My dad wasn't always known as "Buck" Fogarty. 

 The increasingly few people who even vaguely remember him--the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of the Greatest Generation--seem to be completely unaware of that.  He was, in fact, born Oisin Michael Fogarty in the Five Points section of Manhattan, New York City, New York, on September 20, 1921.  The son and only child of "Klondike Mike" Fogarty (Canadian-born star pitcher for the minor-league Manhattan Indians) and the former Mona Flannigan (eldest daughter of Chief Eamon Flannigan, FDNY).  And, being a lot like his father, he became a baseball player, himself.  First, in high school.  Then, at Columbia University, where he majored in journalism.

 You see, it was originally his intention to become a professional sports writer after a relatively "brief" stint as a major leaguer!  But, of course, all that changed on December 8, 1941, when he dropped out of college to join the army.

 Declared 1-A, he attended boot camp at Fort Dix, New Jersey.  There, his fluency in Canadian French--personally taught him by Grandpa Mike--led to his recruitment by G-2* who sent him to London.  There, he spent the next six weeks translating decoded Free French resistance messages into English as mission-briefing materials for American bomber crews.  He was then transferred to the OSS who introduced him to PFC Anjiro Watanabe.  A Hawaiian Nisei National Guardsman with whom he was trained in all manner of commando tactics prior to their deployment to the CBI Theater. There, with the help of Burmese guerrillas attached to the British Fourteenth Army, they spent the rest of the war operating a pirate radio listening post along the Thai-Burmese border.  Monitoring, translating, and relaying all Japanese communications concerning troop movements and air traffic.  When the war ended, and they went their separate ways, my dad returned to college on the G.I. Bill.  Thereby finally obtaining his much-desired journalism degree.

 Yet, instead of becoming a sports writer, he went to work for the Global News Wire Service as a cub reporter apprenticed to "Big Jim" Halverson.  The two-fisted ex-marine-turned-hard-hitting foreign correspondent for their Hong Kong Bureau.  And it was Halverson  (upon his discovering that "Oisin" is Gaelic for "little fawn")  who first gave my dad the nickname of "Five Points Buck."  That, in turn, is why Dad always regarded it as a mixed blessing that the first time he used it in a by-line was when he had to write up Halverson's obituary following the latter's death, at the Pusan Perimeter, from a North Korean sniper's bullet.

 From that point onward, it's Buck Fogarty who became an international household name.  Covering such diverse history-making events as the French surrender at Dien Bien Phu; the coronation of Elizabeth II as Queen of England; the Suez Canal Crisis; the Watts Riots in LA; and both Tet Offensives.  He even helped some Japanese anthropologist with a year-long study of some newly-discovered cannibal tribe in New Guinea! 

 So can you honestly blame me for occasionally wondering just how and where he found the time to meet, court, and marry one Enid Horton (ex-switchboard operator for Global radio affiliate KWTF)?

 It wasn't till I became an investigative reporter, myself, that I learned the truth.  Specifically; that my dad hadn't been killed by drug-smuggling Viet Cong, in Saigon, in 1973.  That, in actuality, he had been shrunken (yes, you read that right) by a bunch of female Chinese tap dancers at some night club modeled after a Prohibition-era Chicago speak-easy!  And, then, almost stomped to death...to the tune of "42nd Street"!!

  tbc

 The U.S.S. Fisher's Island Sound was a Commencement Bay-class aircraft carrier that had seen thirty years of active duty by the time it was finally decommissioned at the end of the Vietnam War.  Now anchored near Puerto Rico's Milwaukee Deep, the official story was that it had been downgraded to serve as an offshore annex of the naval flying school at Pensacola, Florida.  So that their student pilots could have further opportunities to gain first-hand experience at making carrier-based landings.  Towards that same end, it would also serve as a cross-training center for Fort Rucker* fly-boys, Marine Corps jet jockeys, Air Force hurricane hunters, and Coast Guard chopper pilots.  The ship, however, was staffed mostly by rotating temporary personnel.

 So, it wasn't long before rumors began circulating as to the "true" reason for the downgrade.

 Most of the temps speculated that the ship was moonlighting as a covert refueling stop for CIA spy planes.  Others thought it was fronting as a supply depot for some top-secret experimental undersea colony.  And a few even thought it was a little of both!  Yet the real truth was far more incredible than any of them could have imagined.  Because the Fisher's Island Sound was actually the headquarters of the M.O.C. (Miniscule Operations Command).  A top-secret subdivision of the CIA that specialized in "bio-miniaturization!"

  In plain English?  The shrinkage of living things (including people).

  I'm serious!  The M.O.C. was founded back in November of 1962.  One month after the Cuban Missile Crisis...which is no coincidence.  Because, as it turns out, it wasn't nuclear missiles that the Soviet Union had smuggled to Havana.  It was twelve dozen metal drums containing some newly-developed biochemical solution that they referred to as "nolongitol."  A small batch of which was promptly stolen by Lance Corporal Myron Meriwether (a USMC scout-sniper from Guanatanamo Bay) and Captain Pepe Garcia (Mexican Air Force, "retired") for chemical analysis by the Company's eggheads.  Unfortunately, Garcia wound up spilling a drop or two of the stuff on himself.  Consequently, by the time they got back to Langley (via the Isle of Pines, Mexico, and Texas) the good captain had been "bio-miniaturized" to a height of only FOUR INCHES!

  Enter Dr. Ezra Long.

  A Korean War veteran-turned-psychiatric consultant for Walter Reed Army Hospital, he had been personally recruited by CIA Deputy Dirctor Bryce Paxton to help Garcia cope with having to reorient himself to his new place in the world.  The only trouble was...he didn't stay the good doctor's one-and-only patient.  By the time my dad met the same fate, eleven years later,  there were a whole lot of other people who were what you might call "in the same toy boat."   Most of them being casualties in this new form of shadow war between the Company and the Kremlin!

  That's how "Kleinmann University" was born.

   A scale-model replica of Yale University (Dr. Long's alma mater), it had been specifically developed to help shrinkies learn how to help themselves when it came to reorientation.   For example; Pepe Garcia not only became valedictorian of the first graduating glass. Eleven years later, he  was now both Dean of Students and ROTC Director!  As for my dad?  Well, let's just say that not all of his classes were on-campus.  There was at least one that was taught off-campus.  The one that helped him and his fellow students learn how to mesh, mentally, and emotionally, with their hand-picked, normal-sized bodyguards.

   In Dad's case, he had been partnered with Cecilia Finster.  An ex-hippie draft dodger with whom there was naturally some initial friction.  Especially when it came to discussions about  the Vietnam War!  But, as time passed, those philosophical differences got ironed out.  Grudging mutual respect developed.  That, in turn, is why--a month after Dad's graduation--the two of them were given their very first field assignment.

   tbc

 Cecilia Finster walked to Dr. Long's office with my dad riding on her right shoulder.  She wore a white blouse under a Navy-blue blazer with matching trousers and black moccasins, while he wore the standard-issue red cover-alls that all the shrinkies wore, twelve hours a day, while attending Kleinmann University.  And, upon arriving at the office door, Cecilia knocked upon it with all the courtesy she could muster.  You see, she was still a bit of an anti-authoritarian.

 "Come in!" intoned the doc (who was now almost into his seventh year as Director of Operations following Bryce Paxton's retirement).

  So, Cecilia did as requested.  Upon opening the door, she saw a bald, bespectacled Caucasian male who smilingly gestured to a chair directly opposite his desk.

  "I'll cut right to the chase," Long intoned as soon as his visitors were settled:  "Mr. Fogarty?  You once visited the country of Najranistan in your capacity as a foreign correspondent.  What can you tell us about it?"

  Dad shrugged:  "In a nutshell?  It's a landlocked Near Eastern kingdom that's roughly equidistant between the Persian Gulf and the Caspian Sea.  So, once upon a time, it was naturally a very popular rest stop for camel caravans en route to either one.  Nowadays, though, it derives at least half its gross national income from wealthy Western tourists who consider it a real-life Land of the Arabian Nights."

  "What about the royal family?" Long persisted:  "Isn't there some legend concerning the very first Queen of Najranistan?"

  "Yeah.  She was a Yemeni princess who was supposedly descended from King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba!  That's why a lot of people think it's the main reason that Israel gets along with that country far better than they do with any other member of OPEC.* "

  "With all due respect, Doc," Cecilia finally butted in:  "...why the pop quiz?  Are the two of us going to Najranistan?"

  "Not quite," he replied:  "The Crown Princess of Najranistan has been attending college here in the U.S.  More specifically?  The University of Texas (Magic City).  And, at the end of this month, her parents will be joining her there to celebrate her 21st birthday.  At which time, it's expected they'll be formally announcing the exact date of her wedding to Sheikh Abdul Dehraz of Lebanon (her long-time betrothed)."

 "Dehraz; Dehraz," muttered my dad:  "Isn't he the oil sheikh that Khomeini's been bad-mouthing so much, recently?  For being a little too friendly to the West?"

 "Precisely.  If anything were to happen to the Crown Princess on American soil, before her marriage, both her parents and Sheikh Abdul would hold Uncle Sam responsible.  Up to--and including--possibly persuading OPEC to institute a second oil embargo.  One potentially far more crippling to our economy than its predecessor, six years ago!  That's why the State Department has asked us to provide the princess with a little _extra_ security.  At least, until she goes home after her birthday." 

 But Cecilia quickly pointed out that they were technically CIA.

 "So, doesn't that legally disqualify us from operating on American soil?" she added.

 "Technically, yes," replied the doc:  "That's why the two of you will be working under the personal supervision of Special Agent Meriwether.  Our FBI liaison from Quantico."

 A twenty-something Caucasian male, with a sandy brown crew cut, then stood up from the chair he had been silently occupying to Cecilia's right!

 "Hello," he smiling said:  "It's good to meet you, Mr. Fogarty.  I've heard a lot about you from our mutual friend, Jiro."

  Dad half-smiled:  "Nothing classified, I hope.  We, uh, weren't exactly choir boys during our OSS days."

  Meriwether chuckled:  "Not to worry.  He was properly circumspect in that regard.  But, he was quite public in his high praise of you, Ms. Finster!  He said that, of all the bodyguards he's trained for Mini-Ops, you're the quickest learner--and the only undefeated champion at full-contact sparring--that he's ever had.  A regular tomboy prodigy!"

  Cecilia (who, up until that moment, had been looking at her lap in blushing pride) suddenly gaped at the young Fed with amazement.

  "Tomboy?!" she echoed, almost sounding offended.

  Dad was quick to mollify her:  "I'm sure he meant that in the sense of how youthful you looked in comparison to all the rest of our classmates."

  Cecilia wasn't fooled, but she smirked at him, anyway:  "Nice save, little man."

  "Alright, alright," said Dr. Long:  "Enough with the light-hearted banter.  There's a Sea Knight up top that will fly all three of you to Key West for a transfer flight to Wheeler County Commuter Airport in West Texas. Agent Meriwether will brief you with the particulars en route  Dismissed!"

  tbc

 The Sea Knight touched down in Key West on schedule.  Whereupon, the three of them transferred to a Learjet already fueled and waiting.  Two minutes later, it took off due northwestward across the Gulf of Mexico.  Five minutes after that, Special Agent Meriwether started briefing the other two on those aforementioned particulars 

 "Here's the cast of characters.  First up?  Her Royal Highness, Jumana Al Amira Ibna Rashid of Najranistan."

  The subject of the blown-up photograph he removed from a bulging beige folder revealed a lovely young woman (circa age 20) with unexpectedly blue eyes and long blonde hair.  Thereby eliciting an instinctive wolf-whistle from my dad which, in turn, earned him a glare of feministic annoyance from Cecilia!

   "Plastic surgery?" she asked Meriwether (in a tone that made him chuckle).

   "Nope!  It's a completely natural inheritance from her Circassian mother.  Her father's the one with the more usual brown eyes and black hair.  In fact, one female columnist out in Hollywood has described those traits as making him resemble (and I quote) 'an adorably rejuvenated Omar Sharif.' End quote!"

  "Do tell," Cecilia replied with a mischievous grin.

  So, naturally, Dad changed the subject.

  "Doc Long mentioned us as being 'extra security.'  I take it that means she has a regular team of bodyguards?"

  Meriwether nodded:  "Genuine Zouave warriors born and raised in Algeria.  Led--and personally hand-picked--by this man."

  The subject of the second blow-up showed a man in his mid-forties with a salt-and-pepper crew cut; a moustache clipped to pencil-thinness; and eyes so dark brown they were almost black. 

  "He's like a swarthy G. Gordon Liddy," said Dad.

  "Meet Captain Ali Hassan," replied Meriwether:  " A French Foreign Legion veteran (chausseur parachutiste).  Specially retrained, at Company expense, by Condottiere Protective Services of Venice, California."

  "Isn't that the private security company founded by 'Mad Dog' Barker back in '74?"

  When Meriwether nodded, Cecilia looked from one to the other of them in undisguised puzzlement. So Dad explained.

   "Colonel Maynard Barker of Barker's Dozen.  Arguably, the most decorated Green Beret A-team to serve in Vietnam!  After twenty years in the army, he took an early retirement to enter the private sector as a provider of bodyguards for foreign dignitaries; rock stars; you name it."

   "So, in other words," replied Cecilia:  "...Princess Jumana is pretty much well-protected against conventional terrorist threats.  Which leaves just the _unconventional_ ones!"

   "Exactly," said Meriwether:  "Because there are lot of people who'd love to see something happen to her as a way of hurting Sheikh Abdul. For starters?  Meet Abu Kamal.  A Turko-Cypriot nationalist leader currently living in exile in Fez, Morocco."

  The third blow-up showed a rather stocky man in sun glasses, wearing a white kaftan and a red tarboosh (with black tassle), drinking a cup of coffee.   

  "Kamal thinks Sheikh Abdul is a traitor to pan-Islamic unity for shipping his oil to the States in Greek-owned tankers. It's especially worrisome that he's become chummy with this next guy."

  The fourth blow-up revealed a bare-chested man sporting a white quasi-goatee and wearing a turban, while armed with an AK-47 and some kind of machete in a scabbard on his left hip. 

  "Meet Subic Bey.  During World War II, he was the foremost leader of the Moro resistance movement on Japanese-occupied Mindanao.  But, after V-J Day, he took an active part in the Hukbalahap Rebellion.  Following which, he fled to Singapore, then Mecca, and finally Cairo.  So, he has no love lost for Uncle Sam!  Rumor has it he now acts as an interpreter between the PLO and the Japanese Red Army.  Or, at least, this particular representative thereof."

  The fifth and final blow-up showed a Japanese man in a white suit (a la Ricardo Montalban of "Fantasy Island" fame) who looked to be in his mid-thirties.

  "Meet Joji Fujita, alias 'Takashi Takahashi,' of the Nihon Sekigun.  One of Mossad's most wanted.  Among other things, he's responsible for a kibbutz bombing that occurred during a bar mitzvah after-party.  So, he wouldn't think twice about blowing up a wedding reception!"

  It was Dad who asked the obvious question.

 "Was Fujita's photo taken at the same coffee house as Kamal's?"

 Meriwether nodded in grim silence.   A silence that was suddenly broken by the pilot announcing over the P.A. that they were approaching the Gulf Coast of East Texas.

  "ETA to final destination," he added:  "Ninety minutes."

   tbc

 "So, what's my cover going to be when we get there?" asked Cecilia:  "I mean, much as I hate to admit it, I'm a little old to be an undergrad.  Don't you think?"

 Meriwether smirked:  "Don't worry.  We've arranged for you to be a substitute gym teacher.  Dance and physical fitness, to be exact.  Because Princess Jumana and her roommate, Brook Rivera, happen to be part of the school's drill team; the Wranglerettes.  You know; pom-pom shaking; precision marching; and high-kicking? That sort of deal.  I mean; prior to becoming an anti-war firebug, that's what _you_ were originally studying to become.  Weren't you?  The next Agnes DeMille,* I mean?"

 "What about you?" she countered (conspicuously refusing to answer his question):  "Who will you be posing as?"

  Meriwether's ensuing grin was positively shameless.

  "I'll be a substitute teacher, too.  Un profesor de espanol, para ser precisos.  Y tu esposo, tambien!"

  Cecilia's reply was immediate and unequivocal:  "Say what????!"

   * * * * *

WHEELER COUNTY COMMUTER AIRPORT,

 (9:03 A.M./CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME)

   The Learjet landed only three minutes behind schedule.  By which time, both my dad and Meriwether had managed to calm Cecilia down.  The latter explaining that it was the only way to explain two substitute teachers arriving at UTMC at the same time.  And adding (as a further attempt at mollifcation) that the off-campus apartment where the two of them would be staying had a convertible sofa bed.  So, when the two of them weren't possibly entertaining new neighbors or fellow faculty members, she could have the master bedroom all to herself. 

 "What about Buck?" Cecilia demanded:  "Where's he going to sleep?  In the bottom dresser drawer or the top?"

 "Neither one," Meriwether replied (grinning once again):  "He's going to be keeping a point blank eye on the princess inside her sorority house."

 At which point, it became my dad's turn to over-react:  "Say what???!" 

 "Relax, Buck.  Dr. Long carefully arranged that, too.  Last month, the sorority house was fumigated to get rid of a pack rat infestation.  At least, that was the _official_ determination after a number of personal possessions (monetarily worthless, but sentimentally valuable) went missing.  During that 'fumigation,' a special tunnel was built inside the rear wall of the sorority house.  From just behind the bottom of the rain gutter outlet up to the princess' room.  An ascent you can easily make with the shrunken jet pack I'll be providing you."

 "A jet pack?" Dad echoed:  "Who do you think I am?  John Robinson?"

 "You're being too modest, Buck.  I know for a fact--from Pepe Garcia, himself--that you handled the jet pack in Scorpionfly training like you were born to it!"

 "It was more like adjusting the course of a parachute, in mid-skydive, combined with operating the switches on a pinball machine! That hardly made me  the star pupil."

 "Nevertheless, you also have more experience than Cecilia and I, put together, in maintaining radio contact from inside forbidden territory.  So, if you spot anything fishy, just get on your shrinkie-talkie and let us know, right away."

Dad sighed in defeat:  "Okay, okay!  What's the name of the sorority?" 

Meriwether's shameless grin returned:  "Tau Nu Alpha.  TNA, for short!"

This time, Dad and Cecilia were in perfect unison:  "Say what???!"

 tbc 

 The train ride back from Marrakesh had been pleasantly uneventful.  But, the same could not be said for what had transpired at Abu Kamal's residence in his absence.  His servants had been subdued by two intruders disguised as "mere"Tuaregs.  Especially his security staff!   They, like his two ever-present bodyguards, had been Bulgarian Pomaks, supplied by the 4th Department of the KSD and trained in Libya by Spetsnaz "military advisors" from the GRU.*

 Yet those two bodyguards had been rendered unconscious, by the apparently younger "Tuareg," with frightening ease. Leaving the older (or, at least, slightly taller) one as spokesman.

 "Now we may converse in private."

 "Wh-Wh-Who are you?' demanded Kamal.

 "We shall ask the questions, m'sieur.  You will answer them.  Sans hesitation and prevarication!  Otherwise, you will needlessly subject yourself to an excruciatingly slow fate."

 "Wha-wha-what do you mean?" Kamal stammered once more...before he was stabbed in the right posterial cheek by an acupuncture needle.

 "UHHHHN!"

 "As I said," repeated the senior intruder:  "...we will ask the questions.  Comprenez vous?"

 Kamal dropped to his knees in a half-drowsy daze.  A side-effect of the truth serum with which the needle's tip had been coated!

 "Oui," he haltingly replied:  "Je---comprend."

   * * * * *

  MAGIC CITY, TEXAS (MAY 2, 1979)

  Meriwether, Cecilia, and my dad had deplaned at the Wheeler County Commuter Airport without incident. There, the two normal-sized agents rented a station wagon so they could tie all their luggage on top. Then, they drove to the off-campus apartment house that would be their home till at least the end of the month.  Once they were behind closed-and-locked doors, Dad was removed from the inner right pocket of Cecilia's blazer and they got down to one final briefing.  With Meriwether pointing out the route, between the apartment house and UTMC. on a computer-printed street map.

 "Here's the TNA sorority house.  And here, at the right front corner, is the drain pipe for the rain gutter.  We'll drop you off there, first thing tomorrow morning, by establishing a pattern of pre-dawn jogging.  Cecilia will briefly stop by the bottom of the pipe to ostensibly retie one of her sneakers.  That'll be your cue to disembark and run behind it for the ride up to the attic tunnel.  When you get to the princess' bedroom..."

 "...I whip out my shrinkie-talkie and notify you," Dad replied:  "I got it the first eleven times we went over this!"

 So, at 5:30 the next morning, Cecilia and Meriwether went on their first jog toward and around the campus.  Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at Tau Nu Alpha where they paused while Cecilia performed what Maxwell Smart would probably have called "The Old Shoelace Trick."  And, as expected, Dad made it behind the opening of the drain pipe completely unobserved.  Despite the relatively cumbersome (from his point of view) jet pack and Czech-made Skorpion submachine gun he was carrying.

  You see, ten years earlier, a Czechoslovakian defector had been transferred over the Berlin Wall by jet-packing Green Berets dressed as ninjas...and armed with nine-millimeter Skorpions.    The latter being used to provide suppressing gunfire against the Volkspolizei sentries patrolling No Man's Land!

  That operation had been code-named "Scorpionfly."  And, ever since then, that had been the authorized unit designation for the airborne "microndos" (micro-reconnaissance commandos) frequently employed by Mini-Ops for preliminary surveillance.  As for Dad?  He was being overly modest when he had negatively compared himself to the patriarch of the Robinson family from LOST IN SPACE (the original series; not that needless high-tech remake).  He had actually test-flown one for himself at the New York World's Fair in 1965!   And Mom had once shown me a home movie of that flight.  

  There was no denying it.  He'd been good.

  So, Dad suited up behind the drain pipe, double-checked the ammo clip in his proportionately shrunken Skorpion, and then entered the secret tunnel through the secret panel.  Whereupon, he fired those hydrogen peroxide jets and ascended!  When he got to the landing zone, he touched down without mishap before getting out of the flight suit and making his way down the tunnel behind the walls of the sorority house's attic.  Eventually, he reached a point where there was a long piece of plexiglas tubing like one of those Depression-era pneumatic tubes you sometimes see in the old movies on TCM.  Only, this one was vertical rather than horizontal.  And inside that tube was a rope ladder...made of kite string.

 Dad slowly descended that ladder till he reached the bottom of the tube.  Exiting through the sliding panel at the bottom, he carefully tip-toed toward the wooden surface ahead of him.  There, he pressed down hard on a certain "knothole."  Whereupon, a large square section of that wooden surface swung outward!  Dad then walked through that opening and thereby got his first look at Princess Jumana of Najranistan in the flesh. 

 Figuratively speaking, of course!  Well, almost.  You see, the princess was already in the middle of sunrise prayers in the general direction of Mecca.  But, she wasn't exactly wearing a prayer robe.  Merely...a pearl-white teddy.

 tbc

 Dad hurriedly back-pedaled into the secret tunnel, hoping that he hadn't been spotted.  He even held his breath to control any involuntary gasping!  Over the next ninety seconds, however, he gradually exhaled as his confidence grew that he had avoided accidental discovery. So, as planned, he reached for his shrinkie-talkie to report that he was on site.  He was interrupted, however, by a loud pounding on the sorority bedroom door.

 "Jumana!  Are you ready, yet, girl?  We barely got enough time to wolf down breakfast before math class.  Then, we got final dress rehearsal after that!"

 "Okay, okay!  Give me a couple moments, will you?"

 There was a sudden flurry of dresser drawers being opened and closed.  Following which came the rattling of a doorknob as the bedroom door was evidently whipped open.

 "Satisfied?"

  "I'll answer that only if we make it to class, on time."

  Then came the slamming shut of the bedroom door.  Which left Dad free to finally activate his shrinkie-talkie.

   "Five Points Buck to Boss Man.  Five Points Buck to Boss Man.  Do you copy? Over."

   "Copy you, Five Points Buck.  Over."

   "HRH has just left the sorority house for breakfast.  Followed by her first class of the day and, then, Wranglerette practice.  Her roommate mentioned something about a dress rehearsal?  Over."

   "Roger that.  Magic City's tejano population is going to celebrate Cinco de Mayo with a big parade on Saturday.  The Wranglerettes will be performing a special routine put together by the marching band's director.  Hence, Agnes Junior's cover.  Over."

   Dad must have grinned like a Cheshire cat upon hearing this.  

   "Acknowledged, Boss Man.  I will now begin my recon of the rest of the bedroom.  Five Points Buck, over and out."  

   So, for the second time in less than ten minutes, Dad exited the secret tunnel.  His pre-shrunk Skorpion unslung and at the ready.  He then carefully edged his way along the wall to his right.  In doing so, he took special notice of the celebrity posters above the head boards of the beds directly across the way.    The poster on the left featured John Travolta, while the one on the right featured the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders!

  "Heh!" mused Dad, half-aloud:  "I wonder which one belongs to Jumana?"

  Upon reaching the upper right corner of the bedroom, Dad began heading forward toward the dresser directly ahead of him.  Carefully noting that it was of the type that stood about a foot off the floor, on semi-circular legs, thereby affording him a potential hiding place.  Although, the same could not be said for the night stand to the immediate right of the second bed.

  Dad then marched under that bed; thereby discovering an Islamic prayer rug carefully rolled up beneath it.

  "So, obviously, this is Jumana's bed."

  Dad emerged from underneath the pink bedspread to see another night stand.  This one, slightly taller than the other one, with eighteen inch-long legs that would make him all too visible if he should ever try to hide behind and/or below it.  After that, he went beneath Brook Rivera's bed, seeing nothing but dust bunnies there.  Upon exiting from underneath, he saw that her dresser was identical to Jumana's.  Although, it occupied a space immediately to the right of what he judged to be their shared closet.   He couldn't verify that for sure, however, as the closet door was firmly shut.  With no room at the bottom for him to army-crawl under it.

 His reconnoitering completed, Dad went back to the secret tunnel to report as much to Myron Meriwether.   But, he was prevented from doing so by an ominous sound.  More specifically?  The sound of a lock being picked in the bedroom door!  Needless to say, Dad raced back towards Brook Rivera's bed.  Dashing beneath the dangling fringe of the bedspread covering the foot board...and getting there just in time.

 "Are you sure this is a good idea?" asked a decidedly female voice.

 "Look!" snapped another girl in reply:  "You stand to lose just as much as I do if they fail.  So shut up and keep look-out while I plant this under Rivera's bed."  

  Dad stood at attention behind the left leg of the foot board as he quietly made ready to fire in the event of discovery.

  tbc 

 MAGIC CITY, TEXAS

 (MAY 2, 1979)

 The giant hand that reached under the bed was covered up to the wrist by the sleeve of a black blouse decorated with sequins, around the edge of the wrist, in a curlicue pattern. And the object being held by that hand was some kind of light blue notebook that was carefully inserted in between the supporting slats of the bed's mattress.

 "Charlene!" came an urgent whisper from the look-out at the bedroom door:  "Will you hurry up, please?"

 "Okay, okay!  Give me two more seconds." 

 It proved closer to three or four.  But, the girl called Charlene finally succeeded in hiding the notebook before withdrawing, completely.  Only then, did my dad feel safe enough in peeking out from the left side of the bed leg he had been hiding behind.  And it's from that vantage point that he finally got a good look at the intruders. Two cowgirls (Caucasian, with strawberry-blonde hair) wearing black blouses with matching mini-skirts, go-go boots, and Stetson hats. 

 "Happy, now, Sis?"

 "I'll be happy if we make it to practice on time," replied the look-out (in an ironic near-echo of Brooke Rivera's earlier statement).

 "Then, get out of my way so I can close the door and re-lock it!"

 The second those two were gone Dad got on the radio to Cecilia Finster.

 "Five Points Buck to Agnes, Jr.  Five Points Buck to Agnes, Jr.  Do you copy?  Over."

 "Agnes, Jr. to Five Points Buck.  Copy you.  What's up? Over."

 "Need you to run a background check on two of HRH's sorority sisters.  Identical twins; strawberry blondes; one of them named Charlene.  Apparently fellow Wranglerettes. See if there's some kind of rivalry going on between them that might complicate our mission. Over."

 "I'll get right on it.  Agnes, Jr., over and out."

 Whereupon, Dad began shinnying up the bed leg to the metal slats.  Following which, he began a sloth-crawl over to where the blue notebook had been hidden.   When he got there, he pulled himself upright.  Letting the blood flow back to his feet before doing anything else. When that had been accomplished, he crawled on to the cover of the notebook and read the printing on it.

 "Political Science 301.

 Prof. E. Proctor, Instructor."

 Nodding to himself, Dad immediately began pushing on the notebook.  Slowly maneuvering, this way and that, until it had been shifted diagonally enough to let him drop it to the floor beneath the bed.  He then sloth-crawled back to the bed leg, before sliding down it like he used to slide down the brass pole at his grandfather's fire house!

 "Whew!" he exhaled on reaching the bottom:  "I'm getting too old for this shit."

 Nevertheless, he proceeded to slowly drag the notebook out from beneath Brooke Rivera's bed and across the carpet to Princess Jumana's bed.  There, he proceeded (with great difficulty) to roll it up into a cylindrical shape.  So, he could insert the whole thing inside the center of the princess' prayer rug!

 It was while catching what felt more like his third or fourth wind that he finally got a reply.

 "Boss Man to Five Points Buck.  Boss Man to Five Points Buck. Do you copy? Over."

 "Copy you, Boss Man.  Where's Agnes Junior? Over."

 "In the middle of rehearsal with the Wranglerettes.  So, I'm relaying the info you requested.  Over."

 "Lay it on me, Boss Man."

 Myron Meriwether couldn't help chuckling before continuing.

 "Your hunch paid off better than expected.  Charlene is Charlene Royce.  One of a set of identical triplets attending UTMC!  Her sisters' names are Darlene and Doreen.  Daughters of Mr. and Mrs. Glendon Royce.  Their old man is a collateral descendant of Henry Royce of Rolls-Royce fame.  Plus, he's a stockholder in the Houston branch of Interchem.  So, they're not exactly attending this school as hardship scholarship recipients!  Over."

 "What about their relationship with HRH and her roommate? Over"

 "Strained as you suspected.  Rivera's a straight-A student, which is ruining the grading curve in the poli-sci class she attends with the triplets' boyfriends.  Campus baseball players in danger of flunking off the team!   While Interchem recently lost a bidding war, for oil-drilling rights in Najranistan, to Dehraz Petroleum of Lebanon."  

 "HRH's fiance's company."

 "Roger, that. So it looks like the triplets are trying to frame one or both of them for attempted cheating. Over." 

 "Well, I think I've prevented that, for now.  But, even so..."

  Whatever Dad had been planning to say next was suddenly cut off...by the sound of keys being turned in the bedroom door's lock.

  tbc

  Dad looked at his shrunken wrist watch and realized that the Wranglerettes must have finished rehearsing!

  Sure enough; the moment he saw the two pair of black cowboy boots and the familiar voices from earlier that morning, he knew it was Brooke Rivera and Jumana Al Amira returning to their dorm room.  So, Dad froze right where he stood.  Holding his breath so as not to give away his position!

  "Man! I can't wait for Cinco de Mayo to get here. That'll give us at least six weeks of rest before we have to start rehearsing for July 4th."

  As Brooke said this, she took off her black boots and matching fringed vest.  Dumping them on the stretch of carpeted floor, next to her bed, in plain view of my dad's position.

  "I'm gonna go grab a shower before heading to the library to meet Oscar. How about you?"

  "Salat-al-asr, girlfriend!  Mid-afternoon prayer to Mecca."

  "Oh, right.  Five times a day; I forgot."

   She wasn't the only one!  Dad looked at the Muslim prayer rug where he had hidden the stolen test booklet.  When Jumana grabbed that and unrolled it...!  Dad didn't even finish that thought.  He merely started to act, thinking to drag the booklet out and relocate it against the wall beneath the headboard.  But, it was already too late.  Princess Jumana had already doffed her own boots and vest before getting down on her knees to retrieve the rug from under her bed.

  The best Dad could do that point was run towards the left upper leg of the bed and hide behind it.  A moment later, came the puzzled exclamation he'd been expecting.

  "What the frig...?"

  This was followed by a startled gasp (also not unexpected).  A few minutes after that, Brooke returned to the room from the showers down the hall.

  "Oye, chica!  You done already?"

  "I didn't even get started.  Look what I found in my prayer rug!"

  A moment later, came another startled gasp.

  "Proctor's exam book?!  How'd you come by it?"

  "I don't know; though, I have a pretty good idea.  All I am certain of is that we have to get this back to his office without him knowing about it.  Pronto!"

 "No sweat!  I have to pass the campus security office on the way to the library, anyway.  I'll drop it off there and claim I found it on the ground outside Snodgrass Hall."

 "You think they'll buy that?"

  "Why not?  I've earned my straight A's, legitimately; and he knows it.  I'm sure he'll give me the benefit of the doubt."

  A moment later, Brooke was out of the room. Leaving Jumana alone to conduct her mid-afternoon prayer...which she did.  But, not without a little nervous tension in her voice.  Tension that was certainly not relieved by the sudden frantic pounding on the dorm room door the second she was done!

  "Jumana!  Jumana, open up!  It's me; Oscar!"

  The princess ran to the door and opened it up to behold Brooke's wild-eyed boyfriend, Oscar Jimenez.

  "Oscar!  Que paso?  What's wrong?"

  "The campus cops just arrested Brooke...for stealing Proctor's master exam book!"

  "What?!"

   Oscar went on to explain how he'd been waiting for Brooke at the campus library.  When she hadn't shown up after five minutes (and the girl prided herself on being punctual), he started heading for the girls' dorm to see what was keeping her.  And it was in passing the security station, en route, that he saw her.  

  "She was being loaded into the back of a townie police car...in handcuffs!"

  "What???"

  "Esta verdad!  And when I ran up to find out what was going on, Proctor, himself, told me what had happened.  Or, rather, what was supposed to have happened. As 'witnessed' by Tad Bigelow and his buddies!"

  "Wait!  As in Charlene's boyfriend, Tad?"

  "Yeah!  What are we gonna do?"

  "Let me grab my purse and we'll go see if we can bail her out."

   tbc

  "It was a mad house," Cecilia Finster told my dad via his shrinkie-talkie:  "Oscar and Jumana arguing with Proctor and the cops.  The cops trying to forcibly escort the kids out of the police station (or else be locked up for disturbing the peace).  And Ali Hassan and his boys assaulting the cops for daring to lay hands on a princess of Najranistan!"

 "How did everything finally get resolved?" Dad asked.

 "Jumana called the Najrani Embassy in Washington.  Their legal attache contacted an ex-law school classmate working for the ACLU in Dallas.  And, an hour later, that acquaintance was on a diplomatic jet that flew her to Wheeler County Commuter Airport.  Forty-minutes after that, Brooke Rivera was out on bail.  Needless to say, however, she's been suspended from school pending a full hearing."  

 "I suppose the Royce triplets and their boyfriends are sticking to their prefabricated story?"

 "Yep!  And Proctor is continuing to buy it, although I don't see why.  I mean, she's a straight-A student!  Especially, in his class. So, why would she suddenly go to such clumsy lengths to cheat?"

 "Maybe he's being bribed," Dad replied:  "I mean, how much does even a tenured college professor make after taxes each year?"

 "Good question.  I'll look into it.  In the meantime, Jumana will be moving out of the sorority house, as well.  More out of loyalty to Brooke than any 'request' from the college faculty."

 "Good Lord!" exclaimed Dad:  "Not into the same mobile home, I hope."

 Since it had been naturally out of the question to allow Jumana's male bodyguards to reside in the sorority house with her, a mobile home had been rented that would occupy a nearby parking facility.  With two of the Zouaves stationed inside it, at all times, while the remainder rented rooms at the same off-campus boarding house as Cecilia and Meriwether!

 Cecilia laughed (as Dad had therapeutically intended).

  "Of course not!  The whole bunch of them are moving into the penthouse suite at the Snodgrass Arms in Downtown Magic City.  Which is where Ali Hassan had wanted them all to reside in the first place!  But, Jumana wouldn't hear of it.  She wanted to seem just like any other college co-ed."

  "It's probably just as well," Dad replied:  "It's where her parents will doubtless be staying, anyway, once they get here."

  "Unfortunately," Cecilia continued:  "...our part of the job isn't over.  That means you'll have to stow away in her belongings in order to accompany her."

  "Wow!" exclaimed Dad:  "Me?  Spending three days in the penthouse of a five-star hotel?  Rent-free?!  We shrunken guys have all the fun."

  "Don't get cocky, Buck.  Remember Rule Number One."

  "Yeah, yeah, I know.  Keep the subject unaware of me."

   That's why Dad had chosen to stow away inside one of Jumana's Wranglerette boots.  Since it was so late in the evening, by the time she had gotten back from bailing out her roommate, he thought it a relatively safe hiding place while she packed up her things for the emergency relocation.   And, for a little while, he was right.

  That is, till the luggage was finished being brought up to the penthouse. 

  "It is nearly quarter past eleven, Your Highness," said Ali Hassan:  "You and Miss Rivera should start getting ready for bed.  My men and I will see to putting your clothes away."

  "Nonsense, Captain!  Brooke and I are big girls.  We can put our own clothes away.  You guys have done enough for us, tonight.  Go get some sleep."

  "As you wish," the Zouave replied with a bow:  "Although, two of us will still remain awake to safeguard these new quarters."

  Jumana could not help sighing in response.

  "Fine, fine!  Pleasant dreams, in any case."

  Jumana then looked at Brooke:  "Helluva night, huh, roomie?"

  The young tejana looked at her and half-grinned.

  "Yeah.  Thanks for everything, by the way.  Bailing me out and putting me up for the night.  You didn't really have to leave TNA, though.  The faculty couldn't kick both of us out without causing an international incident!"

  "I don't desert my friends, Brooke.  Not for any reason.  Now...think fast!"

  It had been meant as a playful prank, meant to take Brooke's mind off everything else she had just gone through.  And, usually, the words "Think fast!" were followed by the tossing of something relatively lightweight and harmless.  Like a washcloth or a pair of white gym socks destined for the laundry hamper.  But, tonight, the closest thing within grasping distance...were Jumana's Wranglerette boots.

  Needless to say, Brooke was too distracted to successfully catch them.  Consequently, she dodged to her right, thereby narrowly avoiding being hit in the face!  Jumana, of course, gasped.  Chanting the words "I'm sorry!" over and over.  That is, till she became aware that Brooke was looking down at the carpeted floor of the penthouse master bedroom.   A stunned expression on her face.

  "Brooke!  Are you all right?!"

  The young tejana merely nodded.  Pointing down at the floor, with her left index finger, as she did so.  Jumana looked in the same direction...and saw my dazed dad for the first time.

  tbc

  For a minute, nobody moved.  Then, slowly, Dad sat up.  Whereupon, Brooke Rivera opened to scream!

  "No-no-no!" shouted Dad, barely managing to cut her off:  "Please! No screaming. I can explain."

  Brooke gasped:  "You can talk?!"

  Dad nodded.  Whereupon, Jumana strode forward and picked him up by the collar of his red cover-alls.  His whole body dangling from her right hand like a side of beef on a meat hook!

  "Then, make with the explanations.  Or I'll call in my guards.  And I've a feeling you don't want that!"

  My dad nodded, again.  But, thinking fast, even as he did so.

  "My name is Buck Fogarty.  And I used to be a foreign correspondent.  But, six years ago, I stumbled across this KGB spy ring, in Saigon, that was doing some kind of biochemical research.  And this is what happened when I spilled some of those chemicals on me!  The good news is that the CIA arrived in the nick of time, with Saigon's Finest, and shut down the spy ring.   The bad news is that I've been stuck at this size ever since.  So, in exchange for faking my death, they give me a place to stay and someone to serve as my bodyguard while I help them with certain special missions."

  Brooke and Jumana looked at each other, before looking back at my dad.

  "And is your latest mission to watch a pair of undergrad co-eds undress for bed?"

  Dad shook his head:  "My partner and I were merely assigned to make sure nothing happened to you prior to your folks' arrival.  When you moved here, to the hotel, I stowed away inside one of your cowgirl boots to make sure I stayed within eyesight of you."

  "I believe him," said Brooke.

  Jumana must have looked at her roommate with disbelief, because Brooke instantly elaborated.

  "Well, look at him!  Can you think of anything else that would explain his condition?  Unless, of course, Najranis believe in genies."

  "Oh, please.  He came out of my boot!  Not a brass oil lamp."

  "Then, why not give him the benefit of the doubt?"

  Jumana looked back down at my dad.

  "I will. . .on one condition.  That he contacts his partner to come here and vouch for him.  In person!"

  Dad sheepishly grinned:  "I don't suppose it would do any good to say that my partner's identity is classified?"

  Jumana shook her head:  "Either contact him or I call the guards."

  Dad shrugged in half-pretended defeat.

  "Fine!  My walkie-talkie is still in your boot.  Could your friend get it for me?"

  Brooke did as requested and reached back inside the boot.  Giggling at its size as she retrieved it.

  "It's like a speck of dirt on my finger tip."

  She then carefully handed the "shrinkie-talkie" to Dad.

  "Five Points Buck to Boss Man.  Five Points Buck to Boss Man.  Do you copy?  Over."

  "Copy you, Five Points Buck.  What's up?  Over."

  "There's been an unexpected development with regard to HRH.  Over."

  "What do you mean, 'unexpected?'  Over."

   Dad explained...and Myron Meriwether groaned.  Which was not unexpected!   But, to his credit, Meriwether managed to calm down almost immediately.  Whereupon, he sighed and replied:

  "Fine!  I'll be up in five minutes.  Just have HRH notify her bodyguards to that effect.  Otherwise, they'll be another arrest for disturbing the peace.  Boss Man; over and out."

  Dad then looked up at Jumana:  "You heard him, Your Highness.  The rest is up to you."

 "Fine!  I'll go phone Captain Hassan.  Here, Brooke.  You found him; you hold on to him.  Real tight!"

 Brooke did as instructed.  Keeping my dad firmly (though not uncomfortably) immobilized with both hands.  The two of them looked at each other for a few moments.  Then, Dad broke the awkward silence with one of his trademark wisecracks.

 "So!  What do you think the Texas Rangers' chances are of becoming World Series champs, this year?"

  tbc

  "On February 28, 1850, northern Chinese warlord Chen Wu Lung of Lanchou married Yu Mei-ling of Amoy.  The latter was the eldest daughter of Yu Wen Mi.  The wealthiest man in Fukien Province.  So, naturally, both men expected this union to be of great benefit, both politically and socio-economically!  Yet, between the couple's own age disparity (he was age 37; she was only 16) and the fourteen years of chaos now known as the Taiping Rebellion, it was not until 1865 that Mei-ling was able to bless that union with any children.  In this case; fraternal twins."

 "The first-born son, Chen Ying Yu Xiong, and his slightly younger sister, Chen Gui Hua."

 "The girl was abducted by Dongan rebels when she was only four years-old.  She was subsequently rescued, however, by an expatriate Japanese ronin named Ishimura Jun'Yo!  A reactionary samurai, he had emigrated to mainland China in bitter opposition to the Meiji Emperor's plans to modernize Japan.  But, if he had ever once been worried about what kind of gainful employment he would find, upon arriving there, he ceased worrying once he rescued the warlord's daughter.  For not only did her grateful father appoint Ishimura as Gui Hua's personal bodyguard for the rest of all time.  He also promised to make her Ishimura's wife when she came of age!"  

 "That came to pass in 1886.  By which point, her brother had already spent five years helping their father and maternal grandfather to smuggle British army-surplus arms and ammunition to Imperial Chinese troops fighting against the French in northern Vietnam.  For it was through his in-laws, the House of Yu, that Chen Wu Lung had first become involved with the Earth Tiger Society of Hong Kong."

 "Unfortunately, northern Vietnam became part of French Indochina, just the same.  A fact that did not endear the Earth Tigers to Chen Ying, whatsoever!  Indeed, his resentment only increased, after he became warlord, following his father's death during the Boxer Rebellion.  And it became undying hatred after he learned how the Earth Tigers had secretly been collaborating with the military forces of Germany, based in the Shantung Peninsula, during World War One."

 "Chen Ying considered that an unforgivable betrayal.  He therefore became obsessed with destroying the Earth Tigers, once and for all, by any means necessary.  Including post-war purchases of as many American-made tommy guns as possible!  By the Japanese invasion of 1931, his private army had become the nucleus of a rival tong; the Bear Eagle Society.  And, as the initial Communist/Nationalist coalition against the Japanese was supported by the Earth Tigers, the Bear Eagles predictably (yet still rather stupidly) collaborated _with_ the Japanese _against_ them!"

 "Hence their ultimately being forced into Burmese exile after 1945."

 "As for Chen Gui Hua; she had finally managed to become pregnant during the winter of 1900.  Unfortunately, she went into premature labor, during her second trimester, after learning that her husband had been killed while leading pro-Boxer Chinese troops against the Japanese contingent of the International Relief Expedition.  Even more tragically, she did not live to see her only child successfully delivered via Caesarean section!  Consequently, the now equally widowed Chen Mei-ling seized the opportunity to have her newborn grandchild (a baby girl) smuggled to Japan. For her brother, the publicly esteemed banker Yu Lai, had recently opened a new branch there within the local Chinatown of Nagasaki!"

 "So it was there that he would raise the little girl, as his own, under the pseudonym 'Yuno Hu.' "

  Chet Northfield set down the pad and pencil he had been using to record (in shorthand) the recitation he had just heard from the Zainichi* calling himself "Taiwan" Ahn.  And he freely admitted that it was a fascinating story!

  "But," he added:  "...I fail to see what any of that has to do with the upcoming wedding of Princess Jumana of Najranistan."

  "Taiwan" Ahn smiled:  "There is going to be an assassination attempt against her within the next two weeks. And the attempt is going to be made by a ninja in the employ of the Earth Tigers' true masters.  The Heikegani-ryu!"

  * * * * *

  WATANABE DOJO

  TARZANA, CALIFORNIA

  (TWO DAYS LATER)

  "I thought the Heikegani-ryu only accepted contracts they deemed an extra-special challenge to their reputation, " Chet remarked when he finished repeating the story:  "So why target a Middle Eastern princess?  Especially when, from their point of view, killing her would probably be just mildly difficult--maybe even boring!--by comparison."

  "Wealth and power, my nephew," replied Anjiro Watanabe:  "There's a lot riding on her upcoming marriage to that Lebanese oil sheikh.  So there's bound to be a few people who regard her as worth more dead than alive!"

  "Jiro!" chided his wife.

  "The truth is harsh, more often than not, Tsune-chen.  So, what else did this Zainichi say about the assassination attempt?"

  "Only that the ninja is going to have inside help of some kind.  So, what do you suggest we do, Uncle Jiro?"

  "I'll contact Mini-Ops and give Dr. Long a carefully edited version of your story.  While he sees to providing a little extra security for the princess, you and I can begin trying to hunt down this ninja, pre-emptively."

  tbc

* * * * *

 As soon as they had finished questioning Abu Kamal, the older of the two "Tuaregs" had given the younger one a test tube.  The latter then stuck a hypodermic needle through the cork and filled it up, completely.  When that had been accomplished, he injected Kamal and his still-unconscious bodyguards with the contents. 

They shrank, almost immediately.

 Whereupon, the younger "Tuareg" carried them to the female servants' quarters.  Using his tanto knife to slice through the ropes binding the women with almost-soundless ease.  All before telling them:  "Voici quelques jouets pour vous.* "

  Upon rejoining the older "Tuareg," he said (in perfect English):  "How much you want to bet the previous status quo changes before nightfall?"

  The older "Tuareg" grinned and winked:  "No takers."

   As soon as they arrived at their next destination, twenty-fours later, Anjiro Watanabe went straight to their host's radiotelephone and activated the built-in scrambler.  Consequently, he was ready when the dispatcher came on with the usual catch phrase.

"American Fidelity Insurance."

"This is Stalking Horse.  Put me through to Top Dog."

Sixty seconds later, Dr. Ezra Long's voice came over the receiver.

 "Stalking Horse?"

 "Clean, green, and larger-than-life!  How are you?"

 "Forego the jocularity.  Proceed with sit-rep."

 "Okay, okay!  Your intel was right.  Subic Bey did attend the meeting as hired interpreter between Kamal and Fujita.  But, Kamal attended it purely as spokesman for the true mastermind!  A KGB agent-provocateur currently living and working in Paris as a free-lance shutterbug for some high-fashion magazine."

 "Interesting!  Does this 'faux-tographer' happen to have a name?"

 "Dolores Gaston.  Supposedly born and raised in Bayonne as the only daughter of Spanish Basque separatists-in-exile. But, Kamal told us he's done enough business with DGI 'military advisors' that he knows a Cuban accent when hears one!  Fortunately, however, he was smart enough not to voice that opinion out loud."

 "I see.  What about Fujita?  Do you think he's really Heikegani-ryu?"

 "Probably more like one of those outsiders they've been know to occasionally train at special request.  That won't make him any the less dangerous, of course."

 "Agreed.  That's why I followed your advice about giving the princess some extra security.  Meanwhile, I want you to make Paris your next stop and investigate this Mlle. Gaston a lot further."

"Roger that.  Stalking Horse; over and out."

 * * * * *

MAGIC CITY, TEXAS

(ONE WEEK LATER)

 There was awkward silence for a minute or two after Jumana got off the phone with her chief bodyguard, Captain Ali Hassan.  So, Dad decided to break it by asking a rather pertinent question.  From where he was seated on Brooke Rivera's lap (with the both young ladies sitting on the sofa in the hotel suite's main living room), he looked up at the Crown Princess of Najranistan and bluntly asked:

 "Where have you seen shrunken men before, Your Highness?"

 She glared down at him, right away.

 "I beg your pardon?"

 "You were less dumbfounded than Brooke, here, by the sight of me after I fell out of your boot.  Only someone who's seen a shrinkie, at least once before, reacts with the relative quickness you did in picking me up."

 Brooke looked at Jumana:  "That's right.  You did.  I was still practically paralyzed!"

 Jumana half-smiled apologetically:  "Sorry.  But, you have to understand.  Where I'm from, shrunken men aren't exactly an everyday occurrence!  And, in my case?  It happened to my older brother, Mustafa."

 Before she could elaborate, she was interrupted by the sound of several men shouting excitedly.  Followed by gunshots!

 tbc

 They had been met at the Lyon Satolas Airport by their old friend Nguyen Van Dinh.  Formerly known as Lt. Van Dinh of the Saigon Municipal Police, in South Vietnam, he, his wife, and his junior partner (Sgt. Sun Tan) had been evacuated to Tahiti by Anjiro Watanabe and his son Samuru less than a week before Saigon's fall to the North Vietnamese in 1975.  With Samuru doing the piloting (in a privately chartered Learjet) from Tahiti to New York City via Honolulu, Los Angeles, and Chicago.  The refugees then spent a few weeks at a small bed-and-breakfast place in New Rochelle while the French ambassador to the United Nations arranged for emigration visas to France.  More specifically?  To the city of Lyon...where Van Dinh and Sun Tan subsequently went to work for the International Criminal Police Organziation. 

 Interpol, for short.

 Here it was, four years later, and he was now returning the favor.  He just wished that he had good news to deliver.

 "My apologies, mes amis.  I forwarded your request to the Surete.  But, by the time they initiated surveillance of her apartment, Mlle. Gaston had already left the country.   A photo-shoot in Houston, Texas, according to her current employers!"

 Chet looked at his uncle:  "You think she's going to meet Fujita?"

 "Could be.  Kamal did say he'd arranged for a flight from Casablanca to Mexico City.  But, that could place the rendezvous anywhere between Brownsville and El Paso!"

 "I vote for El Paso.  If he's got ten days (or less) left to kill the princess, he'll want to enter Texas by the shortest route possible."

 "Either way, kid, we check out first thing, tomorrow."

 Agent Van Dinh smiled, apologetically.

 "It is most unfortunate that you could not stay longer, under more pleasant circumstances, mon ami.  Still, it was nice to see you again. If only to express, once more, all my gratitude for what you did for us, at so much private expense, four years ago."

 "Non merci, necessaire," replied Jiro:  "We owed it you.  Big time!"   

 Van Dinh's smile widened into a grin.

 "In that case, I shall wish you au revoir, bon voyage, et bon chance."

  * * * * *

  SNODGRASS ARMS HOTEL,

   MAGIC CITY, TEXAS

   MAY 2, 1979

   Myron Meriwether was not in the best of moods when he got off the elevator.  Not after what Buck Fogarty had communicated to him.  Even so, he managed to keep his frustration in check as Princess Jumana's Zouave bodyguards routinely patted him down.  After all, he would be doing exactly the same thing if circumstances were reversed!   All his training and experience making him empathize with the seucrity consciousness of others.

  It was why he instinctively reached for the gun-and-shoulder holster he had been forced to leave behind, in his hotel room, when he heard the window down the hall get smashed to pieces.

  Three of the Zouaves closest to it spun about, one hundred eighty degrees, their 9mm Browning Hi-powers already drawn. Yet, fast as they had done so, the black-clad figure crouched amidst the broken glass proved faster.  His left arm tossing, in an over-handed throw, what looked like a hard-boiled egg.  But, which was, in fact, the ninjitsu equivalent of a flash-bang grenade!

  The ensuing flash of light, half-deafening explosion, and cloud of acrid smoke spoiled their aim as a result.  It also prevented them from avoiding getting wounded in their respective right thighs by octagonal shurikens.  Hence, each one of them reflexively dropped their weapons as they all three fell to their left knees.  But, while their faces winced in pain, the faces of their fellow bodyguards became slack-jawed with shock and astonishment at what they beheld next.

  Namely, the shrinking of the three wounded men to the size of dolls!

  That was all the provocation Meriwehter needed,  He immediately dove for one of the discarded Brownings, then somersaulted into a firing position, all in one fluid motion.  Firing one bullet apiece into each of the ninja's legs.  Followed by a third...literally right between the eyes. Yet, just as he was lowering his weapon and getting back on his feet, the window at the other end of the hall likewise broke!

  "Here we go, again," he muttered as he swung around and aimed.

  tbc