* * * * *

Having been born in the German enclave at Hankow, China, just a year after the Boxer Rebellion, Werner Petermann had learned to speak Mandarin Chinese as easily as his parents drank beer or Schnaps. Now, he was the KGB's special operations liason to Peking. And, it was in this capacity that he now visited the office of the Soviet Union's chief "commercial agent" in this British Crown Colony.

"Guten morgen, kamerad," he said as they shook hands.

"Spashiba, tovarisch. Please to sit down."

When this had been done, Vassily Alexandrov got right to the point.

"When the People's Army occupied Berlin, at the end of the Great Patriotic War in Europe, a number of Gestapo files were discovered and confiscated. This is one of them. Please to read it."

Petermann did so. As the seconds ticked by, his eyes widened in astonishement.

"Is this true?" he finally asked.

Alexandrov nodded: "The Gestapo wished to demoralize both the United States Army and the American public by assassinating him. Though they failed with regard to the former, they succeeded beyond expectation at the latter. Fifteen years later, the world still believes he died of natural causes!"

"Fantastiche!"

"The KGB now wishes to employ the services of this Japanese secret society," Alexandrov continued: "...with regard to President Eisenhower's successor! But, they wish one of our comrades to have the privilege of performing the actual deed. You will be the intermediary, who secures their...unique form of training for him."

"Ja wohl, Herr Kamerad! And, this privileged one...?"

Alexandrov pointed to Petermann's right. And, once again, the East German was wide-eyed with astonishment. Only this time, it was at not having noticed the young man sitting there any earlier!

"Tovarisch Petermann? Meet Tovarisch Sergeant Park Kim Jung, of the North Korean People's Army."

* * * * *

SOMEWHERE IN THE RYUKYU ISLANDS, THREE YEAR LATER

"Guten morgen, Herr Jonin," said Petermann, as he ritually bowed as far forward as he could. The elderly blind ninja master (who was rumored to be a full century old!) smiled and bowed just as deeply.

"Are you ready to witness Park-san's final examination, Herr Petermann?"

"Ja wohl, Herr Jonin."

Whereupon, the ninja master turned and shouted for the North Korean to begin. The latter bowed in compliance, before putting a dyed-black pillow case over his head. The chunin standing next to him then handed him a very long bow and a quiver of arrows. After which, the former signaled to some genin to begin pushing five strung-up watermelons back and forth. At least, until momentum had taken over.

The North Korean angled his head, as if listening to something. He then nocked his first arrow.

TWANG! TWANG! TWANG! TWANG! TWANG!

Petermann whipped his sunglasses off in disbelief. The North Korean had scored five bull's-eyes in a row!

"Impressed, Herr Petermann?"

"Somewhat," replied the East German, half-truthfully: "He is going to be using a bolt-action rifle, however. How can zen archery be applied to that?"

The ninja master merely smiled.

"Park-san? Chu-ko-nu!"

"Hai, Jonin-sama!"

The black pillow case remained in place, as Park was now handed a Chinese crossbow with a T-shaped lever and a box full of quarrels under the barrel. Park braced the crossbow against his left hip, as he pulled the lever towards him, loading a quarrel in place.

What happened next was nothing less than jaw-dropping.

The ninja master knelt down, on his right knee, left thumb and index finger forming a capital "l." And, his bamboo bo-staff held at a right angle over his right shoulder. He then ordered the North Korean to fire!

Four quarrels flew out, at eye-blurring speed. The first two were batted to the ground by Jonin-sama's bo. The third he caught in his right hand, and the last one with his left!

Petermann's reaction could only be summed up in one word.

"Scheisse!"

"Banzai!" shouted the ninja master, as Park whipped the black pillow case from his head, revealing a triumphant smile. Two genin then helped Jonin-sama back to his feet, as the latter looked in the East German's direction.

"Imagine, Herr Petermann, if those quarrels had been bullets fired at someone far _less_ well-prepared than myself."

Petermann's shocked facial expression changed to a feral grin as the ninja master's words sank in.

"It looks as if the final phase of Ordnung: Mordred...can now proceed."

tbc

* * * * *

Park Kim Jung had completed his training with the Heikegani-ryu in mid-August. He was then smuggled into Japan as a contract laborer from South Korea. By September 30, he had flown to Mexico City, posing as an ordinary Japanese tourist. On October 31, at two o'clock local time, he crossed the border into El Paso, Texas, while posing as "Senor Simon Jeet-Soo," a Sino-Peruvian from Lima.

Honeymooning with his wife.

The woman posing as "Senora Jeet-Soo" was Dolores Gutierrez. A Cuban operative of the KGB, whose Marxist Basque father had fought for the Soviet Army during the Siege of Stalingrad. She had been tutoring Park in Spanish, so as to make their cover near-perfect. And, she had to admit, he was a fast learner.

En route to Fort Worth, they bought themselves an exotic pet; a falconry-trained barn owl.

"Are you sure he was trained properly?" Park now asked: "I am more used to riding pigeons. And, he might all too easily mistake me for a mouse!"

"Tranquilo, por favor," she replied: "He was trained by the Moscow State Circus to transport an infant Brazilian night monkey on his back. Without consuming it! You shall have no problema."

"Mui bien," said Park as he finished getting dressed in the back of their Volkswagen mini-bus. With his ninja hood and domino mask complementing the black sweatsuit he had bought in El Paso, Dolores could just barely make him out.

And, when he shrank down to two inches tall, she could no longer see him, at all!

"Companero Park?" she inquired in a half-whisper (both for security reasons and so as not to damage his eardrums). In response, a shrunken flashlight clicked on and off three times. She sighed with relief. If she had not already seen one or two demonstrations of this incredible ability, for herself, she would have sworn there was a firefly present!

Slowly, she walked forward. And, after four more flashes, she knelt down to pick up the shrunken genin. Feeling him in her cupped palms, she could not help half-smiling at the thought of how cute he always looked at this size! Then, she shook her head, to regain her professional composure.

With her right hand, she opened the barn owl's cage. With her left hand, she just as carefully placed Park Kim Jung on the bird's neck. She then opened the mini-bus' sun roof.

"Muchos suerte, companero! I will see you at the grassy knoll."

Whereupon, the barn owl took off from GSW's short-term parking lot. Bound for the residence of one Lee Harvey Oswald.

tbc

* * * * *

MACAO, CHINA, 1973

Domiku Gutierrez had come a long way since he and his mother had fled to Cuba in 1910. His father had been hanged, that same year, for being one of Francisco Ferrer's lieutenants in the ill-fated Barcelona Revolt. By 1936, Domiku, himself, was serving in the Spanish Civil War...as a member of the forces _opposed_ to Francisco Franco!

Like all other such Spaniards, he was punished by being forced to serve with the Wehrmact, in Russia, during WWII. Somehow, though, he managed to defect to the Soviet side. Eventually, he became known as "the Stalingrad Grenadier," for his use of a jai alai cesta in throwing Molotov cocktails at the enemy during the siege of that city.

He became a soldier-of-fortune, after the war. Sometimes, bounty-hunting Nazi war criminals for the Israelis. Other times, running guns to left-wing guerrillas like the Vietminh. Nowadays, however, he lived and worked in Macao as "Don Vasco Morais;" an information-broker for the highest bidders.

For Domiku had gradually come to realize that knowledge was not only power. It could also be very lucrative! At least with regard to the controlled dispensing of it, in variously-sized pieces, for the right price. Of course, he dared not voice that sentiment in front of his daughter. Not with her being such a devout Marxist, these days.

Which is precisely why he was so surprised to get a call from her via scrambled radiophone.

"Papa? Esta Dolores. I wish to contact Park Kim Jung for a special assignment."

* * * * *

THREE DAYS LATER

The meztico houseboy knocked on the doorframe of his employer's private office, carefully and respectfully.

"Pardon, senhor."

"Sih, Joao?"

"Park Kim Jung es aqui."

"Ah! Obrigado, Joao. Show him in."

"Sih, senhor."

The dark-suited North Korean looked around, after the houseboy had dutifully closed the doors to the sound-proof room. The last time they had worked together, the Basque had resembled "Che" Guevara, and had fought like a true warrior of world socialism. Yet, now? He dressed like a typical capitalistic imperialist of the time: white Nehru jacket; black ascot, matching shoes and slacks; and, a hairpiece that was nowhere near as curly as his salt-and-pepper beard.

"Bienvenidos, companero! 'Long time/no see,' as the yanqui gringos say. But, what are you doing here? I thought you would be in Moscow by now, being briefed by mi hija!"

"My mission is geographically convenient to your hacienda. So, I thought I would simplify my task by seeking your help."

The North Korean sat down in the chair that was proffered him. Only then did he note the occupants of the glass aquarium behind the Basque's desk.

tbc

"West African electric catfish?!" Park exclaimed, getting back up on his feet to take a closer look. Domiku grinned and nodded, standing back up, himself, to join the North Korean.

"I have been collecting them since my last stint, as a professional mercenary, during the Belgian Congo Crisis. Beautiful, are they not?"

"Si! Beautiful, but deadly. Just like a tanto knife."

Before the Basque could utter any response, Park Kim Jug was spinning counter-clockwise, into a crouch. And, simultaneously hamstringing Domiku's left leg with the aforementioned tanto!

"ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!!!"

The Basque collapsed on to his left side, like the proverbial wet sack of manure. And, he continued to scream until Park knocked him out with a left-handed shuto strike. He then resheathed his tanto before putting back in his left coat pocket. After which, he withdrew something from his right pocket that Domiku might initially have mistaken for an American girl's doll.

Except this "doll" had auburn hair. And, while Park was holding it in his left hand, he placed his right hand on Domiku's unconscious head. Concentrating, with closed eyes, he subsequently shrank the Basque while enlarging the "doll!"

Moments later, Domiku was sputtering water from his nose and mouth, as a result of being quickly dipped, upside-down, in the aquarium.

"Que...? Quien...? Donde...?"

"Hola, Papa."

Domiku looked up as best he could, in the direction of the familiar voice. And, he stammered in disbelief.

"D-D-Dolores?"

"Si, Papa. Y, yo soy mui desilusionado con usted!* Did you seriously think the KGB would not learn of your dealings with Senor Throckmorton? Or, his inquiries concerning the Heikegani-ryu?"

"Dolores! Por fa....uhnnnnnnn!"

She silenced him by tightening her grip on his wounded leg.

"You are not--and never have been--our sole source of information in this part of Asia, Papa. A fact I will now demonstrate, most unmistakably. Adios!"

She dropped him back into the aquarium, then she stooped forward to watch him swim gamely back to the surface.

"D-Dolores! Ayuda me, por favor. Ayudaaaaaaaaaaaaaah...!"

The woman merely smiled as her father's electrocuted corpse was dragged back beneath the surface by the catfish.

"Beautfiul! Are they not?"

"Si," Park replied: "Beautiful, but deadly. Just like you, mi carida."

tbc

* * * * *

Club 23 Skiddoo had been modeled after a Prohibition-era speak-easy. Even the posters flanking the frosted glass front doors advertised a chorus line known as "the Flapperettes!" And, photojournalist Chet Northfield had to admit they were very attractive.

"OK, Romeo!" chuckled a voice from behind him: "Enough ogling. We have an appointment to keep. Remember?"

They trotted across the busy street, dodging pedicabs and motor scooters, to a sidewalk cafe already crowded with luncheoners. Luckily, for them, the person they were to meet had saved them two chairs.

Chet angled his chair so that he could look at the street over his left shoulder. He then took off his lucky Brooklyn Dodgers cap, and wiped his sweaty brow. To his right, he saw Oisin "Buck" Fogarty mirror that action, using the brown fedora that made so many people confuse him with Harry Steele (Charlton Heston's character from "Secret of the Inca").

And, he confessed to the elderly Englishman sitting across from them that he found it mildly annoying how positively pristine the latter looked in his white suit and black tie! The Englishman just laughed, and Buck smiled as he made introductions.

"Percival Throckmorton? Meet Chet Northfield, my newest shutterbug. Chet? Meet 'Pokerface Percy,' the biggest cardsharp ever employed by British Military Intelligence, during WWII."

"It's an honor, sir."

"Likewise, Mr. Northfield!"

The three of them ordered ice tea all around when the waiter approached them. Then, Buck turned back to the Englishman.

"So, what brings you to this part of the world? Last I'd heard, you had retired to Monte Carlo!"

"Indeed, yes. But, I finally won enough at the gaming tables that I was able to fund the completion of my research. My book will be published this spring."

The legendary foreign correspondent gasped: "You mean, you did it? You finally found out who he was?"

"All that, and much more! First, however, I think we should enlighten young Mr. Northfield as to what we are talking about."

Chet almost blushed that his confusion had been so obvious. Buck grinned and explained that Percy's grandfather had been one of the extra constables assigned to patrol the Whitechapel section of London during the Ripper murders of 1888.

"As in, Jack the Ripper?" asked Chet. Throckmorton nodded.

"I've spent half my life trying to unearth his identity, using my various contacts within the intelligence community to gain access to certain documents. And, I have succeeded beyond my wildest expectations! What would you two say if I told you Red Jack had never been an Englishman. Nor even a Caucasian. But, an Oriental! One who belonged to an ancient secret society so well-versed in the art of assassination...that their greatest successes are _still_ regarded as deaths-by-natural causes!"

Buck and Chet momentarily looked at each other before the former responded.

"I'd have to say; what've you been spiking your four o'clock tea with?"

The two newsmen laughed for a few seconds. Only for their laughter to die at the sight of Throckmorton's stone-faced expression.

"I'm deadly serious, Buck. And, I'll prove it. What do the dates 12 April 1945, and 22 November, 1963, have in common?"

Buck's eyes widened in astonishment: "You're not suggesting..."

Throckmorton nodded: "Both deaths were the work of this secret society. And, so was the recent disappearance of my chief informant, in Macao. Which is why I've called you here."

"I don't follow," confessed Buck.

"My informant's daughter did most of the legwork for him on this matter. And, when her father disappeared (along with his houseboy), she knew right away who might be responsible! She fears for her life, and justifiably so. I'd like your help in getting her out of Saigon, and to the relative safety of Langley, Virginia."

Buck exhaled the breath he had not realized he had even been holding.

"Percy! Even if they give you the same benefit of the doubt as I'm trying to, I've been out of that game for almost thirty years."

"Perhaps. But, a lot of their desk jockeys served in the O.S.S. with you. And, some of them still owe their lives to you. So, what do you say? Will you help me?"

"We'll have to meet this girl, first."

"Of course! Come back here, at eight tonight. I'll introduce her to you in the cocktail lounge of the 23 Skiddoo."

It was at this moment that waiter finally came back with their ice teas. Whereupon, the two older men began telling Chet about some of their WWII exploits. The latter became so engrossed in listening, that he failed to notice the peculiar four-legged "bug" sliding down the lower left leg of his chair.

tbc

* * * * *

"So what did you think of his theory?" asked Buck, as soon as they got back to their room at the local YMCA.

Chet shook his head: "I don't know. It's been drummed into every baby-boomer's head, since Day 1 of first grade, that FDR died of cerebral hemorrhage. But, then, again; Bruce Lee is only supposed to have died from over-sensitivity to painkillers!"

"Don't tell me. You're one of those who believe otherwise."

"The Dim Mak Touch isn't just a bedtime story for misbehaving kids, Buck. Not after Uncle Jiro used it to save me from a rabid coyote when I was five!"

According to a legend on Chet's paternal grandmother's side of the family, there was once a yamabushi (and part-time sarumawashi) who had studied under Nichiren, himself, during the latter's 13th-century exile to Sadogashima, off the coast of Niigata Prefecture, Japan.

This yamabushi later went on a pilgrimage to Buddha's birthplace via Bali, Ceylon, and India. By the time he returned to Sado, he had developed a martial art that hybridized Indian kalaripayit with the natural acrobatics of his pet snow monkey!

He called this art "eguzairu-do" ("the way of the exile"). And, he taught it only to his relatives in the island's ruling family; the Honma-Harada Clan. By 1900, however, Harada Botan was the last living direct male descendant of that clan. So, in 1905, he began teaching the art to his son-in-law, Watanabe Masahiro.

Twenty years later, Masahiro began teaching it to his own son, Anjiro, in Hawaii. And, by 1943, Anjiro was using it to good effect--as an O.S.S. radio pirate--in the CBI Theater of World War II!

"You don't have to sell _me_ on your uncle's ninja prowess, kid. Not after the way he literally saved my ass back in the Big One! But, let's table this discussion until we meet Percy's client. We've got some shopping to do."

By seven-thirty, the two newsmen had donned the formal evening wear they had rented, in order to conform to the nightclub's customer dress code. Chet showed off his white dinner jacket, black trousers, and matching loafers and socks in a slow turn. For which, Buck gave him a thumb's-up. Then, it was Buck's turn to do likewise.

"How do I look?" he asked.

"You look like the first token white man in a Motown singing group."

"Kiss mine, and up yours!"

Both newsmen laughed before going down to the sidewalk, in front of the "Y," and hailing a pedicab. When they reached the now-closed sidewalk cafe, at which they had first met Throckmorton, they saw the identically-garbed Englishman had been true to his word.

He was smiling, and waving at them, from the front steps of Club 23 Skiddoo.

Five minutes later, they were in the cocktail lounge. With Percy drinking a gin-and-tonic, while his two acquaintances split a Scotch-and-soda (the soda going to Chet).

At quarter after eight, Buck understandably became impatient.

"Where is she, Percy?"

Before the Englishman could offer any reply, a waiter came up and apologized for interrupting them.

"Your table is ready, Mr. Throckmorton. And, your goddaughter has already been seated."

The two newsmen looked at the Englishman, quizzically. The latter merely shrugged, however, just as puzzled as them. Even so, none of them offered any comment aloud, as they followed the waiter to a table near the bandstand, in the main showroom.

Chet's eyebrows instantly shot to their maximum height when he saw the slightly older woman sitting there. She had auburn hair; hazel eyes; black elbow-length gloves; and a sleeveless, matching-colored evening gown with shoulder straps knotted at the back of her neck.

"Messrs. Fogarty and Northfield?" Throckmorton formally intoned: "Meet Senorita Dolores Gutierrez."

tbc

"Hola, senores," said Dolores after Throckmorton's introduction: "Mucho gusto."

"Para mi, tambien," replied Chet as he and Buck shook her hand.

"Ah!" she smiled: "Se habla espanol?"

"Mui poco," Chet admitted: "Just what I picked up from some of my classmates in Monterey, California, when I was a high school kid."

"Very enlightening, Mr. Northfield," interrupted Throckmorton: "But, let's get down to business, shall we?"

Dolores nodded: "Mui bien! Where shall I begin?"

"How about with this secret society Percy was talking about?" remarked Buck: "He says your father was his chief source of information on them?"

"Si y no. Mi padre was more of a middleman. He merely pointed Senor Throckmorton in the direction of certain records. The existence of which, I had personally unearthed for Papa. But, if this secret society managed to back-track those inquiries to mi padre..."

"...then you might mysteriously disappear, too," Buck finished: "That much, I'm aware of, already. But, if I'm going to intercede with the CIA on your behalf, I have to give them something they can verify. Something that--as callous as it sounds--will make them think it's worth their time and effort, protecting you."

"Por ejemplo?"

"What does this secret society call themselves?"

Before Dolores Gutierrez could reply, the lights went out. Except for one big spotlight that illuminated the night club's resident emcee.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Madames et m'sieurs. For tonight, only, the Club 23 Skiddoo is proud to present...a Charleston contest! In which, our lovely Flapperettes will go out amongst you, and seek out those tables with gold stars. If you are of the male persuasion, sitting at such a table, you shall have the privilege of dancing with that particular Flapperette! Maestro? Begin!"

Immediately, the house lights came back on, momentarily blinding the trio of men sitting with Dolores. Following which, the orchestra began playing "Varsity Rag."

When Chet's vision had once again adjusted to the ambient lighting, he saw that Buck and Throckmorton were being dragged to center stage by four Flapperettes apiece. He then looked at the table top.

Sure enough, at dead center of the tablecloth was a small white card with a gold star on its otherwise blank surface.

"I don't understand. The emcee said..."

"I convinced las chinas that you were spoken for, senor," replied Dolores with a suggestive half-smile. Chet blushed, vainly trying to hide it by turning to watch the two older men reluctantly acquiescing to their dance partners.

As the dance contest proceeded, however, he began to lose sight of Buck and Throckmorton among the other dance teams. A fact that gradually made him more and more anxious until, finally, the contest ended...

...and neither man was in sight!

"Where the frig...? he began to mutter, half-aloud. That is, until he looked to his right, and saw Dolores pointing a gun at him!

A silenced West German H&K pistol, to be precise.

"One false move, senor. And, I shoot to kill!"

tbc

Chet wondered for a second if he should try to lunge forward and disarm her. Then, he saw that the trigger guard was missing from the gun. Leaving just the semi-circular wedge of plastic that served as the trigger, itself. Allowing her glove-covered right index finger to squeeze it without difficulty, if the need arose.

He decided to stall for time by co-operating.

"OK! This is me, not moving. What now?"

"Now, we will slowly--but simultaneously--get to our feet. And, you will walk beside me, to my left, as we proceed backstage."

Which is exactly what they did, Chet's right arm interlinked with her left, as if they were lovers. While the H&K remained level with his right kneecap.

As soon as they got backstage, a Chinese busboy bowed and showed them to a metal door. A smaller door at the top of it opened up, and the busboy (speaking Mandarin) told the pair of eyes that looked out:

"Chou sent me."

The larger door opened up, and the pseudo-couple walked through, still escorted by the busboy. And, as they proceeded, Chet saw and heard something he had only experienced once before. During a collegiate spring break weekend in Las Vegas.

The hub-bub of a casino in action.

That he had not heard anything prior to the door opening up meant this entire section of the night club had to have been sound-proofed. Indicating an illegal casino in operation!

Still, the trio kept going, until they went through another door. This time, a wooden one. Chet translated the Mandarin ideograms on it as reading:

"Rehearsal Hall"

The first thing he saw through that door was eight of the Flapperettes, still wearing their stage costumes: silver sequined skull caps; matching mini-dresses (covered with green fringe); and green open-toed tap shoes.

They were, in fact, the same eight girls who had dragged Buck and Throckmorton out to center stage for the Charlston contest! Only this time, they were surrounding a large square piece of wood; two at the top of it, and three on each side. The bottom of the square was blocked by a tall Oriental whom Chet quickly identified as a Korean man (possibly in his early forties) wearing a white shirt and black slacks.

This Korean was operating a closed-circuit TV camera on a tripod. Next to the camera, on a small wooden table, was a closed-circuit monitor with a rainbow-colored test pattern. And, next to the monitor was a blue Panasonic audiotape player.

Urging him forward with her gun, Dolores ordered Chet to look at the center of the large wooden square. He did so, yet all he could discern there was a small doll crafted to look like a formally dressed man with white hair. Then, he did a double-take. After which, he looked at Dolores.

"It can't be...!"

"But, it is! Park?"

The Korean activated the camera, and the test pattern on the TV immediately disappeared. In its place was the image of a very frightened septugenarian named Percival Throckmorton.

And, he was frightened because he had somehow been reduced to less than six inches tall!

tbc

"This just isn't possible," muttered Chet.

Dolores smiled: "Correction, senor. It is most definitely possible for the secret society Senor Throckmorton was intending to expose. And, now, he will pay the price. Park?"

Once more, the Korean obeyed this woman. This time, though, he hit the "play" button on the Panasonic. Almost immediately, the tape cassette within began playing a classic jazz tune; "42nd Street."

Just as promptly, the eight Flapperettes began dancing in time to it. And, under any other circumstances, Chet would have been riveted by both their ability and their lovely legs. In this case, however, his attention was centered on the closed-circuit monitor.

He was watching Percy Throckmorton trying his best to evade being crushed by sixteen giant tap shoes!

The few times Chet was able to look away, he noticed that every single one of the lovely tap dancers had a malicious grin on her face. What a zoologist might call "feral."

These women had done this before. And, they loved it!

As the song began to near its conclusion, however, the Flapperettes began to step up their efforts to step on the shrunken Englishman. With one of them finally succeeding...via her left shoe's heel.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Chet tried to look away, but Dolores ordered him to re-open his eyes. Reluctantly, he did so.

He saw the Flapperette who had crushed Throckmorton's lower half calmly lifting her leg, so the busboy could clean the bottom of her shoe with a white rag. He then looked back at the monitor. Only to see that Throckmorton was still alive from the waist up!

"For God's sake, woman! Put the poor man out of his misery!!"

"As you wish, senor."

This time, Dolores merely nodded to Park, who subsequently stepped on the Englishman with his right foot. And, this time, when Chet looked away, his captor did not force him to watch.

"Who are you? What've you done with Buck Fogarty? And, why bother even showing this to me?"

Dolores laughed: "So many questions! You will truly make a good journalist, some day."

"Skip the flattery! Just answer me."

Park half-raised his right arm, fist clenched. But, Dolores shook her head, so he refrained from following through on his planned blow to Chet's face.

"The owner of this establishment is an old 'business acquaintance' of the KGB. And, in return for providing us a convenient place for executing troublesome individuals, like Senor Throckmorton, we sometimes reciprocate with regard to his enemies. In this case, Detective Lieutenant Nguyen Van Dinh of the Saigon Munincipal Police."

Chet's startled reaction of recognition did not go unnoticed.

"Si, senor. We know that your employer, Senor Fogarty, is good friends with him. Just as we know that it was the American military police who dubbed him 'Gunga' Van Dinh. Because, they regard him as a better man than the rest of the local police, in terms of incorruptibility. A truly back-handed compliment!"

"If you think I'm going to act as bait to lure him here, just so these tap-happy harpies can crush him...!"

Dolores laughed again: "Wrong again, senor. You are going to take my friend, here, to Lt. Van Dinh's house. He will be the one to dispatch the latter! Because, the lieutenant (like the late, unlamented Senor Throckmorton) has delved into matters that do not concern him, once too often."

"And, if I refuse...?"

Dolores passed her gun to Park, who wasted no time pointing it at Chet. At the same time, the former stuck her hand down inside her black velvet purse. She withdrew from it a plastic cricket cage with white bars linking a red roof and matching floor. Yet, at that moment, it was not housing a cricket.

Its current, fetally-positioned occupant, was none other than Buck Fogarty!

tbc

* * * *

Before Chet could think of anything to say, in reaction, there was a knock at the rehearsal hall door. The bus boy that had escorted Chet and Dolores unlocked it, before slightly opening it.

Yet, that still proved far enough for whoever was outside it to suddenly barge in.

"KI-AIIIII!"

The bus boy went flying backwards, landing flat on his back, as the intruder--a domino-masked ninja--came running in. Park immediately aimed the silenced gun at his direction, only to be hit in the head by a Navy-blue blur that started to riccochet, uncontrollably, from floor to ceiling and back again.

A second such projectile went flying past Dolores, causing to her instinctively shriek and cover her head with both hands. Unfortunately, this resulted in her dropping the cricket cage!

From Chet's point of view, what happened next seemed to be in slow motion. The cage started falling to the floor, with shrunken Buck Fogarty still trapped inside. Chet immediately dove forward into a somersault, emerging from it with enough momentum to spring forward a second time. He then landed flat on his stomach, his arms stretching forward to catch the cage in the palms of his upturned hands.

When that had been accomplished, he rolled over on to his back, before his left hand as to pivot one hundred-eighty degrees. Thereby kicking Dolores' feet out from under her!

Meanwhile, the genin had driven the screaming Flapperettes to retreat, towards the mirrored back wall of the room, by flinging out more Superballs.* He then turned to Chet and nodded towards the open door, clearly indicating they should leave together.

The young photojournalist needed no further urging. He followed his mysterious rescuer with all the speed he could muster. Consequently, they burst through a fire exit into a garbage-strewn alley.

The genin sprinted towards the front end of the alley, Chet still hot on his heels. They emerged on to the street to the left of the nightclub's main entrance. As they did so, a motorized pedicab pulled up in from of them. And, unlike its competitors, its front half seemed to be have been constructed from an American-made Harley/Davidson!

Chet and the genin clambered in, together. After which, the cab driver took off like the proverbial bat of infernal origin. As he did so, the pedicab briefly reared up on its back tires in the maneuver colloquially known as a "wheelie."

When all three tires were once more in full contact with the asphalt, Chet turned to his rescuer. Before he could utter a word of thanks, however, the genin removed his hood and domino mask. Revealing a smiling face that made Chet gasp in recognition.

"Uncle Jiro???"

tbc

* * * *

Sergeant Taro Kitahara (a Purple Hearted veteran of the 442nd RCT) had arrived in Tokyo on September 23, 1945, as a military intelligence linguist with the U.S. 97th Infantry Division. When that unit was deactivated, six months later, he was transferred to Korea--and the 6th Infantry Divison--for service in the same category. And, following _their_ deactivation (1 Jan. 1949), he was transferred back to Japan, to serve the 25th "Tropic Lightning" Division as an all-purpose interpreter!

In all that shuffling around, he lost a crucial piece of mail from his sister and her husband. The one notifying him that he had just become the uncle of seven-pound/seven-ounce Samuru Watanabe.

To remedy this, Anjiro Watanabe contacted Buck Fogarty in Hong Kong. The latter was now a foreign correspondent for a Los Angeles-based news wire service. But, during WWII, they had been O.S.S. agents, operating along the Thai/Burmese border. Anjiro, translating the Japanese radio traffic they intercepted; and Buck, relaying it to guerrilla units loosely attached to the British Fourteenth Army.

Then, one day, while evading a trigger-happy enemy patrol, Buck was wounded in the line of duty. Or, more precisely, he got hit by a stray bullet in the left posterial cheek!

The nurse who ultimately assisted in removing it was Corporal Katherine Anne DeCoteau; a Canadian metis later stationed in Japan as part of the British Commonwealth Occupation Forces. Her maternal grandparents--Russian Doukhobors from Sakhalin Island--had emigrated to British Columbia in 1900.* As a result, she spoke Japanese more fluently than Buck. So, he enlisted her aid in tracking down the good sergeant.

They achieved this objective at a certain Chinese restaurant in Yokohama. And, Sgt. Kitahara (which is Japanese for "north field") was so overjoyed by the news, he impulsively bear-hugged Cpl. Decoteau, while simultaneously kissing her full on the lips!

As Buck told Chet, eighteen years later: "When they pulled apart, I couldn't tell which of them was more shocked. Still, she couldn't have minded it, too much. Because, a year later, I was best man at their wedding in Seoul! They honeymooned in Bora Bora. And, nine months afterward, you came into the world."

Since Buck had frequently addressed Anjiro as "chet" (the Thai word for "brother") during their off-duty conversations in the CBI Theater, that was what the newlywed parents decided to name their son.

In short, then, Chet Northfield felt he owed his very identity to Buck. Which is why he felt so helpless, now.

He and his Uncle Jiro had been driven to the American embassy by Detective Sgt. Sun Tan of the Saigon Munincipal Police. The young detective was the personally handpicked driver of Lt. Nguyen Van Dinh. And, that was precisely who was waiting for them, in the backseat of an unmarked police car, at the embassy.

Anjiro joined him there, while Chet "rode shotgun" in the front passenger seat. The older police detective naturally started asking questions, when he saw the shrunken reporter in the cricket cage! But, he acquiesced when Anjiro suggested they postpone any discussion until they arrived at his house.

Upon reaching their destination, they reassembled in the privacy of Lt. Van Dinh's study. And, there, Chet briefed everyone of his rescuers about what had occurred at Club 23 Skiddoo.

By this point, of course, the shrunken reporter had been released from the cricket cage. And, the middle-aged ninja was quick to interrogate him.

"How did they do it, Buck? Chemical injection, or atomized solution?"

"Neither one. I was simply dragged into a corner, off-stage, and held against a wall while those deceptively dainty Amazons stared at me."

"Stared at you?"

The little man nodded: "Very intently, too. And, I couldn't look away from them. It was like I was hypnotized! Plus, there was some kind of...tingly feeling coming from where their hands pressed against me. The next thing I knew, I was staring at their toes!"

Anjiro mulled over what he had just been told. Giving Chet the opportunity to ask some of his own burning questions. Questions he no longer had the patience to refrain from asking.

"Uncle Jiro! What the frig is going on, here? How come seeing Buck in this condition didn't freak you out? Or, at least, make you speechless, the way it did me? In fact, why do you sound as if you've seen this type of thing before?"

The ninja half-smiled: "Because, I have, my nephew. I have!"

tbc

* * * * *

The young man calling himself "Miguel Morales" led the way, jumping over the low adobe wall of the bordertown cemetary. It was Juanita Cierva, a CIA asset from Brownsville, who had guided them most of the way to the border, after aiding in their escape from Tampico. But, now, they were on his home turf (so to speak).

Besides which, he had the flashlight and the Colt M-1911. While she had been given charge of the duffel bag containing the vital evidence required by the Company.

He signaled for them to stop, so he could check on his middle-aged partner.

"Pepe? Usted bien?"

"Yeah, s'alright!"

"Miguel" could not help smiling. It was not that the Senor Wences imitation had been particularly good. It was that, despite his present condition, the older man still preferred his English-as-a-second-language over the younger man's (admittedly limited) fluency in Spanish.

"OK, Juanita? Hand me one of the walkie-talkies. I'll go look for that grave marker we were told to wait by...what's the name, again?"

"Don Sebastian Estevez."

"Right! And, hopefully, our contact will signal us on time."

At thirteen past twelve, he had accomplished his objective. Two minutes later, "Miguel" heard some footsteps crunching on the gravel near the cemetary's main gate. Following which, a flashlight started blinking on and off.

It was flashing the letters "C" and "Q," in International Morse. So, he promptly replied the same way, spelling out the password he had been given.

"M---I---C---K---E---Y!"

He then waited for the counter-sign. It was not long in coming.

"M---O---U---S---E!"

"Miguel" momentarily stiffened. He then traded the flashlight for the .45 caliber Colt, as he hissed into the walkie-talkie.

"Juanita, scram! Back the way we came. It's a trap!"

The impostors must have sensed they had given themselves away. For, almost immediately, the night sky above the cemetary became as bright as midday from the explosion of a star-shell flare!

It was by that light that "Miguel" saw a dozen men, dressed like Ku Klux Klansmen, charging forward from the other three directions. All of them armed with silenced M-3 "grease" guns!

BURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRP!

Dirt and gravel flew up, as "Miguel" assumed a fetal position behind the tombstone. When there was a momentary lull in the gunfire, he retaliated.

BLAM! BLAM-BLAM!

One of the attackers went down. Causing his comrades to stop advancing and open fire a second time. By that point, however, "Miguel" was hunched over and running towards the back wall of the cemetary.

Seeing this, the pseudo-Klansmen from his left and right flanks began moving toward him, trying to trap him in a pincer movement. That is, until three of those on his right suddenly stumbled and fell, flat on their faces.

And, with black-painted arrows sticking out of the smalls of their backs.

"What the frig...?" muttered the young spy.

He then saw a fourth attacker go down, with a black arrow buried in the right side of his neck!

His two comrades, to his left, turned and fired their weapons in the direction the arrow had to have come from. Inadvertenly allowing "Miguel" to down one of them with shot to the left side of his head.

BURRRRRRRRRRRRP!

Once more, "Miguel" had to assume a fetal position behind one of the headstones.

"Tovarich! Tovarich!"

This sudden exclamation caused the attackers, coming from the young spy's left, to turn as one. And, subsequently, take an arrow in each of their chests.

"Eight down, four to go," he muttered.

Three of those remaining four, who had been guarding the main gate, came running up to reinforce the last pseudo-Klansman. A moment later, however, they were joined by a fifth! Had "Miguel" miscounted?

It became obvious he had not, when that fifth one used his grease gun to kill the other four. Nor did the young man's astonishment decrease when their killer took off "his" hood, and revealed herself as Juanita Cierva!

"Hijo de perra!" he could not help screaming at the top of his lungs: "Are you out of your mind, girl?"

"It worked, didn't it?" she asked, rhetorically, as she jogged back toward him.

"Never mind that bullshit," he retorted: "Where's the duffel bag?"

"I've got it."

They turned and aimed their weapons, as one. The black-clad Japanese-American confronting them held a compound bow in his right hand, and the duffel bag in his left.

"Relax! I'm your real contact. Anjiro Watanabe; Staff sergeant; U.S. Army Special Forces. Currently on loan to the Company."

"Oh, yeah?" replied Juanita: "Prove it."

"M---O---U---S---A!"

Juanita looked at "Miguel," who nodded. That was the proper counter-sign.

"Who were these guys?" the latter asked.

"Sea Bears. Soviet Naval Infantry commandos, similar to our raider marines. If the KGB sent them after you, on American soil, they must be really desperate to get back whatever it is you brought out of Cuba."

Juanita smiled: "That...is an understatement."

She handed her grease gun to "Miguel," then marched over to the duffel bag and reached inside it. She had to admit it; she got quite a lot of enjoyment at his drop-jawed facial expression.

"Sergeant Watanabe? Meet Jose-Maria Garcia y Lopez.

The four-inch tall man in her hands bowed, before adding: "Just call me 'Pepe.' "

tbc

* * * * *

"Four inches tall?" exclaimed Chet. His uncle nodded.

"During World War II, Pepe Garcia had served in the Pacific Theater as a Mexican fighter-pilot. But, he became a Company man, full-time, after making photo-recon flights during the Berlin Airlift.* In Cuba, he and his partner were to find out precisely where those Russian missiles were to be targeted. But, what they discovered is that those missiles wouldn't be carrying nuclear warheads, at all. The payload was to be a biochemical solution...capable of shrinking anyone exposed to the gaseous form of it!"

Unfortunately, while they were stealing a sample of this chemical for analysis, a drop of it spilled on Garcia's wrist. As a result, Garcia--who had originally been a foot taller than his partner--was the same height as the younger man by the time they reached Cozumel, Mexico.

"Twelve hours after that, they got busted by crooked local cops, in Tampico. At which point, Garcia was a foot shorter than his partner. And, by the time Juanita helped them escape, in a stolen police whirlybird, he was only a foot tall; period!"

It took six months for CIA scientists to isolate and duplicate the components of the biochemical (henceforth code-named Solution 62). Yet, to date, they had still not found a way to neutralize it. Let alone, reverse its effects.

"Juanita has been looking after Garcia, ever since. A combination partner and bodyguard."

"What about his other partner?" asked Chet: "The one who called himself 'Miguel.' "

"Sorry, my nephew. That is on a need-to-know basis, only. Suffice it to say, he was...reassigned."

"AHEM!"

Chet and his uncle looked down at the shrill voice that had interrupted them. It was Little Buck Fogarty, arms akimbo, glowering up at them from the top of their host's desk.

"I appreciate back-story as much as the next reporter, Jiro. But, what about Nguyen? He's still in danger from that Commie Bonnie and Clyde!"

The police detective replied that, if Chet swore out a complaint for attempted abduction, he could have the nightclub raided within the hour.

"Gladly! Who do I name in the complaint, though?"

"The manager of the club; an expatriate Chinese-American named Chou Sen Yi."

* * * * *

At that same moment, the aforementioned manager was raising the same point as Lt. Van Dinh. Only, at a much higher vocal pitch.

"The deal's off! I'm bound to be raided, any minute. And, all because you and your gook boyfriend couldn't keep that little bastard from escaping!"

Dolores glared at their host: "Park Kim Jung does not appreciate such language, Senor Chou. And, neither do I."

"Screw your preferences, bitch! My boss is going to have too many awkward questions, as it is. So, I want the two of you gone. Now!!"

"Mui bien," she replied: "But, first? Let me demonstrate precisely _why_ we had no control over Senor Fogarty's escape."

Chou Sen Yi tried to utter another heated comment. Before he could do so, however, he was hit literally right between the eyes. By a confiscated Superball, thrown by Park, at eye-blurring speed!

The nightclub manager staggered backward against the wall behind him. His bodyguards, stunned for that crucial second, quickly overcame their astonishment and went for their guns. Only to die, choking on their own blood, as Dolores shot each of them in the throat with her silenced H&K. By the time she had turned back, to survey Park's handiwork, he was already done.

Chou Sen Yi was now only an inch tall.

"Do you want him in your purse, my love?"

She shook her head: "I have someplace more...fitting...in mind."

Whereupon, she took off her left high heel.

tbc

The Earth Tiger Tong had sects from Bangkok to Hong Kong. And, they were expanding!

In Saigon's Cholon District, Chang Ah Fu was tong leader. As manager of the Club 23 Skiddoo (and Chang's brother-in-law), Chou Sen Yi had been answerable only to him. Making him feel like the _second_ most powerful man in Saigon! A "real big shot," as the Americans would say.

Unfortunately, for Chou, he had not been feeling big for the past twenty-four hours.

The inch-tall Hakka had been flung down towards the toe of the Cuban woman's high heel. The next thing he knew, his body was pinned at the waist. Gripped like a vice between her two biggest toes!

Between the intense pressure, and her tremendous foot odor, he had passed out.

When he finally revived, he found himself in a dome-shaped cage that appeared to be made of stainless steel. A cage that also appeared to have been shrouded with a circus tent.

Chou looked around and saw three odd furnishings. To his left, clamped to the cage bars, was a jade-framed mirror. To his right, also clamped to the bars, was a large tub filled with water...and made of pink plastic.

It was when he saw the round wooden log, stretching from left to right behind him, that he suddenly realized where he was. Based on the collection of them his wife had, back home.

"I'm in a birdcage!!!"

That was when he heard the humming.

Hurriedly, Chou ran towards the giant cage door. Naturally, he was too small to unlock it. But, as he seemed to have regained a few inches of height, he was now strong enough to lift up a portion of the shroud. And, the sight that met his eyes nearly astounded him into dropping it!

A blonde giantess was sitting at a vanity table, applying some lipstick to her face. She had on a sleeveless blue leotard, decorated with rhinestone sequins. Flowing down past her shoulders was a white wool-mesh cape (with matching elbow-length, fingerless gloves). On her feet were silver-dyed high heels. And, adorning her head was a blue-feathered tiara.

The blonde giantess noticed him in her mirror, and turned to smile at him.

"Hello, little one. It is good to see you awake."

"Who are you? What is this place?"

The giantess strode over to him.

"I am Miss Vera. And, you are in my dressing room at the Moscow State Circus."

"Moscow?!" he echoed, incredulously

"Da! Most of the time, I train turtledoves to walk on miniature highwires, or swing on miniature trapezes. Yet, once in a while, I train certain birds of prey to perform special aerobatic routines. Would you like to meet Merlin?"

"Uhm! N-N-No thanks," Chou nervously stammered: "Nyet, spashiba!"

Her beguiling smile became a sinister grin.

"Oh, but, I insist!!"

Whereupon, she removed the shroud, unlatched the cage door, and reached in to grab him.

Chou did his best to evade her. It was no use, though. The round cage had no corners to hide in. And, she could twirl it and tilt it, at any angle required, to make him return towards her waiting fingers.

In less than a minute, he was firmly imprisoned in her right fist. Only his head showing above her thumb. Thus, he could see, all too clearly, the giant falcon in the chicken-wired aviary behind the birdcage.

And, the hungry glint in its eyes, as Miss Vera threw him to the foot of its perch.

"KEE-KEE-KEE-KEE!"

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

tbc

* * * * *

While Lt. Van Dinh made arrangements for the police raid, Anjiro Watanabe explained to his nephew what he was doing in Saigon.

"The Company recently learned from Mossad that the KGB has been funding terrorist groups, like the Japanese Red Army and Black September (the outfit responsible for the Munich Olympic Massacre), through drug money. Since then, our own investigations have revealed a heroin pipeline in the eastern Mediterranean region. Red Chinese Ilyushins are flying raw opium from Yunnan Province to Albania, via Sinkiang.* From Albania, Italian fishing boats from Taranto relay it to Marseilles, for trans-shipment by train, to Paris. And, from there, it gets smuggled to Cayenne, French Guiana, as 'spare parts' for a certain oil refinery in Venezuela!"

It was at this refinery that the opium was turned into heroin, which the Suarez drug cartel in Colombia would then smuggle into the U.S., via Mexico. Prompting Chet to ask why nothing was being done.

"I mean, if you know all that..."

"Rest assured, my nephew, steps are being taken as we speak. For example; I've been working in the nightclub's kitchen as a busboy from Phrom Pong. Trying to obtain evidence that Chou Sen Yi is involved in that pipeline as a money launderer. His brother-in-law would abhor that, as Chang Ah Fu is a vehemently _anti-communist_ refugee from Tsamkong! While Don Suarez, in Colombia, is a Korean War veteran. The former will send word to the latter, once Lt. Van Dinh has similarly informed Chang."

Chet smiled: "Divide and conquer, huh?"

"Precisely! Unfortunately, some of the local police are in Chou Sen Yi's pocket. And, they told him of the information Lt. Van Dinh was receiving. That is why he was targeted by those KGB assassins. They wanted to learn the source of the leak."

"And, hence, their targeting of me and Chet," deduced Little Buck: "They knew I was a mutual friend of both him and Throckmorton. So, they tried to kill two birds with one shrunken reporter...and almost succeeded!"

Watanabe nodded.

"So, what happens now?" asked Chet: "I mean; even if Chou and those two Commies are dum enough to still be at that nightclub when it's raided, how does that help Buck? Does the CIA have for a cure for his shrinkage?"

Chet's uncle frowned: "I'm afraid that the Company's resident eggheads are still working on that, even after eleven years. We might have to fake your death, Buck."

"Fake my death?" echoed Buck: "What about Enid and Ned?"

For the first time that evening, Watanabe was stumped for an answer.


tbc

As Chet had predicted, by the time "Saigon's Finest" raided Club 23 Skiddoo, Dolores Gutierrez, Park Kim Jung, and Chou Sen Yi were nowhere to be found. On the other hand, as his uncle had predicted, Chang Ah Fu did not take kindly to the disclosure that some of his underlings had been working hand-in-glove with the Communists.

And, those who had willingly assisted Chou in his side-line began to mysteriously disappear, every couple months or so, shortly thereafter.

Almost simultaneously, an Italian fishing boat blew up in the Gulf of Taranto! Il Brigate Rosse took immediate credit for it, claiming it to be a Mafia smuggling vessel. And, that those Sicilian criminals were the worst capitalist oppressors in the entire Mediterranean. Naturally, the Mafia took offense at this. And, soon, people that the Italian authorities had long suspected of being Red Brigade members and/or sympathizers (without being able to prove it) began turning up dead, from Venice to Rome.

This, of course, severed the Mediterranean leg of the drug pipeline. Leading to the complete collapse of what the CIA had already dubbed "the Sino-Albanian Connection."

In Ontario, California, the woman formerly known as Enid Horton received the shock of her life when Chet Northfield and his uncle stopped by to visit her. Making sure to do so while her son was in school.

All three men (including her shrunken husband) explained what had happened, and how. Little Buck then asked her a question he could no longer avoid even thinking about.

"We have two choices, honey. We can stay together, as a family, at a special facility, while Jiro's people try to find a cure for me. Or, we can have our marriage secretly annulled, while it's publicly revealed that I died in Saigon. Killed by drug smugglers I was trying to expose."

She told them she would have to literally sleep on it. Buck agreed that that was fair enough. So, Chet and Anjiro went to the local YMCA to spend the night, while Buck and Enid tried to get "reacquainted."

The next morning, after Ned Fogarty had once more left for school, the two men returned to hear the verdict.

"Buck and I discussed it, at length," began Enid: "It's very painful to say this. But, we've decided to go with Plan B. It was bad enough, worrying about his front-line coverage of the Korean War. But, this??? I'm sorry. It's just too much for me to deal with. Not to mention, how traumatic this might be for Ned. After all, I have to think of him, too!"

Three days later, an empty-casket memorial service was held for the legendary Buck Fogarty. He was "buried" at St. Francis De Sales Cemetary, in Ontario. And, it provided some consolation that so many of his fellow journalists were among the mourners in attendance. Enid even got a telegram of condolence from Walter Cronkite, himself!

It also proved comforting, to Little Buck, that Percy Throckmorton's book was posthumously published, right on schedule: in the spring of 1974. The mass marketing, however, began on April 1, which Buck was afraid might cause a lack of sales. Especially, in light of the title!

"FROM WHITECHAPEL TO DEALEY PLAZA:
The Strange-But-True Connection
Between JFK And Jack The Ripper.

By Percival Throckmorton"

tbc

* * * * *

"FOREWORD"

"On 25 April, 1185, two naval fleets fought the Battle of Dan-no-ura, in Shimonoseki Strait, off the southern coast of Honshu-jima, Japan. With victory going to the one representing the Minamoto Clan. To avoid the disgrace of live capture, the samurai of the defeated Taira Clan chose to commit suicide through drowning. As did their ruler, the boy emperor Antoku, and his grandmother."

"To this day, local fishermen of the strait occasionally capture one or two crabs with strange markings on their underbellies. Markings that are said to resemble an angrily scowling face. Referred to, in Japanese, as 'heikegani' (after the once-dominant family line of the Taira Clan), these crabs are immediately thrown back, every single time. For the fishermen believe them to be reincarnations of the dead samurai!"

"Not all Japanese are so reverent, however. Indeed, there are some Japanese who are said to deliberately capture and eat these crabs...in order to assimilate their supposed magical powers! For this reason, they call themselves 'the Heikegani-ryu.' "

"Within these pages, you will read how their secret society became the most feared cult of assassins in Japanese history. And, how their actions have shaped history throughout the rest of the world."

"Most often, with no one else the wiser."

"------The Author."

The elderly ninja master smiled to himself as he finished scanning the Braille copy of the book that one of his genin had brought him from Tokyo.

"Whatever else we may think about him, this gaijin cannot be said to have lacked a gift for words."

"Forgive my rudeness, Jonin-sama," replied his second-in-command: "But, even dead, he has still managed to expose our secrets! How can this not disturb you?"

"Fear not, my kohai.* The majority of those who read this book will disbelieve his claims. Thinking him no more legitimate than any other proponent of outlandish conspiracy theories."

"And, those who believe otherwise...?"

"...will be obstructed by those who not only know of our existence, for certain," finished the jonin: "But, who also make use of it! Speaking of which; I believe you have a message for me?"

He smiled as he asked this. Consequently, the kohai's eyes widened to the point where he would have resembled a manga character (to anyone not visually impaired)!

"Forgive me again, Jonin-sama. I bring a written request from Fukien Yu, of the Earth Tiger Tong, in the Canadian city of Vancouver."

* * * * *

SOMEWHERE OFF THE EAST COAST OF THE U.S.

"Welcome to Miniscule Operations Command, Miss Finster. I'm Dr. Ezra Long; head of re-orientation."

Cecilia Finster looked at the middle-aged white man with his ever-balding scalp and wire-rimmed eyeglasses.

"Re-orientation? Sounds like a euphemism for brainwashing! And, why do you call this place 'miniscule?' That usually implies something petty and unimportant. But, anyplace this big, and with this much activity, has got to have a pretty heavy bag. As in; top secret? Maybe even...illegal?"

Dr. Long half-smiled: "Very astute, Miss Finster. Although, you might want to drop the hippie slang. The Sixties are over, and so is your part in them. Unless, of course, you would prefer returning to British Columbia?"

Shortly after their arrival in Vancouver, Cecilia and her draft-dodging boyfriend had taken to selling marijuana for the local Chinatown's ruling tong. When the two were arrested for it, by an undercover Mountie (and linguistically determined to be Americans), their fingerprints were telefaxed southward, to the FBI. The latter identified them as being identical to those found at the scene of a Midwestern college ROTC arson fire, five years earlier.

Initially reluctant to be deported, Cecilia quickly changed her mind after her boyfriend was killed by a tong henchman, in an attempt to silence both of them!

"As for us 'brainwashing' you?" Dr. Long continued: "Hardly! What we really do here is expand the parameters of what you believe to be possible and impossible. For example..."

He snapped his fingers, and an MP brought over a snack tray containing a bowl of potato chips, a bottle of ginger ale, two tumblers, a shot glass, and...

Cecilia had to shake her head and rub her eyes, to make sure she was not imagining things.

"Miss Finster? Meet your new partner; Mr. Oisin Fogarty."

The little man waved up at her and smiled.

"Just call me 'Buck.' "

To Be Continued

* * * * *

FORT ORD, CALIFORNIA
APRIL 30, 1974

Chet rushed into his parents' kitchen, barely taking time to remove his loafers.

"Chet!" exclaimed his father: "What an unexpected surprise! To what do we owe...?"

Chet threw the book he had been carrying on to the table top, which his mother had been setting for lunch.

"Page 234, Dad. Is it true?"

Taro Kitahara picked up the book and read the indicated page.

"The Gestapo learned about their existence from Stalin, himself, prior to the great double-cross called Operation: Barbarossa. Stalin had made use of their services in terminating Trotsky. So, the Nazis thought it only fitting to do the same thing with regard to President Roosevelt!"

"This fact was verified in 1945, by certain files that had been seized from the former headquarters of the Kempeitai (the Imperial Japanese Secret Police), and translated by Nisei interpreters with the U.S. Army of Occupation. Unfortunately, the whole thing was ordered suppressed by President Truman, who thought the American national psyche was still too fragile to bear this harsh truth."

"Eight years later, the CIA learned that Stalin was, once more, planning to utilize the Heikegani-ryu. This time, to assassinate President Eisenhower! Consequently, they decided to beat him to the proverbial punch."

"They contacted this cult, themselves, through Joseph Kennedy...and a certain Bostonian Chinatown 'businessman' the latter had first become acquainted with during Prohibition."

"Several weeks later, Stalin was dead. Ostensibly, from complications caused by a paralytic stroke! The truth, however, was uncovered, in the fall of 1960, by a neo-Stalinist faction of the KGB. A cabal that immediately began plotting a suitable reprisal."

"This reprisal occurred, as already noted, on 22 November, 1963. Soon afterward, the aforementioned cabal was discovered and 'purged' from the KGB's ranks. Then, on 6 June, 1968, history repeated itself...with the death of the only politican whose immense popularity could have kept Richard Nixon out of the White House for a second time."

Chet took the book back from his father.

"You translated captured Japanese documents; right, Dad? And, if Eisenhower had died during his first administration, wouldn't Nixon have been sworn into office almost immediately? Making him President of the United States, fifteen years sooner?"

Chet's father was silent for a few moments.

"What are you getting at, son?" he finally asked.

"I've been talking it over with Uncle Jiro. And, he agrees with my assessment. This ninja cult is like a cancer. They morally poison everybody who retains their services! And, it's high time somebody excised them from existence."

Chet paused before continuing: "That's why I'm not returning to journalism school, right away. I'm going to finish learning all the eguzairu-do ninjitsu Uncle Jiro and Aunt Connie can teach me. And, then, I'm going to war against the Heikegani-ryu."

* * * * *

PARIS, FRANCE
(JULY 1, 1991)

Dolores Gutierrez smiled as she heard the news via CNN.

"A Turko-Cypriot nationalist group called 'the New Janizaries' has claimed responsibility. They claim that Sheik Daoud Ibn Abdul was a traitor to pan-Islamic unity, by using Greek-owned tankers to ship his petroleum to the U.S."

Suddenly, her white Persian cat arched his back, and hissed with unadulterated fear, before jumping off her lap.

The semi-retired agent provocateur looked up, her trusty old Walther already appearing in her right hand. But, her surprise quickly turned to smiling delight when she saw who it was.

"Kim! What are you doing here?"

She jumped to her feet, arms outflung to embrace him. But, he held her off with his left hand.

"I met our granddaughter, the other day. I did not even know we had a son! WHY DID YOU NEVER TELL ME??!"

Dolores glared at him with undisguised contempt.

"Why? Because, for all your Communist rhetoric, you are as much a sexist traditionalist as any other Oriental! Had I told you that our time together in Texas had left me pregnant, you would have expected me to resign from the KGB, marry you, and raise the child. Mostly, in your absence. For, would you be around to help look after him? Oh-ho! No-no-no-no-no! You would continue to freely travel the world, fighting the good fight for international socialism. The same fate my father consigned my mother to, when I was still a child!"

Park looked at his on-again/off-again paramour with a mixture of shock and pity.

"So, you gave birth to a son in Moscow, and secretly gave him up for adoption."

"Si! And, I would do it again, in what norteamericanos like to call 'the New York minute.' I am not one of these pro-Detente moderates who seem to be multiplying faster than conejos, these days. I am a true daughter of Communism! And, I will continue to fight for my true parent, as I always have. Right up until my dying day!"

"Mui bien, mi corazon," replied the aging North Korean: "If that is how you wish it."

Before she could ask what he meant, she found her throat in the unbreakable grip of his right hand. And, right before she passed out, from lack of oxygen, she imagined that he was starting to grow taller.

When she awoke, she found out it had not been her imagination. As what she initially perceived to be a room with four gray walls, and no door, quickly revealed its true nature with a thunderous, yet all-too familiar sound.

"MEOWRRRRRRRRRR!"


"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


To Be Concluded

* * * * * *

She was listed in the files, in the warden's office, as "Jane Doe."

None of her fellow female inmates knew her name, of course. Some of the younger ones had never even seen her, as she had spent almost thirty years in solitary confinement! This, of course, made her the subject of many rumors. The most popular one being that she was one of the three male convicts who had escaped from Alcatraz Island, in June of 1962. And that--in a bid to insure "he" was never recaptured and returned to the Rock--"he" had been smuggled to Sweden, where she had undergone...

...a "Jorgenectomy!!"

In any event, Jane Doe knew none of this. Because she had lost all track of time. Even her meals--bread and water, three times a day--had never varied. Then, today, everything changed. Her cell door was unlocked. Following which, she had been escorted to the warden's office by a pair of heavily armed guards. There, she encountered the one thing she had never been allowed before: a visitor. And, not just any visitor. But, a U.S. Army officer!

One with three stars on each of his shoulder decorations.

"Hello, Frau Hertzmann," said the officer: "My name is Lieutenant General Robert Howard Phillips. And, I'm here to tell you that...the Cold War is over. Therefore, so is your imprisonment."

That last sentence took a full minute to register. And, when it did, the general nodded in clarification at the ensuing look of astonishment on her face.

"West and East Germany reunified on October 3, 1990 (over twelve months ago). This past summer, the Warsaw Pact was dissolved. And, as of December 27, last week? So has the Soviet Union."

What this American imperialist was saying could not be true! Yet, something deep down told her he was not lying. Consequently, she felt her knees buckle beneath her. Prompting the general to order the guards to catch her, and for the warden to bring out some smelling salts. By the time she had regained a clear head, the general and she were alone in the warden's office.

"I know it's a lot to take in, Frau Hertzmann, considering how long you were in isolation. But,..."

"But, if what you say is true," she interrupted: "...then I have no home to return to. Prior to being captured by your countrymen, the closest thing I had to a home was a cryogenics laboratory in East Berlin!"

Phillips nodded: "We anticipated that. That's why we've arranged for new accomodations. Ones more comfortable than anything you've previously known."

"By 'we,' you mean the Amerikaner government?"

Phillips smiled and shook his head.

"Nein! I'm referring to what you might call...a much higher authority."

Ten minutes later, she and Phillips were walking out the front gate. One hour after that, the two of them were aboard a Grumman Gulfstream II jet, heading due west.

"Where are we bound, Herr General?" demanded Gertruda Hertzmann.

"Have you ever heard of a town called...Rachel, Nevada?"

She shook her head. This prompted Phillips to grin most mysteriously.

"There's someone there who'd like to meet you. Someone who's an expert at size-alteration. And, what he can do to restore _your_ ability to do so can only be described as...out of this world."



THE END?