He went back to the camera, ran the tape back, and watched himself speaking. Fine. Plenty of light from the picture window, focus was good, sound was tinny, but clear.
Ready. He went back to the bedroom, changed into dress pants, a white shirt, and a suit coat, then went back to the kitchen and got the gun he'd taken from the Russian agent in the bus museum parking lot.
He peered out the window, the cop was still reading the newspaper.
He cleared his throat and went back and stood in front of the camera, next to Grandma, the gun at his side, one hand on her shoulder, and began.
'My name is Colonel Sergey Vasilevich Botenkov, known here in the United States and Hibbing as Burt Walther. This is my last will and testament. I came here in nineteen thirty-four as part of a spy group working with the Soviet Union. I was first a lieutenant in the Cheka, a major in the NKVD, and when the Soviet Union dissolved, I was a colonel in the KGB. Since then we have been stranded, out of contact with the motherland. Melodie and I came here with three other couples. I have reason to believe that the U.S. government knows their names, but I will not mention them here, so as not to bring embarrassment upon their children.
'I was the commander of the group. Of the group, only my generation, now all dead except for Melodie and me, were intelligence agents-with two exceptions. My son worked as an agent, and my grandson; I was able to train both of them personally, as I raised my son as a good Communist, and, after he and his wife were killed in an automobile accident, my grandson, Roger. I felt the only way I could create a reliable agent was to teach them myself. The other families, and the later generations, lacked commitment and reliability.
'Our mission here in the United States was not to spy, but to move men and materials in and out of the country. We were a major support group for Soviet intelligence in the USA.
'About three weeks ago, a man came here from Russia, and told me that I was being reactivated, after a long period without contact with my department. I learned in the course of the meeting that he was part of a rogue group within the KGB that cooperated with Russian and American criminals: they were the so-called Russian Mafia.
'We are Communists, here. We are not criminals, not Mafia, and we work only for the betterment of the working class, everywhere. This man, Oleshev, threatened to reveal my name and background. We took action: my grandson, Roger, killed him at the port in Duluth, when he was about to reboard the ship that brought him here.
'During the investigation, Russia sent two investigators here: one aboveground, known as Nadezhda Kalin, as reported in the newspaper, and another, secret investigator. The covert operator tortured and threatened to kill the descendant of one of the original families. This man was innocent, and couldn't tell anyone anything because he knew nothing.
'When I learned of this, I called the embassy, got in touch with Russian intelligence, and asked to meet with this man, the secret investigator. We met, and I learned that Russian intelligence was intent on bringing us to trial-we who'd worked faithfully for them for seventy years!-for the killing of this criminal. Because the Russian embassy did not know who we were, but this Russian investigator had now seen our faces, Roger and I were forced to eliminate him as well.
'We then sent a message to the embassy: no more investigators. The embassy ignored us, and Nadya Kalin persisted. We decided to eliminate her, to make the point. Unfortunately, an American policeman intervened and was killed. This we did not intend.
'Also, at this time, it became apparent that the American police were unraveling the family names. When they had determined them all, it would become apparent that there was, ultimately, only one possible suspect in the killings, and that was my grandson, Roger. And that was the end for us. We began making preparations for this conclusion.
'Roger is now gone. We have had seventy years to perfect our transportation and reidentification techniques, and Roger is now safe, out of the country, and has a good, established identification and enough money to live upon. You will not find him.
'As for Melodie and me-we are too old to run, and Melodie is suffering from the final stages of Alzheimer's. I have therefore decided that the best way to end this is to end ourselves.'
He held up the pistol, then, and said, 'I took this pistol from the Russian agent that we met in the parking lot of the Greyhound Bus Museum.' He seemed to look at it for a moment, and then said, 'I will finish this film after I make a phone call.'
Still on camera, he took a cell phone out of his pocket, and dialed in a number. A woman answered, 'Law Offices,' and he said, 'Could I speak to Kurt Maisler or Kathy Stamm?'
'I'm afraid they're in a meeting…'
'My name is Burt Walther, and I need to talk to one of them immediately. This is literally a matter of life and death. Somebody's going to die in the next couple of minutes, and I need to talk to a lawyer.'
There was a pause at the other end, a hasty 'Just a moment, please,' and then, 'Mr. Walther? This is Kurt Maisler.'
Walther said, 'Kurt, I'm about to kill my wife and commit suicide…'
'Mr. Walther…!'
'No, listen. It's all very rational. But I have a last instruction. I have changed my will slightly, and it is on a videotape that the police will have. The tape is running right now. I want you to get the tape from the police, and I am directing you to show it to the TV stations. It concerns a series of killings here in which I was involved, with my grandson, Roger.'
'What?'
'Just listen. I want you to give the tape to the TV stations, if you can get it from the police. I'm not sure if this will work, but I am making it my last will, and I am appointing you to administer it.'
'Burt…!'
'Good-bye.'
Grandpa punched the power button on the cell phone, looking up at the camera, and said, 'I leave everything here, my entire estate, to Janet Walther, the wife of my grandson, Roger. I swear before God that Janet knew nothing of this, nor do the descendants of any of the other families. And I am proving my sincerity with this last act.'
He thought of the 'swear before God' at the last second, and it amused him: he no more believed in God than he did the tooth fairy, but he wanted viewers to sympathize.
He rubbed Melodie on the head one last time, and tears started down his cheeks. He looked up at the camera, to let them see the tears, which were real enough, then kissed his wife on the forehead and said, 'I will see you in heaven, my love,' placed the pistol against her temple, and pulled the trigger. The blast was deafening in the small room, and he turned away from her, at the sound of the shot, so he wouldn't have to see the wreckage.
Without looking back down at her, he spoke directly to the camera, said, 'Workers of the world, unite: you have nothing to lose but your chains.' Then he put the muzzle of the gun to his temple, just above and a little forward of his ear.
I should've been in show business.
He pulled the trigger.
Chapter 28
Lucas stuck the light on the roof, and they took off. Nadya, one hand braced against the dashboard, excited, face flushed, said, 'This could be the end.'
'Whatever it is, it's gonna be complicated,' Lucas said.
'Big question: Was it a shooting, or a gunfight?' Andreno asked.
'Only two shots; doesn't sound like much of a fight,' Lucas said. 'Ought to know soon now.'
With Lucas running hard, passing everything on the road and blowing through stoplights, the trip to Hibbing took sixteen minutes. When they got to Walther's house, there were six cop cars outside, all their lights going. A group of gawkers stood down the street, every one of the women with their arms crossed. Jan Walther stood directly across the street with a cop.
