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"You are strange, Mademoiselle Cremieux."

"Women are always strange," said Monique, throwing her arms up with a flirtatious gesture-"otherwise they risk the danger of becoming banal."

He stared at her in wonder. Why hadn't destiny let his path cross hers before? Now, now that the game was almost over, it was too late. Cursed luck! And that fanatic Opfenmundt, that heel-clicking boss of his, would have his head if he went in for romance at a critical time like this. Yes, that fanatic, half-mad, never trusting anyone, never sleeping, never resting. The blinder he became, the more he could see with his hands and feet-with his sick body and soul. He had the inner sight of the maniac, the piercing glance of Hitler himself.

Fritz Opfenmundt seemed to sense Heinz's thoughts; he glanced sharply at him. His face was parchment yellow and his eyes flamed with hate. Then he turned to Clavelle.

"Don't worry, friend Clavelle." Opfenmundt clinked his glass, and with one swig, finished his grey Vichy water. "We shall meet again." He spoke quietly and sharply. "All you should remember, Monsieur Clavelle, are the few numbers I gave you. You can destroy the rest. It is only temporary, in any case. We will return-I'm positive about that. And when we're here again, we'll establish the millennium of National Socialism. Heil Hitler!"

Clavelle looked at him solemnly. His grey eyes burned. "It's all very well to build castles in the air but it's not so easy to have your feet on the ground and think realistically. We can't wait for secret weapons with death at our throats."

"You sound like a coward, Monsieur Clavelle!" Fritz slapped him on the back with assumed gaiety. "For four years we have been fighting-but four short days can determine the outcome! The German spirit is mobilized,