down to his Gucci crocodile shoes and gold horsebit buckles, and ever the gentleman, he carried his fedora in his hand.
“Reddington,” Cooper said.
“Harold,” Reddington replied with a nod. “How quickly can you gather a task force for a journey to South Carolina?”
“South Carolina?” Cooper echoed. “Do you know something, Reddington?”
“I know a great many things,” Reddington said, “including the fact that by tomorrow, we’ll all be in South Carolina. I suggest you pack insect repellent.”
“I got Mala Rudenko’s last known address,” said a new voice, and Samar Navabi arrived with a brown folder. Her dark, curly hair was pulled back in its customary ponytail, and her brown eyes were serious. Her words were quick and crisp. “It was harder to track down than you might think. Hello, Reddington. Hey, Keen.”
Keen nodded. As the only two female agents in the Post Office, it seemed to her that she and Navabi should be closer friends, but their relationship had never quite gelled. Navabi had an edge to her, was practical almost to the point of appearing detached. Keen had automatically profiled her as someone who had gone through some kind of private hell, and not just during her time at the Post Office. Hard choices had hardened Navabi, making her difficult to get close to—given what Keen had been through recently, she could respect that.
“Her father didn’t have her address?” Keen said.
“They’d become estranged in the last couple of years,” Navabi explained. “He says she withdrew from him, despite his efforts to keep in touch. All he had was a cell phone number. It’s why her father became suspicious after weeks instead of days. He’s had no trace of her.”
“No trace,” Keen echoed, then glanced at Reddington. “So Mala’s disappearance is connected to the Bodysnatcher. And that’s why we’re all here.”
“Perhaps I can speed things along,” Reddington said. “The Bodysnatcher vets both his unwilling victims and his willing clients carefully. His unwilling victims are usually homeless, or live alone and have no friends or close family. When he has a willing client, he takes his time arranging for the victim to plausibly drop off the radar. He helps the client isolate him—or herself—from family and friends, sets up bank accounts so the client’s bills continue to be paid, makes it look like the client has a new job or has even moved to another state. Then when the time comes to vanish, no one thinks twice. He’s an artist, really. The fact that I have a lead at all is a small miracle.”
“We need to investigate Mala’s apartment before we go anywhere,” Cooper said. “Could be clues there.”
“There will be none,” Reddington sighed. “And while I understand that the FBI is as bound by its rules as any other government organization, just be aware that the window of opportunity is closing. Call me when you’re ready to leave for South Carolina. And don’t forget the Deet.”
He strolled away. Keen half expected him to demand that he follow her, but he didn’t.
“The apartment,” Cooper said, “and make it quick. I have the feeling you’re going to South Carolina later.”
CHAPTER THREE
Mala Rudenko’s apartment was a fourth-story walkup so close to the Beltway that passing trucks made the windows rattle. Keen’s lungs and shins were burning by the time she got to the top, but Ressler seemed unaffected by the climb, so she suppressed her urge to pant. The hallways were shabby and uncarpeted, in need of new paint and light fixtures, but at least the place didn’t reek of urine, loud music, or shouts from other apartments. A lower-middle-class building gone to seed. So why was the daughter of a tech millionaire living here?
Rebellion, estrangement, privacy, Keen told herself. Any number of things.
Ressler had already called ahead to the super, a young man barely old enough to shave, let alone manage an apartment building, and he met them at the top floor.
“I haven’t seen Mala in weeks,” he said without being asked, “but I don’t really pay attention. My place is in the basement, you know?”
“What about her rent?” Ressler asked.
“Paid through automatic deposit by her bank.” He started to unlock the door, but Ressler plucked the key from his fingers.
“We’ll take care of it,” he said. “You stand by the stairs. Just in case.”
“Oh.” He grimaced. “Right.”
A tiny thrill of adrenaline sped Keen’s heart. No way to know what might be in there until they opened the door. Dead body. Kidnapper. Maybe just a young woman who didn’t answer her phone. The mystery tugged at her, tightened her veins. She and Ressler took up positions on either side of the door, and Ressler pounded the door with a cop’s knock.
“Miss Rudenko?” he called. “Agent Donald Ressler with the FBI. Can you open the door?”
No response.
Ressler tried again with the same result. He slipped the key into the lock, twisted, and shoved the door open.
The duo boiled into the tiny apartment beyond. Keen rapidly took in details. Small living room and kitchenette combo, open door to single bedroom. Ikea furniture. Television. Cell phone plugged into wall. Thin layer of dust. No signs of people, living or dead.
Ressler took the bathroom. Keen hit the bedroom. More Ikea furniture. No closet. Clothes neatly hung on freestanding rack. Small luggage set beneath the clothing. Bed made. Dresser top tidy but dusty. Bathrobe on back of door. Window shut, view of brick wall. Keen swiftly checked under the bed, not expecting to find anything, and fulfilled expectations.
“Bedroom clear!” she shouted.
“Bathroom clear!” Ressler shouted back.
Keen went through the bedroom in more detail. Except for the dust, everything proved to be just as neat and tidy as her first impression. Nothing at all out of the ordinary, no signs of struggle, no signs of a hasty exist, no signs of packing. Keen sat on the bed a moment and scanned the room. Something bothered her, something—Ah! That was it. No signs of struggle or hasty exist, but no personal items, either. No photos, no posters, no trip souvenirs, no remembrances of past boyfriends. Just clothes and furniture. It could have been a room in a catalog.
She stuck her head in the bathroom, where Ressler was going through the tiny cabinet.
“I’m going to guess,” she said. “No medications, no half-used makeup, nothing in the wastebasket.”
He straightened. “How’d you know?”
“Bedroom’s the same way. We probably won’t find anything perishable in the kitchen, either.”
Ressler went to check. “You nailed it,” he called. “It’s all canned soup and ramen in here. The fridge has nothing but salad dressing and soy sauce.”
“There’s nothing personal here to tell us anything about her—or to leave a clue. If the Bodysnatcher took her, he cleaned up well, just like Reddington said he would.”
Ressler’s phone buzzed. It was Aram, calling from the Post Office. He put it on speaker so they could both hear.
“I found Mala’s financials,” Aram said. “One bank account, two credit cards, automatic pay for her utility bills. At a quick glance, it looks like all her money is there. No unusual purchases.”
“Where does she work?” Ressler asked.
“I’m not seeing any paycheck deposits,” Aram said. “It looks like she lived—lives—off investments. But… this is weird.” The sound of keys clacking came over the line. “You would think that she would invest in her father’s companies. She hasn’t. In fact, not one company in her portfolio is remotely connected to anything Pavel Rudenko owns.”
“How were the stocks doing?” Ressler asked.
More clicking. “Not great. In fact, her dividends took a dive recently.”
Keen thought a moment. “Did she sell off a large
chunk of stock recently or anything?”
“Checking.” Pause. “Yeah, she did. She has fewer shares now than before. That accounts for the reduction in dividends.”
“And explains why she’s living in a place like this,” Ressler added.
“Here’s something weird,” Aram said. “It’s showing she has a bad record with her utilities. Her power has been shut off three times in two different apartments. All three times, the reason cited was being behind in her bill, but when she protested, it turned out the power company had made a mistake, and they turned everything back on.”
“Huh. Ask Cooper exactly how estranged Mala is from her father,” Keen said.
“I’m here,” came Cooper’s voice. “I’ll call him now.”
Ressler took the cell phone from its table and unplugged it. The screen stubbornly refused to come to life, though the battery light showed a full charge.
“Her phone’s been bricked,” he said. “We won’t get anything off it. Aram, can you get into her—”
“Ahead of you,” he said. “I’m seeing no outgoing calls in the last two months.”
“About the time her father stopped hearing from her,” Keen observed. “Aram, are there any numbers before then that she called often? Ones that aren’t family members?”
Yet more key clicking. “Yeah. A number for… give me a sec… a woman named Iris Henning. Oh! She lives right around the corner from your current location.”
“Best friend?” Keen said. “She might know something.”
Cooper spoke up through the phone. “Keen, Navabi will meet you at the friend’s place. Ressler, stay at the victim’s and look for more clues while I call the father.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Mala Rudenko lowered the pistol. The young man looked at her with pain-filled eyes beneath the canopy of trees. The surrounding soldiers were also staring at her, or they seemed to be, from inside their masks. Their whispers and chants swirled and hissed around her.
“We are the Hive.”
“Do it.”
“You want to.”
“We want you to.”
The Blacklist--The Beekeeper No. 159 Page 2