The Blacklist--The Beekeeper No. 159

by Steven Piziks

  “You brought the key, didn’t you?” Reddington said.

  “It’s here.” Aram pulled the flash drive from his pocket and plugged it into the laptop next to the other device. He then clicked with the touch pad. A green light flickered on the walkie-talkie device, and a new program came to life on the laptop screen.

  “This got tricky,” Aram said. “GPS doesn’t work very well around the park because of the mountains, so—”

  “Because the Beekeeper is jamming the signals,” Reddington corrected.

  “Jamming?” Aram repeated.

  “The effect is the same, even if the cause is different,” Reddington said. “Go on.”

  “Oh. Hold on, then.” Keys chattered beneath Aram’s fingers. “I wish you’d said something earlier. I assumed it was the mountains—this changes everything.”

  “Explain,” Reddington said in a voice that tightened the tendons on Aram’s hands.

  “GPS signals don’t work like people think,” Aram said. “The satellites kind of… spray a radio signal all over the world, and it has a time code in it. A GPS device down here receives the signal and figures out where you are. Most people think the satellite tracks you, but it doesn’t. See, most GPS satellites were put up there in the seventies and they use really old technology, but it doesn’t matter because your device uses the signal, not the satellite. When your cell phone or car receives a GPS signal, it triangulates your position based on the signals it gets from the four GPS satellites above you at any time.” He was falling into a rhythm now, unable to stop himself. “Your device then figures out your position on a map. However, most personal devices don’t have the memory to carry a detailed street map of the USA inside them, so your phone accesses a map on a remote database so it can drop that little pin for you. That transmission is what we at the Post Office use to track people’s phones—we get the same information your phone is sending to the map database. Your phone tells us where you are. The GPS satellites don’t tell us anything.”

  “What, exactly, does this have to do with jamming the signal?” Reddington asked.

  “There are two ways to screw up GPS tracking,” Aram replied. “Someone can stop your device from accessing its database. This is tricky because you’d have to watch for every device in the area and shut it down individually. The second way is much easier.”

  “And that is?”

  “To jam the incoming GPS signal,” Aram said. “You can do that with parts from Radio Shack, if you know what you’re doing and if Radio Shack hadn’t gone out of business.”

  “So the Beekeeper is probably jamming incoming GPS signals,” Reddington said.

  “Yeah. And it’ll jam up the key, too. I can’t do anything with it unless I have an incoming GPS signal.”

  “Are you telling me,” Reddington said, too slowly, too quietly, “that your key won’t do what I need it to do?”

  All the ground Aram had gained vanished beneath him like sand in an earthquake. “I… I’m not…”

  “Because if I got you here after all that time and effort,” Reddington continued with cocked head, “I would have a right to be upset, don’t you think?”

  All Aram’s voice deserted him. He simply stared at Reddington.

  A sound emerged from the bedroom. Reddington jerked his head toward it. Dembe set down the helicopter control, leaving the drone hovering near the ceiling, and went inside. Aram belatedly wondered what Reddington had been doing in that room—and to whom.

  “You know, when I was a student at the Naval Academy,” Reddington said, “I knew a boy named Russ Dickworthy. A very unfortunate name, and, as you can imagine, the other cadets made his life miserable. The shared showers were a nightmare for him. But he stuck through it with clenched teeth and a loud Yes, sir! whenever someone called for one.”

  “And… he graduated?” Aram said.

  “He would have,” Reddington said amiably, “except that during a hand-to-hand combat class, he broke the neck of one of the other boys who had been particularly difficult to him with the soap. The crunch sounded like stale crackers. Two of the cadets threw up their shepherd’s pie. The incident was hushed up, and young Mr. Dickworthy was sent home. I believe he owns a chain of shoe stores these days. He signs his last name D-Worthy.”

  “I see,” Aram lied.

  The helicopter drone continued to hover over both of them. Reddington leaned forward, right into Aram’s personal space. He could smell the Scotch on Reddington’s breath.

  “What’s your stale-cracker moment, Aram? When are you going to snap?”

  Aram froze, a squirrel staring at the oncoming car. He started to speak, and his words would be angry. They would be strong.

  A grunt came from the bedroom, and a muffled thud. Reddington continued his hard stare. Aram licked dry lips, and the angry words died in his throat. He looked down instead.

  “Not today, then?” Reddington said. “Good.” He leveled a hard stare. “Fix. My. Key.”

  “I never said I couldn’t,” Aram told him. “It’s just—”

  “Yes?”

  “GPS satellites broadcast their signals on 1575.42 megahertz,” Aram said. “If the Beekeeper has a jammer, it must be attuned to that frequency.”

  “What does that mean?” Reddington said.

  “It means no drone in this area is receiving GPS signals, which means the computer can’t tell where they are,” Aram said.

  “If that’s true,” Reddington said, “the Beekeeper’s helicopter drones wouldn’t work, either.”

  “Right. I’m assuming they do work—otherwise he wouldn’t have them. However, the GPS satellites also broadcast a backup signal at 1227.6 megahertz. Most people don’t know that, but the Beekeeper likely does. He’s probably attuned his drones to 1227.6.” Aram’s fingers jumped around the keyboard. “If I change the key to operate at that frequency, we should be in business. And… so!”

  Aram’s laptop screen flickered, died, then burst into a glowing map of the park. More than a dozen red dots clumped over one spot, and a lone dot blinked at another. Aram let out a long sigh.

  “There,” he breathed. “It works. Watch.”

  He selected the lone dot, then tapped at the keyboard again. The hovering helicopter drone shuddered, then zipped into the kitchen. It crashed into a cupboard and fell to the floor.

  “Oops.” Aram hurried in to snatch it up. “You get the idea.”

  “That’s wonderful, Aram! I’m impressed!” Like a switch had been flicked, Reddington’s countenance changed completely and he clapped Aram on the back in a gesture that nearly stopped Aram’s heart. “How many of these can you control with that key?”

  Dembe emerged from the bedroom. He was wiping his hands on a handkerchief.

  “Uh… all of them,” Aram replied. “Plug this key into any computer or device that can broadcast a signal, and you’re good to go.”

  “Really? You could barely handle the one drone a moment ago.”

  “Well, yeah, but if you want to control a group, you probably want them all to go to one place, right? You enter the coordinates into the program here—” he demonstrated “—and the computer will handle the flying. The key will override their controllers and force them to go wherever you want. One of them or a hundred.”

  “Show me how to do it.”

  “You mind me asking what this is for?” Aram said, greatly daring. “I mean, Keen and Ressler are in those caves—that’s where the helicopter drones are. Why aren’t we going in there to get them out? And extracting this Beekeeper guy?”

  “I imagine Elizabeth is doing considerable damage to the Beekeeper as we speak,” Reddington said grimly. “But rest assured, Aram, I’m doing everything in my power to ensure her safe return, and this key is essential to that process. Now, if you don’t mind demonstrating? I’m not at my best with computer technology.”

  Aram did so, trying not to cringe away from Reddington—and whatever he had in that bedroom. Now he could hear… wheezing? The sound of
stale crackers crunched through Aram’s head. Despite his earlier protestations, Reddington proved a quick study, and although he didn’t actually activate the Beekeeper’s helicopter drones with the key, he proved adept at overriding and controlling the one Aram had brought with him. It seemed strange to see Reddington at a computer, and Aram realized he had never actually seen Reddington touch one before.

  When Reddington was satisfied he could control the drones with decent skill, he asked Dembe to kindly bring him another Scotch while Aram elaborately stretched his back. He couldn’t wait to be away from here, and back on familiar ground.

  “Well,” Aram said, “now that you have everything you need, I’ll be on my way. The rest of the team will be wondering where I’ve got to. Can Dembe show me the way out of the park?”

  “Out?” Reddington said archly. “Goodness, no, Aram. I need you here. I assume you saw my friends delivering that van outside. Dembe will shortly be busy with other things, and I’m going to need a driver. I was thinking… you.”

  Aram heard the sound of more stale crackers.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Elizabeth Keen wandered into the Beekeeper’s underground laboratory with baby Luke in her arms. He sucked greedily at the bottle. Unlike before, when Keen had slipped in with Mala, the lab now hopped with activity, and Keen took in details she hadn’t been able to see in the dim light with Mala. People bustled around from table to table, working with complex-looking machinery. A great many small canisters, each the size of a jar of apple juice, stood in open-top crates, all marked with the chemical danger symbol. In the corner stood an emergency shower. One table was taken up with rows of computers, and a wall was stacked with racks and racks of helicopter drones plugged into their chargers. Keen blinked, remembering the remote-control test she had seen outside the Hive with Dembe, just before she had allowed herself to be captured. Now she could see them up close, and they were muscular helicopter drones, built to power-lift serious payloads. Military grade. The Beekeeper had fingers—antennae—in many places. She still had no idea what they could be for.

  Several Hive drones in jumpsuits tapped away at computers, and while they didn’t wear masks, they kept them close at hand on their belts. Keen glanced at the canisters and felt uneasy without her own. If one of those things sprung a leak, she would be dead in seconds—along with nearly everyone in the Hive who wasn’t wearing a mask. Including Luke. His soft milk smell filled her nose, and a vision of his face turning blue as he coughed up blood and stared up at Keen, not understanding why he was in so much pain as his tiny life slipped away, crossed Keen’s mind. She swallowed nausea.

  “What are you doing?” One of the drones rushed over to her. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

  “Sorry. It’s the baby,” she said, presenting him. Luke continued sucking at the bottle. “Isn’t he sweet?”

  “He’s not supposed to be here,” snapped the drone.

  “I’m walking him to keep him quiet. When I stop, he cries.” She gave the drone a vacant smile. If she had been chewing gum, she would have popped it. “He seems to like it in here.”

  “Take him out,” the drone ordered. He was a tallish man with receding red hair that was pulled into a small ponytail. “Scoot, lady!”

  “Yeah, sure.” She turned to go and used the gesture to pull the bottle from Luke’s mouth. Instantly he set up a wail. Everyone in the lab looked up. Keen turned back around and put the bottle in his mouth again. Luke quieted. “Wow. He does like it here.”

  “It’s like that Snoopy special,” the drone said. “No dogs allowed. Or birds. Or kids. Out!”

  “Okay,” Keen said. “Hey, like, what’s your name, anyway?”

  “Vernon,” the drone replied. “Vernon Headly. I worked with Dr. Griffin—the Beekeeper—back in his army days and now I run the lab for him. Why?”

  This guy had been in the army?

  Keen shrugged. “The Beekeeper wants his son happy, like, all the time, you know? When Lukey here cries, the Beekeeper gets kinda pissed, and I don’t wanna get in trouble, right? So when he asks why Lukey’s crying, I hafta tell him who told me to take him away from the place that makes him happy. I mean, I can’t lie to the Beekeeper.”

  Vernon paled beneath his ponytail. “That’s the Beekeeper’s son? How can the Beekeeper have a son? Mrs. Griffin would never let him shag some girl drone in the off hours, man.”

  “Oops.” Keen’s face fell. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything. This isn’t his real son, like by birth, right? Lukey is his chosen successor. We’re feeding him special stuff to make him grow strong. I wasn’t supposed to say anything. You won’t tell, will you?” She looked anxious. “It’s our secret. Promise?”

  “Oh.” Vernon thought a moment, and a number of emotions crossed his face. “Sure. Promise. Rad.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “Like, we are the Hive!”

  “We are the Hive,” Vernon repeated faintly.

  “Anyway, we don’t wanna make trouble in the lab, Vernon, so I’ll go, even if it makes Lukey unhappy.” Keen raised Luke’s fingers in a wave. “Say bye, Lukey! Don’t cry, okay?”

  “Hey, that’s all right,” Vernon said. “Look, I’m sure it won’t be a problem for… him. Just stay out of the way.”

  She shook her head. “No, I should go. I wouldn’t want to make trouble.”

  “Really!” Vernon insisted. “Stay! It’s all pumpadelic!”

  “You won’t tell anyone what I said?” Keen said anxiously. “About Lukey? Before the Beekeeper announces it?”

  “Won’t say a word.” He raised his right hand. “Word!”

  “You’re great, Vernon.” Keen leaned toward him. “The Beekeeper comes into the nursery all the time, you know, because of… well, you know why. I’ll say some nice stuff about you.”

  “Really?” Vernon smoothed the front of his green jumpsuit. “Thanks.”

  Keen checked the bottle. Luke was nearly done with it. “Where are things with the sarin gas, anyway? The Beekeeper talks about it a lot. He wants to know if Lukey is gonna be safe.”

  “We’re almost done,” Vernon boasted. “Right on schedule. We’re just waiting on the final shipment of tributylamine.”

  “Try what?” Keen cracked her imaginary gum again.

  “Tributylamine.” Vernon gestured at the lab with obvious pride. He was clearly dying to talk to someone about all this, and Keen was happy to let him. “Rad stuff. Sarin is a binary chemical weapon, see. When it’s stored as a single gas, it’s harmless. Just before you use it, you mix it with tributylamine, and that makes it a mega-weapon. People clawing their eyes out, coughing up blood, mucus, guts, whatever the hell you want, man. Once the final shipment arrives, we’ll have enough to weaponize the rest of the sarin, and the plan will be a blast at last.”

  “Right.” Keen jiggled Luke on her arm. “The plan.” She took a shot in the dark. “The helicopter drones—have they all been tested so they’ll work right when the time comes?”

  “Well, yeah!” Vernon looked offended. “They’re all slaved to the main computer with a special key I gave to the big man himself, and we tested them with some smoke capsules. They spread the stuff like a hooker spreads syphilis.” He gave a little giggle. “With the computer in control to guarantee maximum efficiency, we’ll wipe out the entire countryside in no time, just as the Beekeeper planned.”

  Keen’s knees weakened and her arms tightened around Luke. Dread made her arms go cold. The Beekeeper had said he was planning to use the sarin, but he had been vague about who the victims would be, and when he wanted to use it. She hadn’t considered he was planning to use it so soon and so close. She glanced at the sarin canisters, standing like little missile silos near their crates. How many thousands of people would they kill? How many people were even now innocently having dinner at home or playing in the back yard or kissing their loved ones hello, not realizing that only a few miles away, their deaths awaited at the hand of a lunatic in coke-bottle glasses?

  �
��So the key,” she said, “lets him control all the drones at once and wipe out a whole town? That’s… pretty awesome.”

  “Isn’t it?” Vernon smiled, and lowered his voice. “That must be why the Beekeeper has chosen a successor.”

  “A successor?”

  “His son,” Vernon said, a little suspicion in his voice now.

  Vernon’s words had distracted her and she fumbled to recover. “Oh! Yeah. I’ll bet that’s it. All part of the plan.” She paused. “The key must be pretty cool. Can I see it? No, of course I can’t.”

  Vernon wasn’t up for the denial game this time. “It’s in the safe over there,” he said pointing. “It’s not much to look at anyway. Just a flash drive you plug into the computer.”

  “Wow,” Keen said. “I can barely, like, figure out a cell phone.”

  He gave her a condescending smile. “Rad. Once everything’s been cleansed, we can come out from underground. We can take all of Roebuck and the other towns for ourselves, and the man won’t be able to touch us. Not with the drones and more gas to protect us.”

  Keen was a trained psychologist. From her first days of psych classes at UVA through her behavioral sciences training at Quantico, it had been pounded into her head that there was no such thing as crazy or lunatic. There was an explanation for every strange disorder of the human mind, whether it was schizophrenia, narcissism, or dissociative identity disorder. But here diagnostic words failed her. The guy was plain nuts. This plan had no hope of succeeding. None. Even if the sarin gas killed the maximum number of victims possible, “cleansing” the area of all non-Hive people, the Hive wouldn’t be able to spread out and take over the area just because they had gas masks and a bunch of weapons. The National Guard would eat them alive within hours.

  But that hardly mattered. What mattered was that Vernon, that the Beekeeper, thought it could work, that they intended to kill thousands of people by unleashing a cloud of deadly chemicals big enough to wipe out an entire city. Suddenly the stakes were far higher than Keen had imagined. It no longer mattered if the FBI and the Hive got into a standoff. What mattered was shutting them down in any way possible. Taking the Hive down from the inside would take too long. She had to find a way to contact the Post Office, even if it meant she herself got caught in the crossfire.