Hidden Prey

remembered the first time he’d seen Melodie, who was a typistat the Cheka training school, and the way she’d cocked her head when she laughed . . .
    He turned away from his memories of the kulaks; those were not for this day, though he couldn’t repress the memory of a peasant who tried to joke with him, tried to make him laugh as a way out of execution. The man’s oval, careworn face but with the jolly mobile lips as he told his joke and did a little awkward dance to accompany it . . . Didn’t work.
    He remembered the English lessons, the violent old man who beat the grammar into them, the long lists of words. He remembered the first time he saw Canada, the trip across the bleak prairie, on the train, the walk through the frozen farm fields from Manitoba to North Dakota, Melodie freezing in an inadequate wool coat that turned out to be mostly cotton, and leather shoes that seemed to dissolve in the snow.
    The memories after that all ran together: World War II, the arrival of the children, Korea, moving operators across the border and up the lake, the victory in Vietnam followed by the growing anxiety of the post-Vietnam years, the car accident that took his children away and left him Roger.
    Regrets about Roger: he’d been too harsh with him, too demanding of a boy who just didn’t have the fiber for a spy’s life.
    He remembered scouring the newsstands for word of Afghanistan . . .
    Then the collapse, and the years of silence from the motherland.
     
    G RANDPA OPENED HIS eyes when he heard a car crunching off the road in front of the house. A police car, and his heart sank. He stood up, waiting for the cop to get out of the car. He could see the cop looking at him, but he never got out.
    What was going on? Was he waiting for more to arrive?
    Maybe there was still time, he only needed five minutes . . .
    He hurried into the small bedroom they used as a library, found the video camera, the new tape and the cheap tripod that had come with the package. The battery he’d recharged over the last two days, and had already tested: it was fine.
    The camera had been a Christmas gift ten or twelve years earlier, and he’d only used it a few times. That wasn’t a problem, though, because it was a simple, inexpensive machine. He took it into the living room and set it up in front of the picture window, aimed toward Grandma. At the same time, he looked out at the cop: the cop was reading a newspaper.
    Nothing but pressure? An attempt to embarrass him? Maybe he had time . . .
    Grandma stirred, and he said, “Just a minute, Melodie. It’ll be just a minute.”
    He started the camera, made sure it was running, and focused on Grandma, then walked around it, stood beside her, and said, “This is Sergey Vasilevich Botenkov, also known as Burt Walther, checking the camera.”
    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.
     
    “M Y NAME IS Colonel Sergey Vasilevich Botenkov, known here in the United States and Hibbing as Burt Walther. This is my last will andtestament. 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