“Who is them?” Keen asked again.
Mala made a vague gesture. “Them. The government. The people who are coming for us. Who want the honey, who want to take us over and the rest of the country. We’re going to stop them.”
“We’re going to kill them.” Keen nodded so fiercely she felt like a bobble-head. “All of them. They’re damned scary. I want to put a gun to each of their heads and pull the trigger.”
“…yeah,” Mala said, but this time she didn’t sound so sure.
Keen pressed her point. “We have to kill them all. Like the Beekeeper wanted you to kill someone. Like the Bodysnatcher killed Iris. She’s one of them, right? I mean, it stands to reason. If she isn’t one of us, she must be one of them. That’s why the Beekeeper told the Bodysnatcher to kill her.”
“He did?” Mala’s head came up. “How do you know he did that?”
“I don’t, I guess,” Keen said with a shrug. “But why else would the Bodysnatcher have to be so sure she didn’t talk about you? Why else would he have killed her?”
“… yeah,” Mala said again, and then it was time for Keen to be back in her cage.
Now, though, Mala was opening the cage and gesturing for Keen to come out of it. In her hand, she held a sandwich. Keen smelled the ham before she saw it. The sandwich was thick, rich, and meaty, and brown mustard oozed under the bread.
“What’s going on?” Keen asked, her eyes on the sandwich.
Mala handed it to her, and Keen bit into it eagerly. The ham was both sweet and salty, and there was a lot of it. The protein called to her, and she devoured the sandwich in moments, savoring the tangy mustard and the soft bread. From their own cages, Ressler and John watched with undisguised envy. Mala then handed Keen a pair of gloves that matched her green jumpsuit.
“Come on,” she said. “You’re working in the main room now. Like Stuart.”
“I am?” Keen swallowed the last bit of sandwich in surprise. “Why? What happened?”
“I talked to the Beekeeper,” she said. “I told him I thought you were ready to move ahead. He was already on the fence about you, and I guess I pushed him over.”
Ressler gave her a look of disbelief. Keen turned her back on him. This had to work. If anyone would fall under the Beekeeper’s spell, it would be Ressler, with his dedication to the rules. Once the Beekeeper persuaded Ressler to follow his rules instead of the FBI’s, it would be over. A small thrill of victory buzzed through Keen. She’d been right—Mala was the key to getting to the Beekeeper. Follow the rules, and everything would be fine.
She paused. Where had that thought come from? Never mind.
“Let’s go,” Mala said, and led Keen away.
The first place Mala took her was a sort-of locker room. The air was steamy, and Keen smelled actual soap. Mala handed her a towel and pointed toward a tiled-in area.
“You can shower in there. Shampoo and soap are in the dispensers.”
“A shower?” Keen found herself unreasonably breathless. “Really?”
“You’ve earned it,” Mala said. “Quick!”
Keen didn’t need to be told twice. The hot water that clattered against the chipped tile and the cheap soap from the wall dispenser felt better than anything she might find at the most luxurious spa. The dirt and grease sluiced from her skin and hair, leaving her pink and clean, and she couldn’t describe how fantastic a full belly and a hot shower made her feel. Thank heaven the Beekeeper had seen fit to grant her both.
She grimaced. No. The Beekeeper hadn’t granted her anything. She hadn’t earned anything. She had tricked them from her kidnapper. What was wrong with her?
Mala gave her a freshly laundered green jumpsuit, an equipment belt—though without weapons—and a mask, which she hung on her belt. Keen also donned the gloves that Mala had given her earlier.
“The shift is nearly over,” Mala said, “but you can still join in.”
Keen followed Mala down a series of tunnels, and felt that she was beginning to understand the layout of the place now. She passed a barrack, where several women slept in triple-tiered bunk beds, and it occurred to her again that most leaders of underground groups like this one required sex from their followers. A chill came over her, blunting her earlier good mood.
“You said the men don’t touch the women here,” she said hesitantly, “but does the Beekeeper bring drones to his bed? Uh… I’ll be glad to do whatever he needs, but I’m just wondering—”
“Of course not!” Mala interrupted. “He’s married, silly, and he’s faithful to Mrs. Griffin. Eventually, you’ll be married, too.”
“I will?” Keen said, trying with middling success to mask her surprise.
“Sure. The Beekeeper will match you with someone. For replacement.”
They were walking farther down the tunnel, and Keen heard laughter, a strange sound in a place like this.
“Replacement?”
“Right here.” Mala pointed into another room. It was carpeted, and the walls were brightly painted and lined with shelves filled with picture books and toys. More toys—a play kitchen, an easel, a sand table, a set of toy tanks, a pile of plastic guns—were scattered about the room. Among it all roved a passel of small children. Keen put a hand to her mouth to hold back a gasp. The children were laughing and playing. A boy and a girl pretended to shoot at each other with a set of rifles. Two other boys tossed toy grenades at the tanks. Pudgy hands rattled tiny pots and pans in the plastic kitchen. A trio of women moved among them, guiding or stopping or redirecting. Another woman finished diapering a baby on a changing table. She put it in a playpen with two other infants.
“Replacement,” Mala said. “The Beekeeper will match you so you can have your children, too.”
Keen stared. These children had been born here. They lived here. They knew no other life than the Hive. How long had this been going on? These children were being raised as little drones, would know no other way to think, no other way to live. Would they grow into people like Pug? Her stomach roiled. Mala noticed.
“It’s all right,” she said. “We need to keep up the Hive, after all, and the Beekeeper will find a good man for you. People have used arranged marriages for thousands of years, long before the choice marriages they use, with high divorce rates and single parents and fatherless babies.”
“I see,” Keen stammered.
“What’s wrong?” Mala asked with concern. “It’s okay. Really! All the women do it. We are the Hive.”
“We are the Hive,” Keen repeated automatically, surprised at how easily it came.
Mala brought her to the main cave, the one just inside the entrance. It was, well, a beehive of activity. Drones worked on the walls and floors and even the ceiling. Their little hammers rose and fell with clinking, tinking noises. One group was extending the frozen ocean waves. Another was smoothing the perfectly round stone sun. A third picked out more detail on the great tree that dominated the room. Still others were laying out wood on the floor or carrying supplies and other materials in and out of the cave. The air was heavy with stone and wood dust, and Keen put on her mask. She was startled to see sunlight pouring in from the cave mouth. Her insides rearranged themselves as she worked out that it was late afternoon. It must be a sign of the Beekeeper’s trust that she was allowed to know such things.
One of the drones working on the tree took off his mask a moment to wipe his face. It was Stuart. Keen, greatly daring, trotted over to him.
“Stuart!” she said, taking off her mask so he would recognize her.
He blinked at her, then smiled, the wrinkles on his face rearranging themselves into a grandfatherly benevolence that clashed with his insect-like mask and his green jumpsuit.
“Elizabeth! I’m glad to see you out here. We are the Hive!”
Keen and the workers in the immediate area all repeated the greeting. The drones went back to work.
“Mala put in a good word, and the Beekeeper thought I could join you all,” Keen said. “What are we
doing?”
“I’m expanding the tree,” Stuart said proudly. “Isn’t it grand? It was the only thing in the cave when the Beekeeper found it years ago. It was much smaller then, and it spoke to him with the voice of the Hive. He knew right away this was a holy place. Now it’s my honor to continue the work.”
Keen did her best to examine his face without seeming to stare. He looked utterly sincere.
“How do you know what to do?”
“The Hive speaks to those who listen,” he said fervently. “We just… know. You’ll understand when you start working yourself. I’m so excited for you!” Impulsively, he leaned forward and kissed her twice, once on each cheek.
“Thank you,” Keen said, resisting the impulse to wipe her face.
“Maybe you could work here with me,” Stuart continued with a look at Mala, who shrugged. “This tree is thousands of years old, but it’s been altered. See this here?” He pointed to the trunk and some of the leaves. “This part is rougher, done with stone tools. But this part over here—” He pointed to the river and the tree roots that twisted around the boulder with a small G on it. For Griffin, Keen supposed. “This part seems to be newer, perhaps two hundred years old. Some of the other drones found a hand-forged chisel, in fact. They left it as a memory to the place. Bees build around what exists, you see. Marvelous creatures.” He pointed. On the wooden floor was a small glass-topped case with an old chisel inside.
Stuart handed Keen a chisel and a hammer. For a wild moment she considered whacking him on the head with it and making a break for freedom, but she quashed the idea equally quickly. She’d only get a few steps before someone brought her down, and anyway, she needed to find a way to get closer to that sarin gas before the Hive could sell it. Working with a chisel on a stone bonsai tree in the weird underground lair of a renegade beekeeper wouldn’t do that. She thought lightning-fast, and an idea came to her. It seemed sound on a number of levels, except one—it made her stomach tighten and her chest hurt with dread. It would be so much easier just to pick up the chisel and go to work on the tree.
Instead, Special Agent Keen of the FBI turned to Mala and said, “I was wondering if maybe I could work in the nursery?”
“The nursery?” Mala said.
“I’ve already… had a child,” Keen said with a fake smile that broke her own heart, “so I have experience with babies.”
Liar, whispered an internal voice. She ignored it.
“And I’d like to… prepare for when I become a mother for the Hive.”
“You want to have a child, Elizabeth?” The Beekeeper was standing behind her. Keen jumped a little. Mala made a little noise and looked down. The drones kept working on the wall.
“I do,” Keen said.
“That seems a bit of a change for you.” The Beekeeper adjusted his enormous coke-bottle glasses and looked her up and down. A pace away stood his wife in her gray dress.
Keen was careful not to contradict. Protesting sounded like lying. “It’s something I’ve realized more and more since I got here,” she murmured. “And I thought me working in the nursery might help the Hive. But only if you agree, of course. I’m honored to work wherever the Hive needs me.”
The Beekeeper didn’t look reassured. He shook his head.
“Mala only recently convinced me to let you out of the training pen, my dear. I don’t think you’re ready for—”
“Aren’t they short-handed in the nursery this week?” Mrs. Griffin said. “Maybe I’m wrong.”
The Beekeeper turned to look at her. Mrs. Griffin’s plain face remained blank, and she looked down. Keen held her breath. After a long moment, the Beekeeper cleared his throat.
“It’s true, the nursery is going short lately,” he admitted. “One of the drones has gone missing, and we had to pull people off nursery duty to help the search parties.”
“Missing?” The question popped out before Keen could stop herself. She hastily added, “That’s awful! I hope he isn’t hurt somewhere.”
“That’s our assumption,” said Dr. Griffin, and now Keen knew he was lying. The drone had gone astray, and she knew deep in her gut that somehow Reddington was behind it. But what was he planning?
“The nursery, dear,” said Mrs. Griffin.
“Very well,” said the Beekeeper. “Get a fresh uniform first. You’re already covered in dust.”
Keen pressed her hands together. “Thank you, Beekeeper. We are the Hive!”
“We are the Hive,” he said.
“Good for you,” Stuart said. “Good for us.”
“Lucky,” Mala said as they strolled away. “I never thought to ask.”
“Thank you for bringing me out of the pens,” Keen said quickly. “I never knew how wonderful freedom could be. Out here. I’m glad I was chosen.”
Mala gave her an abstracted nod.
“Sure. John—the Bodysnatcher—is still in there, right?”
“I assume.” Keen spread her hands. “He’s not ready.”
“Definitely not,” Mala said firmly.
A few minutes later, Keen arrived in the nursery. Several children were rushing about shouting. A baby was screaming in one of the playpens. One of the harried women was changing another baby while the other was peeling damp clothes from a small child who had wet herself.
“I’m here to help,” Keen announced.
The woman at the changing table didn’t argue. “See what’s wrong with Luke. Then see if you can calm the screamers down.”
Luke needed a fresh diaper, too. Keen, who had earned plenty of money babysitting when she was in middle school, zipped him to the other changing table and set to work, trying to ignore the indignant wails.
“Are you all right?” the woman at the next table asked.
“Just the smell,” Keen said. “No matter how many you change, it always gets you.”
“I was in the military in my old life,” the woman said. “Sometimes I think I’d rather be gassed.”
Keen thought about the sarin just a few yards down the tunnel. “You know it. I’m Elizabeth.”
“Roberta,” she said. “That’s Sally.”
Keen finished fastening the diaper. Luke quieted and cooed a little. Keen couldn’t resist tickling his pink tummy, and he laughed. The sound twisted her heart again, and she stopped. Luke went back into his playpen. Then Keen snagged two shrieking little ones.
“Time for a story!” she announced. “Pick out a book by the time I count to seven, the lucky number. One… two…”
It was a trick she had learned babysitting. By the time she got to seven, one of the children had thrust a picture book into her hands. Keen examined it.
“Busy Buzzy Bee,” she read.
“Thank heavens there’s someone new to read that to them,” Roberta said. “Sally and I have it memorized.”
Keen sat with the children and opened the book. It was home-made and crudely done, with hand-drawn illustrations and a story printed with a magic marker. Keen read aloud.
“Buzzy Bee lived in the happy hive. He made honey with his happy, buzzy friends every day and slept in the cozy cave every night. But across the forest lived the wild, wicked wasps!”
“Wicked!” said one of the girls.
Keen read on. Buzzy and the other busy bees struggled against the machinations of the wicked wasps, and Keen figured the story was going to stress making friends out of enemies, with the usual sappy ending. But halfway through, the story took a different turn.
“When the wild, wicked wasps rushed at Buzzy Bee’s beloved hive, Buzzy and the other honey bees loaded their guns and blasted the wasps. Their blood poured out in red rivers—” Here Keen faltered. What the hell? The illustration showed anthropomorphized wasps curled on the floor of a beehive, each in a scarlet pool.
“—and the wild, wicked wasps screamed and died,” prompted one of the boys. “You have to read it!”
Keen did, forcing herself to add emphasis and relish. The children hung on every word.
“They will come,” said a little girl. “We’ll be ready! We are the Hive!”
“We are the Hive!” said the entire room.
“You didn’t say it,” a boy accused her.
“Sorry,” said Keen. “I was thinking about the story. We are the Hive. Now it’s time for a nap. No arguing, now! The Beekeeper is watching.”
It was the last phrase that did it. The children reluctantly slunk off to a series of cots pushed against one wall, and the three women tucked each of them in.
“You’re good with them,” Roberta observed. “I’m glad the Hive sent you down. You’ll make a wonderful mother, once you’re matched.”
That sent another pang through Keen, but she forced a tiny smile. “Thank you. I’ll need to learn their names, and their—”
One of the babies began to fuss in his playpen.
“I’ll get him,” Keen said. “He sounds hungry. You sit down.”
“Sit?” Roberta laughed. “When they’re asleep, we clean. He’s probably hungry about now. Formula bottles are in the little fridge over there.”
The fussy baby was Luke. Keen picked him up, and her babysitter instincts told her he was indeed hungry. Sorry, little one, she said to herself.
She heated a bottle from the fridge while Luke got fussier and fussier and finally exploded into full-blown crying. When Roberta and Sally weren’t looking, Keen snagged a small rubber ball from the toy collection, washed it in the sink with her back to them both while the bottle was heating, unscrewed the top of the bottle, and popped the ball inside the nipple. When she cradled Luke to feed him, he sucked greedily, but nothing came out of the bottle. After a few seconds, he spat the nipple out and cried again.
“Poor thing,” Keen murmured. “Take your bottle now.”
She gave it to him again, and again he couldn’t drink, so he spat it out and cried some more. Keen jigged him up and down in her arms, but that only made him cry worse.
“I think he’s just cranky,” Keen said. “How about I just walk him around a little to settle him down?”
Before either woman could object, Keen strolled out the door with the screaming Luke in her arms. The moment she was out of sight, she removed the ball from the nipple and gave the bottle back to Luke. Instantly, his cries ended.
The Blacklist--The Beekeeper No. 159 Page 15