“I’m not worried,” Reddington said.
Mr. Brimley peered over the top of his glasses at Reddington. His cannula made a clear plastic line under his nose and down to his wheeled oxygen tank.
“You’re the best in the business, Mr. Reddington, but you hire me to interrogate, and I can see you’re worried.”
“Certain things, Mr. Brimley, the employer keeps to himself.”
“Sure, sure.” Mr. Brimley waved an airy hand. “I was just making conversation. No one cares.”
Reddington set down his glass. “What was that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t know?” Brimley looked surprised.
“If I knew,” Reddington said slowly, “I wouldn’t ask. What was that remark supposed to mean?”
Mr. Brimley shrugged. He looked like someone’s visiting grandfather, who had overindulged in smoking and other vices in his youth and now was paying for it. Reddington happened to know he carted the oxygen tank around for reasons completely unrelated to any youthful smoking habit, and Mr. Brimley was angry about the entire situation. Most people would have turned that anger into a general hatred toward the world that would have strained or ended his relationships with family and friends. Mr. Brimley, however, had channeled that anger into his interrogations. It made him the best information extractor Reddington knew, and Reddington knew many. A lot of people thought Mr. Brimley used torture, and on occasion he did, but torture rarely worked in interrogation, despite what the unwashed masses thought. Mr. Brimley’s methods were far more devious, more subtle, more cutting—without involving actual cutting. Which was why Reddington had snuck him into the park, at great expense. It had involved a helicopter, a motorboat, and a small SUV. It was a good thing Dembe was a qualified pilot.
“You think you have this mystique about you.” Mr. Brimley picked up a Sudoku puzzle book and flicked out a pen. “The mysterious Raymond Reddington. What are your mysterious motives, your devious diversions? But really, no one thinks about you much at all. Nobody cares. That’s what I hear, anyway.”
Reddington folded his arms. “That’s the way I need it to be. It’s never a good idea for someone in my position to keep a high profile.”
“Yeah, okay.” Mr. Brimley filled in a pair of numbers. “Seven and two are still nine, right?”
“I keep to myself on purpose,” Reddington said. “I have to.”
“Oh. Yeah, sure. And four, and eight, and six. Yes! You never worry about anything, no matter what anyone says. I got it. You don’t have to tell me.”
“I worry,” Reddington said. “I know in my head that Lizzie is safe. The Beekeeper won’t harm her. Not physically. And she’s strong enough to keep him out of her head, so there’s no risk of psychological damage.”
“Sure, sure. If you say so. Four and seven—no! Six.”
Reddington leaned toward Brimley, who was still intent on his Sudoku. “Of course I’m worried. I want her out of there, and I want her out of there now.”
“Eight here, and two, and I think this must be one.” Mr. Brimley moved his cannula aside so he could scratch his upper lip. “You sound pretty angry.”
“You’re damned right I’m angry.” Reddington knocked back another hit of Scotch. “She ran off and got herself captured by the Hive when I specifically told her not to do it, and now I have to get her out before something terrible happens to her.”
“Well, yeah.” Mr. Brimley tapped his cheek with the pen. “Why don’t you just call in the cavalry? You’ve got resources. Hey, you got me in here. That was a hell of a trip. You could get an armed group of men and take down the Hive.”
Reddington slumped back into his chair. That was the first thing he’d thought of, naturally. The house had a satellite phone. His Russian… friend didn’t like being out of contact, after all. A single call could bring in a battalion of armed mercenaries—or the FBI. But that would be a mistake. According to Dembe—and Reddington’s own experience—the Hive was at least as heavily armed as the FBI would be. Bringing in an army would only create a terrible standoff. Reddington frankly didn’t care much about most of the FBI agents, though if pressed he might admit to a slight fondness for Donald Ressler and Aram Mojtabai. And certain events had brought him quite close with Samar Navabi. But the rest of them mattered not at all. If they were wounded or killed in a confrontation with the Beekeeper, they were only doing the job they so foolishly volunteered to perform.
Drones fighting drones.
Reddington, however, didn’t want the Hive destroyed. Not yet. Partly because Stuart was in there. He had need of Stuart yet. Reddington remembered when he was a much younger man, cocky, rough around the edges, and sure he knew everything. A bad turn that killed half a dozen friends in Madrid had taught him that perhaps he didn’t know quite everything, and he found himself in Hyde Park in London with ten pounds in his pocket, the clothes on his back, and a sense that he was lucky to be alive.
One of his now-dead friends had mentioned the names Stuart and Vivian Ivy and the fact that they operated in London. Reddington had called from a red booth pay phone—what a shame those were vanishing from England now—and asked for help. Half an hour later, a car pulled up beside him and a motherly-looking woman with curly brown hair rolled the window down to offer him a ride. The car smelled of cinnamon rolls—she had brought him one, bless her. It was Reddington’s first meeting with Vivian Ivy. He devoured the roll and swore to Vivian that he would love her forever. She smiled quietly at his American forthrightness and drove him to a small row house, where her husband Stuart was waiting.
When Reddington first laid eyes on Stuart Ivy, who was then in his forties, Stuart was in his basement surrounded by crates of machine gun parts. He was in shirt sleeves and up to his elbows in gears. The room was filled with the sweet scent of gun oil.
“Pardon me not shaking hands,” he said. “Have to inspect the merchandise before I can pass it on. So Rex is dead, is he?”
“Enough of that,” Vivian said. “The boy needs a bath and bed. And a decent supper.”
“One of your cinnamon rolls would feed him for a week, darling.” Stuart wiped his hands on a rag.
“That barrel is off true,” Vivian said, pointing.
Stuart picked up the object in question and squinted along it.
“So it is. I’ll put it in the refund pile. You always did have an eye for that. Mr. Reddington, how much do you know about weapons?”
“I’m one day short of graduating from the US Naval Academy,” Reddington said. “I can assemble one of those guns in under two minutes and have it combat ready in four.”
“Wonderful!” Stuart said, pleased. “I could use your help with this little project, then. It pays in cinnamon rolls.”
“But first, Mr. Reddington,” Vivian said, “a bath.”
Reddington had spent the night, and the week, and the month. He had thought his own contacts in the underworld were already extensive, but he was astounded at the number of people Stuart and Vivian knew. But what amazed Reddington most was the fact that Stuart and Vivian never actually did anything. They didn’t steal paintings. They didn’t fashion weapons. They didn’t cook meth. All they did was buy and sell.
“Only a fool makes anything, dear,” Vivian told him. “Do the trading. It’s less work, and if you get caught, it’s harder to prove you did anything wrong.”
“Even better if you pay someone else to do the trading for you,” Stuart pointed out. “That’s best of all. You just sit back and let the money roll in.”
“But how do you get other people to just give you money?” Reddington asked.
Vivian smiled. All her teeth were straight and capped.
“Know your people, Red. Know all your people. Know their parents’ names. Know their children’s names. Know their favorite foods. When you don’t know, pretend you know. And they’ll do anything you want.”
“But,” Stuart added, “never let feelings for someone else jeopardize your own safety. We deal with nasty people, after all, and
your own safety is always the first concern.”
* * *
“Sounds like a pretty good rule in your line of work,” said Mr. Brimley. “And a seven here and—hey! I got it!” He held up the completed Sudoku. “I’m still surprised you haven’t called in a nuclear blast to wipe out the Hive, though.”
“Because Lizzie is in there.” Reddington snapped the glass down on the coffee table. “Because if I call in anyone, we’ll have an armed standoff that will make that little tiff in Waco look like a schoolyard scuffle. Because I have to get Lizzie out before anything else happens.”
Mr. Brimley set the pen down and went back to flipping pages. “Stuart can die, though, right?”
“No!” Reddington was surprised at his own vehemence. “Not yet anyway.”
“So there’s a reason you’re keeping him alive. Even though he taught you that stuff.”
“He didn’t teach me—well, now!” Reddington leaned forward. “Well, well, well.”
A moment passed. Mr. Brimley looked at Reddington blandly. “What?”
“You were interrogating me,” Reddington accused.
“Me?”
“All too successfully. Don’t deny it.”
Mr. Brimley went back to the magazine and pretended to examine an ad for stool softener through the bottom half of his bifocals. “Just passing the time with a little conversation. Nothing wrong with that.”
Just then, Dembe burst through the back door. He was half dragging, half carrying the groaning form of a man in a green jumpsuit. A protective mask covered the man’s face, giving him an insect-like appearance.
A Hive drone.
Reddington rose. “Fine work, Dembe. Mr. Brimley, where would you like to set up?”
“The spare bedroom.” Mr. Brimley got carefully to his feet, minding his hose and his tank. “Whoo. This humidity is murder on what’s left of my lungs. You got a sponge on you?”
“I certainly hope not,” Reddington said.
“Find one. Gonna need it for this guy.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Order, now,” said the Beekeeper. “In today’s session, you’ll learn about stings and honey.”
“Honey!” Pug said happily.
Keen just stared at the Beekeeper. Her mind felt as numb as her body. Exhaustion pulled at every muscle and bone, and she wanted food. No, she wanted meat. Something she could sink her teeth into. A steak. Ribs. Lamb kebab. Bloody rare or well done—she didn’t care. The hunger for protein clamored inside her.
“We are the Hive,” said Dr. Griffin, the Beekeeper.
“We are the Hive,” everyone said. “Everyone” included the guards, Keen, Ressler, Stuart, John the Bodysnatcher. All of them had lost weight, except Stuart. The Beekeeper had given Stuart extra food. Keen hated Stuart. She hoarded the thought. It would be an easy sin to confess later.
“Recite Rule Number Three,” the Beekeeper said.
“Work keeps the hands busy and the soul happy.”
“Rule Number Two.”
“A drone always speaks with respect.”
“Rule Number One.”
“The needs of the Hive outweigh the needs of its members.”
“We are the children,” Dr. Griffin said. “We are the orderly Hive, working together toward our heavenly goals. Here, we are safe. Together. If we follow the rules, there is no fear, no hate. All our needs are met. But even now, our enemies are massing against us. They are envious and fearful. They want what we have—our love, our safety, our security. We will defend ourselves, with swarms and stings. Together, we will triumph, and cleanse the country of the deadly scourge of our enemies.”
Here Keen came more alert. The sarin gas was never far from her thoughts. The Beekeeper was making the stuff in his labs—or the drones were making it for him—and she had assumed he intended to sell it. This sounded like he meant to use it. But on who?
“Now we sit in judgment,” the Beekeeper intoned. “To expiate our sins and bring ourselves closer to the Hive.”
Keen did not grimace. She did not sigh. She did not grind her teeth. Neither did anyone else. But a soundless shift went through the group. No one complained outright, but Keen had become adept at catching subtle signs of discomfort.
The Beekeeper held out his hand, and one of the drones put a small case into it.
“John, you first.”
John slouched into the center chair, his hands still cuffed before him. Keen’s own hands were still cuffed too, and her skin was raw and chafed under the metal. Dr. Griffin cracked the case open and reached inside.
“I told you earlier that in this session we go deeper, that it becomes easier after today,” he said, rising to stand near John. “Let me show you.”
In a swift move, the Beekeeper snatched a syringe from the case and stabbed John in the neck with it. John yowled in pained surprise. Dr. Griffin depressed the plunger and pulled his hand back. John slapped his neck.
“What was that?” he panted.
“My own concoction,” Dr. Griffin replied pleasantly. “The Hive makes many forms of honey. We sell methamphetamine to outsiders to keep ourselves in the green and fund our other experiments.”
“Honey,” giggled Pug.
“And I make these.” The Beekeeper held up the hypodermic. “The army, that bastion of order, told me they wanted me to find ways to bring their soldiers to order, make them follow orders more quickly, shorten the time for basic training. My methods worked. They were a delight. Within a week, I had an entire battalion following my every command. But the army didn’t like that. Too experimental. Too strange. Too brilliant for them. They saw chaos where I created perfect order.”
John weaved on his chair. His pupils expanded. A chill ran down Keen’s spine.
“Humans mistake free thought for free will,” the Beekeeper said. “They don’t understand that to have free will we need to stop thinking. Our thoughts, our desires, enslave us. Buddha knew this. It’s why he worked to extinguish thought. The Hive extinguishes chaos. The Hive extinguishes desire.”
John’s mouth was open, and he was panting now. His head came up, and he glanced quickly around the room like a rabbit that had heard a noise. Keen couldn’t imagine what was in that syringe, and her tired mind was too foggy to think analytically.
“John,” said the Beekeeper gently. “Can you hear me?”
John didn’t respond. He pulled his knees up to his chin on the chair, balancing precariously. His breath was still coming fast.
“Can you hear me?” the Beekeeper repeated.
“I hear everything,” John whispered. “I hear the stones. I hear the crack of light coming over the horizon. I hear the tears of a man striking the smell of pure oxygen.”
“Good, good.” The Beekeeper leaned toward him. “John, what is your worst memory from childhood? Tell us about it.”
“I… I don’t…” John rocked against his knees.
“Please tell us, John.” The Beekeeper’s voice was gentle and relentless. Keen recognized the technique—a command disguised as a request. “Please do.”
“I’m seven years old and I’m walking into my mother’s bedroom,” John said softly. “It smells like darkness. It tastes like dust and stale air.”
“Good, good,” the Beekeeper said. “What do you see?”
“My mother is lying on her bed. The sheets are supposed to be white like ghosts, but there’s a stain. I can hear the green stain crawling across the sheet, seeping into the cloth. She threw up. But the vomit is cold. I’m scared. I want to run away and hide. I wonder if I should call work for her like I’ve done lots of other times. But now… now I don’t think I should.”
“What do you do next, John?”
“I reach out and touch her hand. It’s cold, too. I can see how cold it is. The sheet doesn’t move. She isn’t breathing. But her eyes are open and dull, and all the bottles are open on her night table, too. They’re open like mouths, and they want to swallow me. They’re going to swallow me down. My
mom is dead. My mom is dead, and I’m all alone in the house. I’m all alone!”
“But you’re not alone,” the Beekeeper said. “We’re here with you. The Hive is here. We’re helping you.” He reached down to stroke John’s cheek. John shuddered once, and the Beekeeper dribbled honey into his mouth from a small bottle. John sighed. His muscles relaxed. “We’re here, John. The Hive is here to help. We are the Hive.”
“We are the Hive,” said the room.
“We are the Hive,” said John. Tears ran down his cheeks and Keen recoiled. “I… am the Hive.”
“The Hive is love, John,” said Dr. Griffin. “We are love. Take your rightful place with us.”
Sobbing quietly, John stumbled to his chair in the outer circle.
“John is much closer to joining us now,” Dr. Griffin proclaimed from behind his round lenses. “Donald, now you.”
“No. I won’t.” Ressler tried to scramble to his feet, but the drone guards were already on him, and he was weakened from the lack of food and water, and the handcuffs hindered his movements. Pug wrestled him into the chair and held him down.
“Order,” Dr. Griffin admonished. “We will have order.”
He removed another syringe from the case and moved toward Ressler. Ressler struggled again, his eyes frantic. Keen knew his fear—Ressler had barely conquered an addiction to painkillers not so long ago, and he feared the Beekeeper’s cocktail would bring it roaring back. And no doubt he feared what it would make him say. She wanted to help him, but she had drones of her own behind her. A sick feeling roiled through her stomach. Stuart watched with a stony face.
“No!” Ressler snarled again, still struggling. “I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch!”
“No swearing,” Pug admonished.
“Maybe there’s another way!” Keen tried in desperation. But the needle moved closer.
“Kill you!” Ressler howled.
The Beekeeper stabbed his neck with the syringe, and none too gently. Bile burned the back of Keen’s throat and she had to swallow hard to keep from throwing up.
Dr. Griffin depressed the plunger. Ressler’s body relaxed and his pupils expanded, just as John’s had done.
The Blacklist--The Beekeeper No. 159 Page 12