“Lizzie, I can’t control what you do with your career, but right now, this isn’t about that. If it makes you feel any better, I would say the same thing about Dembe going in. You aren’t doing it, and that’s final.”
Keen set her jaw. “All right. What’s the alternative? We’re sitting here in the dark.”
“I will go and scout,” Dembe said. “We need more information. If I’m lucky, I might find a car to steal.”
“A much cleaner idea.” Reddington sipped his drink, then looked at it. “Perfect. You know, Stuart taught me how to make these.”
Keen rose. “I’ll go with you, Dembe. It’ll be dark soon, so we should leave now.”
“Lizzie—” Reddington began.
“I can’t just sit here,” Keen said. “I don’t know much about woodcraft anyway, so I’ll hang back and run for help if Dembe needs it. If he gets captured, someone needs to know about it.”
“I don’t—” Reddington tried again.
“What does your military training tell you about scouting?” Keen said to Dembe.
“Go in pairs,” he said promptly.
“There you are,” Keen said. “Two against one.”
* * *
“Where are my people, Aram?” Director Cooper glared over Aram’s shoulder at the computer banks. Aram tried to ignore this. He hated it when people leaned into the computers—it felt like someone was reaching into his pockets or grabbing his bike. However, Cooper was the boss and could do as he liked.
Aram flicked over to a GPS map. “Keen’s phone last showed up here.” He pointed. “They were heading toward Fort Daymon. Some of the other agents had phones, too. Ressler, for one. Their phones showed the same location.”
“The Bodysnatcher was taking Mala to a military base?” Navabi said, coming toward them. She was sipping from a takeout coffee cup, and Aram smelled the rich caramel. “That seems strange. The last place he’d want to take a kidnapping victim is the army.”
“Why aren’t we getting a phone signal?” Cooper said.
“I don’t know,” Aram admitted. “There’s plenty of cell phone coverage in that area, and GPS is strong, too. Unless…”
“Unless what?” Cooper asked tersely.
The light dawned over Aram’s face and the realization broke. “We’re being spoofed. Holy cow—I never thought I’d see it on this scale, but it’s the only thing that makes sense.”
Already his fingers were darting across the keys. The screens shuddered and flickered as he typed faster.
“Please explain,” Cooper said.
“In English,” Navabi added.
“Okay, look.” Aram pointed at the map of South Carolina again. “Here’s where Keen and the others were before I left my keyboard for a minute. When I got back, they’d jumped south so they were near the army base. I was asking Keen about it when she cut out. It’s classic spoofing.”
“And spoofing is…?” Cooper prompted.
“When someone broadcasts a fake GPS signal that’s made to look like a real one. The fake signal carries a message that says you’re somewhere else and makes a GPS receiver such as a cell phone show you the wrong location. When I look at Keen’s location, I’m reading data uploaded from her phone, not from the satellites themselves, so if her phone thinks it’s in the wrong place, I do too.” Aram’s mouth was dry. He grabbed his own latte and sipped salty liquid caramel. “One kind of spoofing is called a ‘carry-off attack.’ It broadcasts a fake signal that synchronizes with the real one, then gradually increases its power until the fake signal overpowers the real one and slowly makes your phone or whatever show you as being in the wrong place.”
“Like that captured drone in Iran,” Navabi said.
Aram looked at her. “Yeah. 2011. No one knows for sure how the Iranians managed to capture a Lockheed drone, but one of the main theories is that they spoofed the drone into thinking home was northeastern Iran, so it flew right to them.”
“And you think Keen’s phone was somehow spoofed in this way,” Cooper said.
“I’d bet a lot of money on it,” Aram said. “I don’t think she, Ressler, and Reddington and the rest of that team are anywhere near Fort Daymon.”
“So where are they, then?”
Aram was forced to spread his hands. “I have no idea.”
Cooper stared at him. “Are you telling me,” he said slowly, “that we’ve lost an entire team of FBI agents?”
“That… seems to be the case,” Aram admitted. He couldn’t look Cooper in the face. This was his fault, somehow. He shouldn’t have gone to the bathroom. He should have been at his station. He would have noticed something, gotten some kind of clue that let him figure out where Keen and the others were. Guilt, the most familiar of all his emotions, settled over him like a heavy coat.
A moment of silence followed. Then Cooper said, “Get creative. Satellite scans, surveillance cameras, anything you can think of. I’ll send ground teams to check their last known location.”
“Harold,” Cynthia Panabaker was standing on the catwalk above the bullpen, her expression tight. “Pavel Rudenko is on the phone. He wants a word.”
Cooper pinched the bridge of his nose as he turned away.
“Find them, Aram. Find them now.”
“Yes, sir,” Aram said to his boss’s retreating back. Navabi met his eyes, and nodded. Together, they picked up their latte cups and dropped them into the trash.
* * *
“What does Mr. Rudenko want, Cynthia?” Cooper asked, dropping into his chair while Panabaker leaned against the desk.
“The usual reassurances, I imagine,” she said wryly. “But walk carefully—he supplies weapons to the people who make all our bosses happy.”
“The chain of command,” Cooper sighed, and punched the speaker phone. “Mr. Rudenko. How can I help you?”
“Hey, Harry!” said a voice with a strong Brooklyn accent. Cooper winced. No one had called him Harry since fourth grade, but he didn’t think it politic to correct Rudenko. “You got an update on my daughter? I love her like a… daughter, you know? We taxpayers expect great things from the Freakin’ Bureau of Investigation, am I right?”
“Our agents are pursuing every possible lead to find your daughter, sir,” Cooper replied carefully. “She’s our top priority.”
“But you got squat,” Rudenko shot back. “What the hell kind of operation you running, Cooper? General Park at the Pentagon, he’s expecting a big shipment from me soon, but I’m thinking I’m gonna be too broken up about all this to handle it, and things’ll be delayed, you know? I’ll have to tell him that it’s because of you folks, since that’s the truth. And when it comes time for your budget allocations—”
“I get it, Mr. Rudenko,” Cooper said quickly.
Panabaker held up a piece of paper on which she had scrawled Give him something.
Cooper grimaced. “We have a strong lead. Our agents are in South Carolina now following it up.”
“Where in South Carolina?”
“Cell phone operations aren’t very good down there because of the mountains,” Cooper replied, “but they were in the vicinity of Roebuck. We’re also dispatching a team to the area near Fort Daymon.”
“Fort Daymon? Hey, I’ve got lots of friends in that place. Let me send some of my guys in to help you. They’re good—well-trained, great arms. All legal, thank you NRA. They’ll work with—”
“That’s all right, Mr. Rudenko,” Cooper interrupted, meeting Panabaker’s horrified expression. “We’ve got it covered. It’s best if you just stay by your phone in case someone calls you.”
“You sure? My Team Green Alpha is the best in the—”
“Thank you, Mr. Rudenko,” Cooper said firmly, “but no. We’ll be in touch.” And he hung up.
“Just what we need.” Panabaker shuddered. “A crackpot with an army running around South Carolina.”
* * *
The woods were quiet except for aggressive birdsong and the rustling of small anim
als in the undergrowth.
“Stay back ten or fifteen steps. Be ready to run,” Dembe said. His Glock was out and the safety was off. Keen didn’t bother drawing the weapon Dembe had given her. It would be worthless in any situation where she might need it. The Hive outnumbered her several dozen to one. She didn’t know why Dembe was bothering.
They skittered down the hillside, keeping to trees and bushes. Keen stayed several paces behind Dembe as instructed, nervously trying to watch in all directions. Her FBI training at Quantico had included a unit on outdoor maneuvers, but that had been a long time ago, and all her field work since those days had been in cities and inside buildings. She knew all about checking behind doors, in cupboards, and in closets, how to look for trouble under beds, behind shower curtains, and in crawl spaces. But the outdoors, especially the woodsy outdoors, offered too damn much cover in all directions, and it felt like someone or something might leap out at any moment. Her gut clenched up and she tried to force herself to relax. A tense agent made mistakes.
Ignore trees that are too thin to hide a man, she told herself. Look through the bushes. Don’t move in a straight line. Remember your starting point. Note landmarks. Don’t forget to look up.
Dembe reached the bottom of the hill. Keen crouched near a tree. Dembe paused, checked, motioned for her to follow him. Keen obeyed. They continued on in this fashion, with Dembe pausing to look for danger and Keen crouching until he motioned for her to keep going. Cicadas buzzed in the trees and mosquitos whined in Keen’s ears. Sweat dripped down the back of her neck and her clothes itched against her skin.
After fifteen or twenty minutes of careful progress, they ascended another hill and found themselves looking down a partially cleared slope on the other side. Partway down, an outcrop of rock stuck out, and Keen worked out that it was actually the entrance to a cave. Only a few trees lent shade, and the grass was well trampled. Dozens of people dressed in camouflage, many wearing the odd goggle-like masks, strode in and out of the cave. Keen’s breath caught. It was like looking at a hornet’s nest. Dembe took a small set of binoculars from his pocket.
“Where did you get those?” Keen whispered.
“The house.” Dembe scanned the area, taking care not to let the lenses reflect anything toward the compound.
Keen let him concentrate, then said, “Can you see Ressler down there? Or Stuart?”
“No. But look.” He handed her the binoculars and directed her gaze. The cave entrance leaped into giant size. Dembe had her pan to the right, and she sucked in another breath. Camouflage netting hid a number of lumpy objects. One of the masked people obligingly pulled part of the netting aside, revealing a machine gun nest and several crates of what Keen assumed were ammunition.
“The Beekeeper’s army contacts are paying off,” she murmured.
“Indeed. If we bring the FBI in here, there will be a bloodbath.” Dembe pointed farther uphill. “Do you see that?”
A clump of waist-high boxes caught her eye. They looked a little like dressers for clothes, complete with drawers, and there were thirty or forty of them in all. It took Keen a moment to recognize them.
“Beehives,” she gasped. “The Beekeeper has actual beehives!”
“Yes,” Dembe said, “but that is not what I was pointing out. Go a little more uphill.”
She finally saw what he was talking about. With narrowed eyes, she refocused the binoculars. A man was pointing some kind of remote control device at the sky. Above him hovered a four-propeller helicopter drone. No, two of them. No, a dozen of them. The man made adjustments on the controller, and the drones dipped and swayed together. They swooped about the sky like starlings changing direction in unison.
“They play with remote control helicopters,” she said. “Is this some kind of boys and their toys thing?”
“I can’t say.”
More motion caught her eye. Keen brought the binoculars around to check it. A masked figure crawled out of the ground some distance uphill from the cave entrance, followed by a second.
“They have a back door,” she reported, handing the binoculars to Dembe so he could look.
“Probably more than one,” Dembe agreed.
“Something to watch.” Keen thought a moment. “Let’s circle around and see if we can get a look from the back. Maybe find one of those back exits. We could use it as a surprise attack when the rest of the task force gets here.”
“If they get here,” Dembe said.
“I’m always optimistic.” Keen scrambled to her feet and started out, then halted when a heavy hand landed on her shoulder.
“I go first,” Dembe said. “Stay low.”
They circled around the ridge until they were looking down at the back of the enclave or compound or whatever it was. The sunlight poured down over them both, hot even though it was getting on to early evening. Thirst tugged at Keen, and she wanted more than anything to take a cool shower and collapse onto a couch in an overly air-conditioned room with a bowl of ice cream. Instead, she used Dembe’s binoculars to scan the light woods for more back exits.
“There,” she said, pointing. “And there and there.”
“You have sharp eyes,” Dembe said.
“They must have dug them.” Keen handed the binoculars back. “It’s too convenient for all of them to be here by accident.”
“No doubt,” Dembe said. “We—get down!”
They were already on their stomachs in a clump of scratchy bushes, but Keen obligingly brought her head down. About thirty yards downslope, a trio of Hive workers with rifles were tromping along a thin trail. They would pass below their hiding place in a few seconds. She pressed her lips together.
“Give me your pistol,” she whispered to Dembe. “Quick!”
Startled, he did so. “What’s the matter?”
“When you get back to the cabin,” she said, “apologize to Reddington for me.”
“Apologize?” Dembe stared at her. “I do not understand.”
Keen ejected the cartridge from Dembe’s Glock and tossed it a few yards away so he wouldn’t be able to recover it quickly, dropped the pistol, and bolted from their hiding place. She half ran, half tumbled down the hill, nearly spilling into the armed Hive workers. She pretended to trip and went to hands and knees directly in front of them.
“Oh crap!” she said.
Three rifles snapped up to aim at her.
“Don’t move!” one of them said.
Keen froze. “Don’t shoot! Please!”
They hauled her upright, expressions hidden behind their eerie masks. Keen carefully kept her gaze away from Dembe’s hiding place. One of the men searched her, found her own pistol, and took it.
“Who else is with you?” he demanded.
“No one,” she said meekly. “I’ve been wandering around since you all shot the others. I ran and ran and got lost. Are you going to kill me?”
“We’re taking you to Dr. Griffin,” he said. “Welcome to the Hive.”
They led her away. Keen could almost feel Dembe’s eyes boring into her back.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The first thing that struck Keen was the noise. The sound of dozens of hammers and chisels pinging away at stone, the sound of pickaxes and shovels striking rock, the sound of shovels chuffing at earth. Ahead of Keen yawned the enormous, cool cavern lined with catwalks and ladders, and at the back was a great two-story tree picked out in stone and bas relief on the banks of a stone river, its roots curled around a great boulder. Other designs swirled across the cavern walls—ocean waves, interlaced hexagons, a sunrise, a triangle made of triangles made of triangles. The place was incredible, a network of beauty and activity hidden away beneath the ground. Stone dust hung in the air. Men and women in dust masks and goggles swarmed around the room, rushed in and out of side tunnels in a constant stream of work. She counted at least fifty people in this room alone. She swallowed, suddenly feeling very small and alone. Maybe her plan to ditch Dembe and get herself captured by the Beeke
eper’s people hadn’t been such a good idea after all.
Hold it together, she told herself. You can out-psych this guy. Do it for Ressler. And Stuart Ivy. And all these poor people.
The smell of cooking food permeated the damp air, making Keen’s stomach growl and reminding her of how thirsty she was. One of her guards pulled off his mask, revealing the face of a perfectly ordinary man several years younger than Keen herself. He was armed with a taser, a pistol, a rifle, and pepper spray. She wondered how long the young man had been living here and if the Bodysnatcher had brought him. Was this place, a place filled with stone chips and weapons, everything he had ever known?
The young man snagged another passing masked Hiver—a drone, Keen supposed they should be called—and said something. The drone nodded and rushed away. His own rifle bumped against his shoulder as he ran.
“What is this place?” Keen asked, making her voice shake. It didn’t take much. “Where are my friends? The ones you took from the van?”
“Dr. Griffin will explain that,” the young man said.
“Could I have some water?” Keen asked. “I haven’t had anything to drink since… since the van happened.”
A huge man nearly seven feet tall reached for the canteen at his belt, but the young man stopped him.
“No, Pug.”
“But she’s thirsty,” said Pug in a thick voice.
“No. Only if Dr. Griffin says it’s okay. Got it?”
Pug nodded and put the canteen away.
“Who is Dr. Griffin?” Keen said. “Is he in charge? Will we see him?”
“You are seeing him now.” A white-haired man wearing coke-bottle glasses strode up. He wore a khaki shirt and trousers.
“Hello, Dr. Griffin,” said Pug. “It is nice to see you.”
“And I’m glad to see you, Pug. Your manners are improving. You should be proud.” He turned to Keen. “And you are…?”
“Elizabeth Keen.”
“Welcome to my Hive, Elizabeth,” Dr. Griffin said. He had a rich, sonorous voice, and his presence pushed at the cavern walls, filled the space like water filled a pool. “Be glad you arrived. You’ll never leave. You needn’t worry about Mr. Reddington or your obligations to him. You’ll stay here forever.”
The Blacklist--The Beekeeper No. 159 Page 7