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the huge mirror. With a sharp report it cracked, shattered and crashed to the floor in myriad pieces.
    At once he strode to the heap of glass shards. Impatiently he kicked them aside and picked up the gun. With his one remaining round he loaded it
    He was ready. He walked to the door at the end of the corridor. He looked down at the gun in his hand. It trembled. With an angry force of will he made it stop.
    One bullet. He’d make it count
    Exploding into action, he aimed a savage kick at the door. With an ear-splitting crash it flew open. He was through, into the room beyond, even as the door slammed into the wall.
    Instantaneously the scene before him etched itself on his burning mind. The big round clock with its lighted face on the wall. Four men standing like grotesque statues around the table: the two Gestapo interrogators, one with steel-rimmed glasses, one older, and the two men from the shadows, one in the uniform of an SS colonel, the other a civilian. All four staring at him in frozen shock.
    He lifted his gun from its locked position in front of him and aimed it with slow deliberation directly at the SS colonel.
    The officer’s face grew ashen. The tension in the room was a tangible thing. Not a word was spoken.
    The older Gestapo officer was the first one to regain his composure. He straightened up. “I congratulate you,” he said. “You are very clever. You determined exactly where you were. Admirable.” He smiled thinly. “But . . . now you are bluffing.”
    The gun pointed at the SS colonel never faltered.
    “Come now. We know you are bluffing.” The officer was obviously becoming impatient. “We have been listening. Six rounds. Two in the swinging dummy, both hits. Two in the deadfall. Hits. Two at the mirror"—he smiled his thin, unpleasant smile once again—"one hit, one miss! Six rounds.” He stepped from behind the table and held out his hand. “Give me the gun!” His voice was sharp with absolute authority.
    The young man didn’t even glance at the officer. His gun was still aimed straight at the SS colonel. He extended it slightly before him. It did not waver.
    “For God’s sake, man!” It was the interrogator with the steel-rimmed glasses. His voice was a hoarse whisper.
    The young man did not seem to hear him. His eyes bored into those of the SS colonel.
    Then suddenly he whipped his gun aside—and fired his last remaining bullet into the big round face of the lighted clock on the wall! The explosion was thunderous in the confinement of the room. The clock shattered and went dark.
    The four men stood in stunned shock.
    The young man walked briskly to the Gestapo officer. Crisply he clicked his heels and handed him the gun. “ Zu befehl, Herr Sturmbannführer!” he said. He stood at attention. Every fiber in his body ached. Every cell in his brain seethed with strain. But he was elated.
    He had won.
    The SS colonel turned to the Gestapo officer. “ Der Per-sonalbogen,” he ordered.
    The Gestapo man handed him the file folder from the table. “ Jawohl, Herr Kommandant!”
    The SS colonel took the file. He opened it. He addressed himself to the civilian. There was obvious respect in his voice. “His name is Rudolf Kessler. Obersturmführer. Waffen SS.”
    He looked at the young man standing stiffly at attention before him. His eyes held undisguised approval. He turned back to the civilian. “As you have seen, Herr Gruppenführer, he has mastered his cover identity to perfection. His stamina—both mental and physical—is extraordinary” —he glanced toward the dead clock on the wall—"and his ability to function under stress obviously phenomenal!” He looked at the young Waffen SS lieutenant “Obersturmführer Kessler, you may sit down,” he said.
    The young officer kept looking straight ahead. “ Danke, Herr Kommandant,” he said. “I shall prefer to stand.” He’d be damned if he’d give his interrogators the satisfaction of knowing how close to collapse they’d