Moving On
An Irish Catholic Conscience
By Pat Squared
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Slumber sweet, my fairest baby,
Slumber calmly, sleep--
Peaceful moonbeams light thy chamber,
In thy cradle creep;
I will tell to thee a story,
Pure as dewdrop glow,
Close those two beloved eyelids--
Lullaby, By-low!
List! The Terek o'er its pebbles
Blusters through the vale,
On its shores the little Khirgez
Whets his murdrous blade;
Yet thy father grey in battle--
Guards thee, child of woe,
Safely rest thee in thy cradle,
Lullaby, By-low!
Grievous times will sure befall thee,
Danger, slaughterous fire--
Thou shalt on a charger gallop,
Curbing at desire;
And a saddle girth all silken
Sadly I will sew,
Slumber now my wide-eyed darling,
Lullaby, By-low!
When I see thee, my own Being,
As a Cossack true,
Must I only convoy give thee--
"Mother dear, adieu!"
Nightly in the empty chamber
Blinding tears will flow,
Sleep my angel, sweetest dear one,
Lullaby, By-low!
Thy return I'll wait lamenting
As the days go by,
Ardent for thee praying,--fearing
In the cards to spy.
I shall fancy thou wilt suffer,
As a stranger grow--
Sleep while yet thou nought regrettest,
Lullaby, By-low!
I will send a holy image
'Gainst the foe with thee,
To it kneeling, dearest Being,
Pray with piety!
Think of me in bloody battle,
Dearest child of woe,
Slumber soft within thy cradle,
Lullaby, By-low!
The street beggar staggered down the street signing the old Lermontoff Cossack lullaby off-key. His melody drew glares as there was little love lost between the Cossacks and ethnic Russians. For generations the Russian royalty used the Cossacks to keep the peasants in line. Even now, the new government deliberately recruited young Cossacks to serve as contract soldiers. The one still left in the countryside were expert hunters and tough enough to fight in conditions that would kill the typical Muscovite.
However, no one would suspect that the old, alcoholic drunk wandering the streets of Saint Petersburg was anything else but.
Wade had hit a dead end. Drakken paid thirty million US dollars to the crew that spring him for custody. Some of the money came from a Russian banking house. However, the Russian's did not put all their transactions into the servers. Some accounts, the most secretive of accounts used paper ledgers with the funds moving from a general account. Often the best defense against a high tech intrusion was not the latest firewall, but going low tech. Now it was up to Tim Possible to get inside to photograph the ledgers.
Armed only with a disguise, a few lock picks, a couple modified cameras, a suppressed .22 Walther PPK-knockoff, and a 1970's Cold War Era Minox C loaded with ASA 25 film, Tim Possible was on the hunt for the most dangerous of prey...two legged prey.
He sat under the tree begging for rubbles as his eyes recorded the little tell tales of security devices. Some were crude and expected. Others were more devious. He had staked out this bank for one week learning the habits of the security personnel and local police.
"Move on Cossack."
Tim staggered off.
Everyone here knew him as Cossack. Posing as a veteran of the campaigns in Chechnya, everyone let the drunk have a little space. Lots of Cossacks served in the Russian Special Forces and veterans were rumored to snap off the head of their enemies with their bare hands. Between the reputation as a Cossack and former veteran, no cop would be willing to tussle with the old drunk. Tim was trained by several former special operation types during his association with Global Justice. The American might have had the most intelligence, but the Russian's recruited the hardest. From Victor Ivanovich, formerly of the GRU, Tim had learned the Russian combat art of Sambo.
He thanked the police officers, offered them a swig of his vodka (which they actually refused), and make his way to a bicycle he stashed. He pedaled off to the safe house five kilometers away.
Inside, he attached his video camera to the computer. He recorded his observations and factored in many things, some of which he could not describe. Tim had learned that logic was not the only way to find the truth.
Tonight would be the night. At night the police were harder. They would search him if they caught him. He would have to be careful. He needed his pistol. He would do a hit on one of the bank officers, Gregory Alexovich Kerensky. This guy had connections with the Russian mob and wacking such a man would make everyone believe at first that this was a Russian mob deal.
Tim had gotten use to the killing. He had killed and tortured dozens to get to this point. One more filthy soul would not damn him anymore for he was already damned. He would leave the pistol behind. The pros always did in America. With the Russian mob filled with ex-KGB and ex-Russian Security Service types, a professional style hit was more common here in the land of alcoholic, suicidal poets than back in America.
Tim both liked and loath Russia. It was like Colorado with the perfect counter touch of corruption that allowed one like him to do his business. Some men when to Tahiti for vacation. Tim went to Russia and the other shit holes of the world to sort the locals out.
Tim knew that something was wrong with him. He enjoyed converting a man's head into a mist of grey bone and pink brains. A part of him enjoyed hearing the screams and pleas for mercy before he pulled the trigger. He had not fallen far enough to totally shed his Irish Catholic conscience, but enough for his conscience to slow down. He got to enjoy the rush of the hit and then have the Irish Catholic guilt come and smack him around later.
Then he would drown his troubles either Irish style or Russian style. A piƱa colada or a martini were not the type of drinks one drank to forget his misdeeds.
Jim was off at grandpa's old cabin with his lover, Danny Flagg. Tim wondered what the old man would think of the way Jim now swang. Grandpa was a conservative who bemoaned that the Democratic Party fell after the death of Kennedy. Grandpa actually kept an arsenal of Garands, BAR's, and M1 Carbines in case the Soviet's came considering it to be his civic duty to be ready. Grandpa hated commies. After serving as an officer Korea and Viet Nam, who would not.
His mother was well meaning. His father was too caught up in building rockets. His sister was too busy raising her child. Tim was alone, trapped in a knifefight with his conscience and he was left alone to bleed.
One day he knew the hunt would be over. His reason for being would cease to be. Then he would end it all and go on his own one way trip to hell. It was not a matter of if, but when.
