Wolff Kissinger was a spy. He was the bane of the Nazis during the war, for although they sought him everywhere, they were never able to lay a hand, bullet or poisoned dart on him. The reason was that Wolff was a master of disguise.

Once he was an old flower woman, calling out her posies in a quavery voice. Then her bouquet exploded with a deadly cloud and Kissinger's opposite number lay still in the street.

Wolff and his disguises ran the gamut from Oriental merchant to English squire to Portuguese sailor to African tribesman. There was no role he could not play to perfection. His makeup was wondrous and his flair for dialect gifted.

Meanwhile, back at Berlin HQ, the top brass of German Intelligence met to see if they could set an unbeatable trap for the Allies' most valuable ndercover agent. Despite their brilliance they had no idea at all what guise their quarry would affect next. What was the point when he might just as easily be a Rommel aide or Mussolini's second in command.

Sighed one of the Nazi leaders as the vexing problem was pondered, "I wonder who's Kissinger now?"