Chapter Nineteen

Precise timing was essential, and every second counted. Sam Monella was following the plan to the letter. He pulled down his trousers, sat down in the third stall from the left, and flushed the toilet twice.

The door to the next stall opened, then shut, and its toilet flushed twice.

"Is damn change in schedule!" hissed Sam Monella. "We just find out, the big man--he come in the morning. Ten o'clock!"

"And y'all be good and ready then, won't ya?" asked the reverend Billy Bob.

"We'll just move the schedule up, that's all," whispered Mrs. Billy Bob.

"Okay! Okay!" whispered Sam Monella. "I tell Kay Pasa."

The toilet flushed. "Come, honey," said the reverend Mrs. Billy Bob. "Let us repair to our rooms and pray for a successful outcome of our Lord's mission!" She led her husband by the hand down the hall. "Now, honey, where did you say you left that Niemann-Marcus catalogue?"

"Back in Dallas, honey pie. But let's you and me draw up ourselves a little shopping list."

#

Across the hallway and down one stairway, Comrade Rassolnikov whispered into another lavatory door, "There's been a change. Ten o'clock in the morning! Things must be ready by then!'

"Okay, okay!" whispered Borya Smetanov. "Have you found out about that other--other person yet?"

"Which other person?" Rassolnikov snapped.

"You know! The one diddling my wife!"

Rassolnikov coughed, then cleared his throat. "We're still checking into that."

Sam left. Rassolnikov did his business, then looked for toilet paper. Damn. There was none. He peeked into the next stall. None. There was nothing in sight, except for half a book on the floor by the sink. He stretched out and snagged it with his foot, then dragged it into the stall. He tore out a page. Towards a Healthy Socialist Consumer Economy, by Comrade Leonid Brezhnev.

#

Two flights up, Sam Monella slipped into a lavatory stall, rapped on the pipes twice, and flushed the toilet twice. He waited ten minutes, then heard the door to the adjoining stall open and close.

"Is change in plans," he whispered. "Ten o'clock in the morning."

"Is no problem!" answered Kay Pasa. "You got the Polish weasel-lady all set up to take the fall?"

"Who?" asked Sam.

"Jane Kuye, the Polish anarchist."

"No, she's just a foil. We no blame it on Communists! We blame the American."

"Oh, is good idea!" said Kay Pasa. "Very good for the party! For the movement!"

The toilet flushed.

"By ten o'clock, the movement takes a whole new direction!" whispered Sam.

"Viva la movement!"

#

There was a rustling, banging, and general cussing from down in the cellar.

"Damn!" said Perezhitkov. "I can't figure it out. There are no leaky pipes! Nothing looks any worse then usual."

"Then why is there no god-forsaken water pressure?" shrieked Liuba Smetanova from the stairs. "Toilets are flushing all over the god-forsaken place, yet, I can't get mine to flush at all! Oh, to think of it! Tomorrow's the big day and my toilet won't even flush! Shame on you! I'll take this all the way to the Kremlin, I will!"

#

David stopped down at the widow's apartment for a late-night cup of tea, toasted rolls with jam, and mostly for a conversation with Anna.

"Well, everybody's on edge," he said. "The grand opening ceremony's in the morning."

"They'll probably kick us out on the street before then," sighed the widow.

"Oh, I don't think so," said David. "Everyone has a heart, don't they?"

"Hardly!" said Anna.

He winked. "I've already talked to a few officials. I asked them if they'd like me to do a story for some American newspapers, maybe television-"

"What kind of story?" asked Anna.

David smiled. "Oh, say, a story about a new hotel opening up. About the president himself coming to the grand opening, and about a widow evicted from her life-long abode-"

"It sounds too pathetic!" said Anna. "No one would publish that!"

David laughed. "You don't know American journalism then! The magazines, the newspapers, even radio and television--they'd all love a piece of that story. It has human interest. You know, the price we pay for change."

"I'm not asking them not to change," said the widow. "Just to leave me alone, in peace."

"That's what makes the story so interesting," answered David. "It's not a confrontation between old and new--that's been done many times. This is something different--let's say, it's an attempt by the old to have the new accommodate it, but the new refuses."

The widow sighed. "I doubt if anything will come of it."

"I'd love to be as optimistic as you," Anna told David. "But, I guess, my life hasn't left me too many opportunities to be optimistic."

David's eyes twinkled. "Well, maybe that'll change. Listen, I finally got through with that deputy, Rassolnikov. He's been putting me off. But, now he's agreed to meet with me tomorrow--maybe to avoid a problem before the ceremonies. I think he's got some kind of compromise up his sleeve."

"That would be too good to be true," said Anna, and the widow Petrova nodded.

#

Streetcars with frosted windows ground past on iron rails, and cold blue sparks flew from the lines overhead. Koshka limped forward two blocks, following his instincts, hoping he was headed in the right direction.

It was a feline hell. The sidewalks lay sheathed in ice that jabbed at his paws and stiffened his limbs. There were human legs to avoid too. One old man staggered right into Koshka. His boot dug into Koshka's side, right where the rat had bitten him, and the man nearly fell on top of the cat. A bottle whizzed across the pavement and smashed at the base of a light pole.

"It's a disgrace!" snapped a passing woman.

"There's more of it every day!" sighed another. She was carrying a net bag, and Koshka caught the scent of fresh fish. His mouth watered, and his paws wanted to dart after her. Now was not the time to pause, or to even think about eating. He crossed the street, ever wary of cars and trucks. A tubby-looking old bus hurtled around the corner, the driver puffing on a cigarette. Koshka darted from under the wheels. It was a true feline hell.

"Mama, look!" said a small voice. "A kitty! Look! It's all dark and striped, except it has white mittens!"

"Poor beast!" said the woman, hurrying the child along. "It's not a fit night out."

"Let's take kitty home!" said the child, turning back and keeping his eyes on Koshka.

"We don't have enough meat for ourselves," said the woman, tugging at the boy's hand.

Koshka paused across the street, hoping to get his bearings in the feline sea of hell. He made out a statue in the dark. Behind it was an iron gate, more fences, and sidewalks extending in all directions, like the spokes of a giant wheel. Which one, if any, would lead him to the Glasnost Hotel?

The city's lights seemed to recede into the numberless dark corners of the park. Koshka looked up at the skyline. Under which rooftop, under which dark, squat silhouette stood the hotel? Each block was like another exactly identical peak in a mountain range that stretched forever.

Then all of a sudden his eye squinted, and his vision turned sharp. He stopped in his tracks, focused on a long thread of yellow light high in the distance. Yes! It was the television tower! How many times had he seen that long shaft of light from the Glasnost Hotel, from the court yard, even from the watch factory during the nightly gathering of cats!

It was a beacon! A godsend. A light that would bring him home through the storm! With new energy, he crossed the square and headed across the street. His heart pounded so, he hardly felt the wounds on his side, the pain in his leg.

He dashed through streets and court yards. It was late. No cats howled. Here or there, he heard the muffled cries of a human baby, a man and a woman shouting and, from another building, booming rok-and-roll music.

Then he came out onto a wide street. There were fewer pedestrians now--fewer cars and trucks too. The streetcars still glided over their rails. Two trolleys skimmed across a low-arching bridge ahead, while others lingered on the far side, in a circle, as if conferring.

The bridge! Yes, he had seen that bridge before, but yes--from the other side! New energy flowed through his body, and his paws quickened their pace. Pat-pat-pat-pat, they went on the pavement. He, the Wonder Cat, was doing what hardly any cat could do. He was picking his way home through a feline hell.

A truck lumbered past. Then another. Koshka kept to the sidewalk, then slinked along the bridge railing. A young man and woman embraced, their bodies leaning slightly over the rail. Koshka slipped around them. They were too busy to notice a cat, slung low to the ground, passing.

The television tower was closer, brighter, beckoning. Two more blocks. One streetcar. One bus. Two trucks. Pat-pat-pat-pat. Then he stopped at the corner. Miracle of miracles! It was a familiar corner. He looked to his right.

Popov Street! His heart pounded. He looked both ways, then shot across the street like a furry canon ball. "Oh, world!" he said under his breath. "Make way for Wonder Cat!"

He shot down the street like a bullet. Two men huddled in a doorway turned in amazement.

"What the devil was that?" asked one.

"I don't know!" said the other. "But, here!" He handed the other a bottle. "You take this. I think I've had enough."

Across the street, Koshka hit the pavement at a full run. Victory! Oh, sweet victory! It was better, for all the suffering and waiting! He could see the hotel! He could make out the faint greenish neon that said "Glasnost" in a swirl that humans and cats could barely decipher.

He stopped in his tracks. What now? Where now? Instinct. Instinct. Wonder Cat knew! In a flash, he darted to the left and headed across the empty court yard. On one side stood Avvakuum's trash heap. Nothing had changed. It seemed like years since Koshka had seen the court yard. He dashed past the heap, then out of the yard, across the street, and over the fence in one leap.

No lights burned in the "People's Collective Time Marches Ever Forward" Watch Factory, of course, but the city's lights made faint patterns on the frosty windows. Koshka leapt up to a low sill and peered inside. Good! Masha, his beloved Masha, was swinging from the work light. There was Feofan Lapa, just as Koshka remembered. The Wonder Cat had perfect timing! The room was filled with blinking eyes.

He darted through the crack in the wall. "Fellow cats!" he blurted out, still on the run.

"Whoa?' asked Avvakuum.

"Who interrupts our nightly meeting?" asked Feofan Lapa, and the Yauza River Moscow Feline Elders' Congress members nodded their heads in approbation.

"Fellow cats!" Koshka blurted, slamming on his brakes and coming to an instant stop. "We--we--we must act!"

"It's Koshka!" sang Misha.

"Ura! It's our Koshka!" cheered Grisha.

"Why, Koshka!" said Masha, suspended on her swing.

"Fellow cats!" said Koshka, taking the stage. His heart still pounded, and he tried to catch his breath. He bowed to Feofan Lapa. "We must save the--save the world! We must!"

"Why, you look a wreck!" remarked Masha. "Where have you been all this time?" she demanded. "Worrying us all like that! Shame on you!"

"There's no time for that!" said the Wonder Cat. "Everything hinges on us, on us cats! We must save the world--tomorrow!"

And with that, he panted out his story. All of it. The reverend and his wife. Rassolnikov and Osip. Rodya Raccoon and Yezhy Yozhik.

"Amazing!" said Misha.

"Unbelievable!" said Grisha.

Feofan Lapa shook his head. "Surely, surely we must act!"

"Act! Schmakt!" snapped Avvakuum. "We're just cats. We can't save the world!"

"We can try!" said Feofan Lapa.

"Yes, we can try!" said Misha and Grisha.

"We will try!" said Koshka. "Let us do it together!"

The cats cheered.

And that night, a call and a wail went out from the watch factory, across the fences on Popov Street, down to the cellars off Kirovsky Prospekt, and over the bridge, until word had spread over all the seven hundred and ten bridges of the city and to all the cellars and court yards and factories. Word even spread to the tired old cats in the cellar of the Winter Palace, and up on Nevsky Prospekt near the Annichkov Bridge, where the old, shaggy Mitrofan Memorial Society cats held an emergency meeting and passed a resolution calling themselves to immediate action.

Throughout the city, cat whispered to cat, and eyes like city lights blinked in the distance.

#

Morning came faster than anyone expected.

The motorcade turned onto Kirovsky Prospekt.

"Ura! Ura! cheered the crowd. "Long live our leader!"

"Bah! Bah!" went other voices. "Where's our meat? Our soap? Our apples and oranges?"

"You people, Ai!" yelled Dmitry the militia man, wagging his finger at the crowd. "Shame on you! You're complaining and grumbling like a bunch of Amerikans! Look, our leader is coming! This is a parade, for god's sake! Show respect! Smile and cheer. Look, those are television cameras! Smile! Wave! Look happy! Don't you remember the old days?"

"We do!" shouted one lady. "So shut up, and don't remind us!"

"Clear the streets! Stay back!" snapped Dmitry through his bull horn. "Clear the streets for the leader's motorcade!"

Long, sleek, black Zil limousines slithered up Kirovsky Prospekt. In the third limousine, the Great Comrade in his fedora sat next to the great Mrs. Comrade. She was talking. He was nodding his head.

The parade turned onto Popov Street. Giant cameras rested on top of tall platforms, on the roofs of buildings, in the hotel windows. There were American cameras and Russian cameras and even a Bulgarian camera. A new banner hung from the front of the "People's Collective Time Marches Ever Forward" Watch Factory. "Forward with Change!" it proclaimed.

The third limousine, the one with the flags stuck into the front bumper, stopped right at the steps of the Glasnost Hotel. The Great Comrade stepped out of the car and waved his fedora.

"Ura! Ura!" went the crowd. The cameras buzzed, hummed, and clicked.

Ta. Ta. Ta-ta-Tam! A band started playing, and batons twirled in the air.

Then Comrade Perezhitkov stepped out of the hotel entrance. He was wearing a crisp white shirt that was tight around his neck, a sporty red tie with geometric designs, and a freshly-pressed suit. His hand went up in the air, and the crowd turned quiet.

Comrade Perezhitkov cleared his throat. His face turned red and he tapped his microphone, frowned, and tapped it again.

Nothing.

He blew into it.

Nothing.

He blew again.

Scre-e-e-ch! Every loudspeaker on Popov Street reverberated. People plugged their ears.

"Dear comrades!" began Perezhitkov.

"Louder! We can't hear!"

"Dear comrades!" he shouted. His breath came out in little swirls of fog.

"Scre-e-e-ch!" went the loudspeakers.

"Dear comrades," he repeated. "On this auspicious occasion, on this glorious winter day, on this important-"

"Oh, get on with it!" snapped Babushka Shura.

Perezhitkov adjusted his shirt collar, then his tie. "On this day, in these times." He adjusted his hat and his coat. "When tides of change sweep over us and over the world, when a new cooperation between nations has arisen, when-"

"Oh, thank you so much for the pomp and ceremony, but please, you can get on with it!" came a voice. It was the great Mrs. Comrade herself.

Perezhitkov spit out his words as fast as he could, and the fog rushed from his mouth. "As we open this fine hotel, this symbol of cooperation, as we-"

"Get on with it already!" snapped a man holding a heavy camera. "You think this is Yalta or something? It's twenty below zero out here!"

"Hrumph!" said Perezhitkov, his face turning even redder. "We--we welcome our great leader and prezident to our humble opening ceremonies! We welcome the Mrs. Great Leader and Prezident too!"

A cheer went up from the crowd. "Ura!" All shouted as if in one voice, and their mittens made for muffled applause.

The great one stepped forward and took the microphone from Perezhitkov. The band played softer now, like background music.

"Dear comrades!" began the great one. The microphone screeched. He tapped it with his thumb. "Dear comrades!" he repeated.

"What the-" It was a remark from the back of the crowd, across the street.

The cry went up. "What the-"

Heads turned. "What in the devil's name-"

People tried not to notice, pretended not to notice, but more heads turned.

Even the tuba player turned. Then the trombonist, and the bugle boy. "What the-" The music trailed off into an out-of-tune nothing.

The Great Comrade squinted, looking off into the distance. Finally, the great Mrs. Comrade herself craned her neck, then turned to her husband. "What in the devil's name is going on back there?" she snapped.

"How in the devil's name should I know?' snapped his greatness. "There's something going on behind the crowd. I can't see it. I don't know what's going on!"

"You're supposed to know, dummy! You're the prezident!"

"It's not my fault I'm so short!"

More heads turned, until no one faced the Glasnost Hotel, not even the secret service guards.

"What the-?" asked the KGB men.

"Cats!" came the answer from the back of the crowd.

"What?" asked the great Mrs. Comrade.

"Cats!"

"You've been drinking too much vodka, you loafers and shirkers!" said the Great Comrade.

"It's cats!" came the murmur from the crowd. "Thousands of cats!"

The crowd was right. It was cats. More cats than anyone before had ever seen in one place, at one time.

"M-r-r-o-o-o-w-w-w!"

It was a wall of paws, moving down Kirovsky Prospekt and turning onto Popov Street. It was a volcano of fur, flowing down the pavement. Cats came from around buildings and up from cellars and down from gables and roofs. It was a sea of cats. An army of cats. Tabby cats and short-hairs. Gray cats and black cats. Fat cats and skinny cats. Old cats and kittens.

Paws rushed forward rhythmically, unrelenting. Heads bent low in determination. Tails bushed out with purpose.

"Forward, Cats!" shouted Koshka from his vantage point. And the cats lowered their heads even more and charged forward.

"Left flank, march!" commanded an old red cat. And a second feline army rushed forward.

"What the-" said the great Mrs. Comrade.

But by then, there was no answer. People tried running for cover, but to no avail. The cat avalanche continued its great slide across Popov Street. The fur glacier moved at break-neck pace. The crowd scattered. The tuba player threw down his horn and ran for shelter. "My God!" he shouted. "We're being invaded by cats! Millions of them!"

Soon there were cats everywhere. On roofs, on gables and gutter spouts, on camera platforms, on sills and casements, on fences and gateposts, on lights and poles, on streets and sidewalks. Everywhere, there were cats. Popov Street crawled with fur, as if it itself were a furry beast.

"Quick!" hissed Comrade Rassolnikov to the great leader. "Let's--let's turn around and--and--let's get inside, away from all this--this confusion!" He grabbed the leader's arm.

"No," said the leader firmly, shaking free from Rassolnikov. "I want to see what in the devil's name is going on here!"

Rassolnikov panicked. Where was Valentin? Yes, of course, he was upstairs at the window, but he wouldn't shoot until the leader had turned around. And he needed the sign too.

Rassolnikov panicked. What was going on? Was it a dream? The leader stood frozen. Ten thousand cat paws were patting their way down Popov Street. Now was the time to act. Now or never.

"Come, oh great leader!" pleaded Rassolnikov. "Let's--let's just turn around and go inside."

"Leave me alone!" the great leader snapped.

"What the--what's going on here?" asked a KGB agent, stepping up to the great leader.

"I don't know, Victor," said the leader. "I thought you were supposed to know everything!"

"Everything, yes! But not this--not cats!" He looked around, then he took the great leader by the arm. "Here, let's go! Back to the Zil! Then I'll get on the radio, right to the Kremlin. We'll find out what in the devil's name is going on here!"

But by then, a wide river of cats was flowing right up to the very steps.

"No, it's safer inside!" pleaded Rassolnikov, grabbing the leader's left arm.

"He's going this way!" said Victor firmly, pulling the leader's right arm.

And the sea of cats parted, as if magically, and the leader and Victor walked to the Zil parked at the curb.

Rassolnikov's head spun around. Damn that Valentin! Why hadn't he done it, before the leader was back inside the car? Where was the gunfire? What exactly in the devil's name was going on, Rassolnikov wondered. Then it dawned on him. Damn. He had forgotten to give Valentin the high sign, and he had forgotten to step back from the comrade leader! What could he do now?

People were running every which way, and the sidewalk heaved and swelled with cats. Red cats and black cats and striped cats and plain cats. Rassolnikov rushed inside the hotel and slammed the door behind him.

But a single door, constructed by mere humans, was no fit barrier for a barrage of cats.

"Charge!" yelled the Wonder Cat.

"Ladies' battalions, advance!" commanded Masha at precisely the same instant.

And cats flooded in, like the Neva itself, swirling through windows and under doors and through cracks and crevices. In no time, cats covered the cellar, the first floor, the stairways, the landings. The Glasnost Hotel was awash in cats.

"This way, cats!" shouted the Wonder Cat from the foyer. "Upstairs! This way!"

"This way!" shouted an old red cat, leading a contingent up from the cellar.

A wave of cats welled up to the second story, the third story too, and soon the whole building bulged with cats.

"In there! Quick, they're in there!" shouted Wonder Cat, pointing at a thick wooden door.

Cats heads lowered. Fur bristled, and tails bushed. "Okay now, cats! Ready!" commanded Wonder Cat. "Ch-a-r-g-e!"

The door disintegrated into tooth picks under the weight of a thousand ramming cats. And inside the tiny room, Sam Monella turned, his eyes wide and his mouth open. There was a rifle in his hands. Next to him, Kay Pasa took careful aim with a pistol.

"Cats, charge!" cried out Wonder Cat.

Before Kay Pasa's fingers could reach the trigger, an old red cat dug his fangs into her ankle.

"Ow!" cried Kay Pasa. "Ai-ai-ai-yai!" She grabbed her ankle, and the gun dropped from her hands.

"Ch-a-r-g-e!" yelled Wonder Cat, throwing his whole weight at Sam Monella's chest.

"Mama Mia!" The man fell backwards under Koshka's weight. Pow! Bam! The rifle bounced to the floor. There was a cloud of smoke, then the Uzi blew into a thousand pieces.

"Ai!" shouted Sam, still stuck to the floor. "My Uzi! My Uzi! Look what you did to my Uncle Uzi!"

It all happened so fast. In four second's time, KGB agents filled the room, and soon both Kay Pasa's hands and Sam Monella's hands were tied behind their backs. Chaos reigned. There were shouts in the hallway.

"Victory! Victory!" howled the cats. "We got the assassins!" went out the cry. "There were two of them, and we got them both!"

"What in the devil's name is going on?' asked a human voice. It was Perezhitkov.

"It's--it's an assassination attempt!" said another human wearing a KGB pin on his lapel. "I mean, there was an assassination attempt, I think."

"What do you mean, 'you think'?" asked Perezhitkov. "You people are supposed to know everything!"

"Not any more!"

Chaos reigned. The hallways filled with shouting humans and swirling cats. KGB men ran down the halls. "Alright! Alright!" they shouted. "Everybody clear the halls! Stay in your rooms! No one leaves the building!"

"Ura!" said the cats. "We did it!" They all shouted together.

Except Wonder Cat. "Come on, Masha!" he said. "Follow me. I think something is still going on around here."

They headed up one flight. David ran behind them.

"What--what's going on?" pleaded Anna.

"An assassination attempt!" David panted. "Run for cover! I'm going to follow that cat!" He ran for the stairs and Anna followed. The widow stood on the landing, her hands to her mouth in fear. "Please, be careful! Both of you!"

The Wonder Cat rushed on. He spotted another closed door, ominously silent. Instinct said, in there! Koshka lowered his head and charged. The door held.

"Help me, Masha!" he said. And the two cats charged forward. The door sighed and fell off its hinges. Inside the room, Valentin stepped back from the window. "What the-"

But he didn't finish his sentence. The Wonder Cat charged, going right for Valentin's knuckles. Masha went for his legs. The gun dropped to the ground, and David grabbed Valentin, then Anna grabbed him too. In no time, Victor was in the room, followed by other KGB men and soldiers and militia men with rifles and guns.

"There's another one!" said Victor, pointing at Valentin. "Tie him up!" Victor shook his head. "I--I don't believe it. Two plots in the same damned building! What in the devil's name is going on here?"

"I'll get them all--every blasted one of them!" said Dmitry the neighborhood militia man. "It's the devil's work, I tell you! The devil himself! Assassins all over the place, and cats too! It's the work of the devil, it is!"

"You're afraid then?' asked Victor.

"Hell, no!" said Dmitry. "I've been baptized!"

"Me too!" said Victor. And they rushed out of the room.

But not all danger had passed, instinct said. The Wonder Cat charged out of Valentin's room and flew down the back stairs. Masha followed. Yes! There was a shadow in the darkness. It was Rassolnikov, hunched over and running down the hallway, holding something close to his chest. Koshka squinted. Rassolnikov was dragging something along in the shadows.

"Help!" came a high-pitched wail. Koshka squinted harder, his good eye straining to make out the shapes in the shadows. Yes! Rassolnikov was dragging the great Mrs. Comrade by her hair. Her hands were tied.

It was time for action. "Cats, up here!" commanded the Wonder Cat. "The back stairway!"

"All cats, up here!" Masha commanded.

"Up there!" commanded the red cat, from one floor below.

M-r-r-o-o-o-w! A thousand cats charged.

"Oi!" shouted Rassolnikov. He turned, and his eyes grew wide. "What the-"

He ran down to the landing, then stopped abruptly. "Oi!" Another army of cats, led by a red one, swelled upward. Soon he was surrounded by cats.

"Help me! Save me!" cried the great Mrs. Comrade.

Rassolnikov yanked her hard by the hair. "Shut up, or you're dead, you--you wife of a turn-coat!" He kicked his way to the middle of the landing. "Out of my way, you damned beasts!" He charged forward. But, a wall of fur pressed forward too, and he stopped dead in his tracks, his ankles hardly moving. "Oy!" A red cat nipped at the seat of his pants.

"What in the devil's name is going on here?" demanded a human voice. It was Perezhitkov.

Soon, beams from flashlights dashed around the walls and up the ceiling.

"Look over there, on the landing!" said Rodion. "It's another assassin! Why, I'll hit the buzzard with my shovel!" He squinted into the darkness, while the flashlight beams bounced. "Why, why, it's Rassolnikov! He's gone crazy!"

Soon, the stairs filled with humans--KGB men and soldiers in uniform and militia men. "Look! Be careful!" shouted a soldier. "Don't provoke him! He's got the great Mrs. Comrade!"

"It's worse!" said another soldier, his jaw going slack. "Look! He's got a bomb too!"

"That's right!" said Rassolnikov, spinning around on the landing. Then he tapped at his chest. "It is a bomb, and it's big enough to blow this whole damned building, and everyone in it, right into orbit!"

He yanked at the poor great Mrs. Comrade. "And this, this woman--you know who this woman is?" His eyes got redder and redder and smaller and smaller. "This is the wife of--the wife of--the devil himself--the man who's been ruining our country! God, how I hate him!" He straightened up and reached into his coat. "Now stand back, all of you!"

The crowd of humans fell backward, like wheat blown in the wind. All the cats stayed in place, like statues.

"And call off your damned cats too!" snapped Rassolnikov.

"The cats--we don't have any control over them!" said Perezhitkov. "Now, Comrade Rassolnikov, just come on down from there!"

"Stay away!" commanded Rassolnikov. "Or we all die!" He held the great Mrs. Comrade tighter. "Now, send me her husband! Send me the man who--who's been ruining me and my country!"

"We've already whisked him away," said Victor quietly, as he stepped out of the shadows. "So please, just hand us over the woman, and then the bomb, please." The man took a step forward.

"Stop right there!" Rassolnikov snapped. "Or off goes the bomb! Then this woman, and you, and this whole building goes into orbit!"

"Okay! Okay!" said Victor. "Just take it easy, okay?"

Rassolnikov glared, unmoving except for his breathing.

"Now listen," said Victor in a calm voice. "Just hand over your bomb, and let's end this nasty situation now." His hand came to rest on the railing.

"One step forward, and you--you're all dead!" threatened Rassolnikov. "You just listen to me now! Your man there, the Boss Comrade, the husband of this woman--he's turned everything around. Nothing--why, nothing works anymore! Nobody obeys anybody. People--people--they jay-walk. They cut into lines. They grumble and they talk back. They don't bow to their superiors." Tears came to his eyes. "It's not like the good old days!" he sobbed. "We party people--we had special shops with--with Italian shoes and--and limousines with window curtains, and free prostitutes from the provinces, and tickets to the Bolshoi!"

No one answered.

"Where has it all gone?" he pleaded hoarsely, his eyes scanning the room. "No one can bring it back! No one!" Tears filled his eyes again, and he turned to his hostage. "But this woman's husband--he did it all! And, he--I won't let him get away with it!" Rassolnikov pulled angrily at her hair.

"Help me! Save me!" pleaded the great Mrs. Comrade.

"There's no salvation for the damned!" said Rassolnikov. "Someone must pay! Someone will pay!" With that, he pulled a metallic-looking ball from his jacket and put it to his mouth. His teeth found a long brown thread sticking out of the ball. "And now, payment is due, comrades!"

W-o-o-o-sh! There was a swirl of wind from above. It was a whirlwind, a veritable flash. Then there was an instant blur of fur. It was--it was--yes, it was Wonder Cat! He swirled down the water pipe, and in a flash his paw flew forward, catching onto the upper railing while his body flew downward and arched. With one swipe, he twirled to the floor, knocked Rassolnikov to his knees, then leapt and caught the bomb in mid-air, as if it were a ball of yarn.

"Victory! Oh, sweet victory!" cried Wonder Cat, catching the ball and bringing it to rest on the landing.

"Great going, oh hero cat!" said Masha proudly.

"Why, what the-" asked the great Mrs. Comrade.

"I'm damned, damned!" cried Rassolnikov, still down on his knees. "It's the devil himself who's done me in! He knows I hate cats! Damn! Damn!"

With that, Rassolnikov sat down on the floor and pounded his fists on the carpet. Two soldiers stepped forward, lifted him up, and escorted him down the stairs.

Meanwhile, the cats disappeared, receding like water in a tub once somebody pulls the plug. Some dashed down the steps, some up the steps, some into the cellar, most out onto the street. Within fifteen seconds, it was as if no cat had been there, save for a stray cat hair here and there.

"Come, oh great Mrs. Comrade," said Dmitry, leading her downstairs. "It's all clear and safe now, I hope." He picked up the woman and dusted her off. "My name's Dmitry, and this is my precinct. The name's Dmitry, don't forget now."

Victor tied Rassolnikov's hands and led him out through the foyer to the steps. The great Mrs. Comrade followed, brushing her hair and straightening her coat and dress. "I--I can't believe what happened. I can't--I don't believe what I saw!"

"You know, Madam Great Comrade," Dmitry offered. "Things just haven't been normal around here, ever since we started getting foreigners."

A crowd packed into the hotel foyer.

"All is well!" called out Victor from the steps. "The day has been saved!"

"Ura!" went the cry from the crowd. "The day has been saved!"

"Ura!" cheered the crowd on the street. "The day is saved!"

And soon, a drab-colored van pulled up to the front of the Glasnost Hotel. And a line of KGB men led out a line of suspects, all tied to one-another.

"I'm a tourist! Just a tourist. I don't make a' make no trouble!" said Sam Monella, the first in line.

"Long live the perpetual revolution!" chanted Kay Pasa, the second in line.

"Down with the decadent west!" said Borya Smetanov, the third in line.

"We couldn't get French cognac anymore!" wailed Rassolnikov, the fourth in line. "No Marlboro cigarettes! No condoms! Ai! That man has ruined us all!"

"Praise the Lord!" said the reverend Billy Bob Buck, next in line. "It was a burden from Jesus, brothers and sisters!"

"Oh, shut up, you gray-headed, big-toothed fop!" said Mrs. Billy Bob, the next in line.

"That damned Rassolnikov!" said Valentin, the last in line. "He didn't give me the high sign!"

Two soldiers pushed the suspects into the back of the van, then slammed the doors shut, and the tires spun in the snow. The truck headed up Popov Street, turning left on Kirovsky, pointing right towards northernmost Siberia.

"Alright!" said the soldiers and KBG men to the crowd on Popov Street. "Disperse! Everybody go home now!"

"What exactly happened?" asked the widow, inside the hotel. Anna and David stood at her side.

"Go home!" said a militia man.

"This is my home," said the widow. "I live on the third floor, and I demand to know what's going on here!"

A man in a leather coat stepped up to the trio and took them into the front office, now empty. "My name is Victor Bylibin, and I need whatever information any of you can give me."

"I have no idea what was going on," said the widow. "I was upstairs in my flat, but, my Anna and David there, they ran downstairs. and-"

"Yes, I know," said Victor. "And they helped me grab the assassin on the fifth floor. Thank you, both." He pulled out a notebook, licked his lips, then poised his pencil. "Now let's see here. There was an assassination attempt here--two, to be more precise."

"Two attempts?" gasped David. "Who?"

"Yes. Two assassinations--attempts only, that is." He scratched his head. "Maybe three. Anyway, we thwarted them all."

"That's not what I saw!" said Anna. "It was the cats."

"Well, young lady, just who in the devil's name do you think could train cats in assassination prevention, unless it was your ever-vigilant KGB?" demanded Victor. "Anyway, two people--two groups of people, that is, tried to assassinate the leader. One group was Russian, the other Amerikan. Now, here's the curious part. Their plans, as far as we can tell, were nearly identical. They wanted to eliminate the prezident and then blame the assassination on some American, a translator."

"What was the name of the American?" asked Anna. "Do you know?"

"Yes, we've obtained one written confession already." He squinted at a piece of paper. "The name was--let me see here. The name was David Thompson." He turned towards David. "Hmmm. And you're a foreigner too?"

"Yes. An American. My name is David Thompson. I'm an interpreter, and I was on duty." Anna squeezed his arm, and David continued. "I was in the foyer, with the crowd and with the president. I--I followed the cat up to the room, where you helped me get that man with the gun."

"I see," said Victor, making a note in his book. "And how did you know he was in that room--in that precise room, I mean?"

"The cat. We followed the cat."

"Hmmm. I see, the cat." Victor shook his head. "Hmmm. Anyway, the assassins had set it all up so you would be blamed, it seems. You're a very lucky man, that their schemes didn't go off as planned."

"I think we're all very, very lucky," said David. Anna hugged him, and her eyes grew moist.

Then there was an awful ruckus outside the door. The widow, Anna, David, and Victor--all rushed into the hall.

The Baron stood on the steps, bowler hat and ivory-tipped walking stick in hand. "Arise, you prisoners of starvation!" he chanted. "Arise, you wretched of the earth!"

"That old coot--is he another assassin?" asked Victor, drawing his gun.

"Not at all!" said the widow. "He's just a little off balance, you see. He's been that way for a while, they say."

"How long?"

"Since l923. But you can check your files. He's a hero of international socialism!"

The hallways cleared of humans. David and Anna stood on the landing, locked in an embrace that looked like it would never end.

Five steps up, Perezhitkov and the widow stood.

"Well, I guess the plan finally worked!" whispered Perezhitkov.

"It worked like magic!" said the widow. She was smiling, but there was a tear in her eye too.

To Chapter Twenty

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