Free The Hour of the Cat by Peter Quinn

His round puss narrows into a rodent’s malevolent snout. Legs shrink into rat’s stubs. He is at home with the rats and they with him. Other cats see how happy he is, how prosperous and carefree, and they join the rats.”
    â€œThis sounds very unlike a Swabian folk tale.”
    â€œTruth is, an Englishman, a writer, told it to me.”
    â€œSince when do you associate with Englishmen or writers?”
    â€œA mutual acquaintance prevailed on me to see him. He needed help facilitating the departure of a Jewish doctor whose exit was complicated by her former Communist ties.”
    â€œYou keep strange company.”
    â€œThese are strange times. Let me finish my story. One day, the clever rat gathers together his brother rats, and the rats who once were cats, and the cats in the process of becoming rats, and tells them they can fly.”
    â€œThey believe him?”
    â€œNot at first. But he reminds the rats how he’s transformed the cats and conjured away their enemy. He points out to the cats how free he’s made them. Given such success, why shouldn’t he be able to make them fly? There are still doubters, but they stay quiet and are swept along with the rest as the clever rat leads them to the highest cliff he can find. ‘Forward, my brothers!’ he cries. ‘Over the edge! Fly!’”
    â€œ Finis , I suppose?”
    â€œThe storyteller posited two possible endings. First, the cats and rats follow their leader over the cliff to destruction. Second, they hesitate at the edge, doubtful at last of their leader, and at that moment a conspiracy of cats still in possession of their souls deposes the clever rat.”
    â€œThere’s a third possibility, Hans, for your storyteller to consider.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œPerhaps he can fly.” Canaris had watched in person as a quarter of a million people filled the Heldenplatz, in Vienna, trampling each other to get closer to the gleaming Mercedes, a chariot from heaven, the god within once more defying the timid counsel of generals and diplomats, jumping from the cliff and landing on his feet.
    â€œHe’s been lucky, that’s all. The next jump will very likely be from a deadly height.” Oster tossed his cigarette into the canal.
    They turned back toward the Ministry. The nursemaids went by, still in conversation. The two officers touched their caps and bid the women good morning. Each carriage contained a fat, pink-cheeked infant, small hands clutching at the air. The women nodded and pushed the carriages along the Embankment.
    â€œI’ve no more time to waste.” Canaris walked at a brisk pace. Oster stayed beside him but said nothing. Canaris welcomed the silence. He knew Oster would return to the discussion he was having with other officers, about what to do if the order was given to move against the Czechs. General Ludwig Beck, Chief of the General Staff, was involved. A growing conversation. That ugly, unsoldierly word: Mutiny .
    â€œThe Czechs will fight,” Oster said. They stopped beneath the portico of the Ministry. “The British and French will stand by them. They’ve already made that clear. When the people know the days of easy conquests are over and face a war more punishing and destructive than the last, their mood will change. The cats’ hour will have come. It will be our final chance.”
    â€œThe desire to take wishes for facts is the deadliest of all temptations for an intelligence officer,” Canaris said. He knew as well as Oster the feelers that had been put out to the French and British. Gördeler had carried the message to the Foreign Office in London: The only way for war to be avoided is to reject the demands being made on the Czechs. Prepare to resist. There are elements in and out of the German armed forces that are ready to seize the opportunity to put an end to the regime. A response somewhere between bewilderment and