Bidding War td-101

by Warren Murphy

  No one knew who had authored the diplomatic truism engraved on Anwar Anwar-Sadat's watchcase. Just as no one who knew the stone-faced Copt would ever dream that he possessed anything remotely resembling a sense of humor.

  His studious-looking glasses perched on a nose as stubborn as basalt, he exited the limo, buttoned his houndstooth jacket and entered the nondescript building. An elevator took him to an upper floor where he stepped through a black walnut door marked Situation Room and into a dim room where the green-mid-amber screens of a bank of monitors washed the bare white walls with contrasting colors.

  A swarthy man at a terminal looked up, stood and said, "Mr. Secretary." He all but bowed.

  "General."

  The man did bow. "Mr. Secretary General."

  "No. Just 'General,'" said Anwar Anwar-Sadat. "When I am outside this room, I am to be addressed as 'Secretary General.' In here it is 'Mr. General.' After all, do I not command the most far-flung army in human history?"

  "Yes, Mr. General," said the functionary. Like Anwar Anwar-Sadat, he was Cairo born and a Copt. "Forgive me, I am new here."

  "And how is my mighty army this morning?"

  "Flung far," said the functionary.

  "There have been no overnight incidents?"

  "None."

  "No kidnappings, no spittings or stonings of my blue helmets, no disrespect shown my great multinational legions?"

  "They are out of fuel in Bosnia."

  "Make a note to press the U.S. delegate to speed up dues payments so that we have sufficient fuel for our peacekeepers."

  "The United States is several years and many millions in arrears on their dues."

  "All the more reason to press them, my faithful Christos."

  "I will make a note of this, my General."

  "'Mr. General.' Decorum must be observed at all times."

  Taking a seat at one of the glowing terminals, Anwar Anwar-Sadat, secretary general of the United Nations, surveyed the global map adorning one wall. The lines of longitude radiated out from its exact center—the uninhabited North Pole—intersecting the circles of latitude, to hold the seven continents fast in an orblike web.

  That was how Anwar Anwar-Sadat saw the world-fixed in a mighty orb-web of political and economic ties. And in its center sat the Grand Spider—himself.

  Talk of a new world order had all but faded from the international stage. In the brief period after the collapse of the East Bloc and the thawing of the Cold War, there had been much discussion of a new world order, with the United Nations as its headquarters.

  Such notions had shattered in the flash-point hells of the world—Bosnia, Somalia, Rwanda and elsewhere. No one talked optimistically of new world orders or of UN peacekeeping anymore.

  Except Anwar Anwar-Sadat in the privacy of his UN situation room.

  Only in the highly politicized UN command structure could a man who had never worn his country's uniform or carried a rifle in defense of his nation rise in the diplomatic ranks until he commanded UN troops. Anwar Anwar-Sadat had.

  Technically the secretary general of the United Nations didn't command UN peacekeepers. That was the trouble. There was no clear command-and-control hierarchy in the UN. Soldiers from some seventy UN member nations were deployed in over seventeen peacekeeping missions. U.S. troops assigned to peacekeeping insisted upon being under U.S. control. And so on.

  Anwar Anwar-Sadat looked forward to the day all Hint changed.

  Many blamed the recent failures of the United Nations on his grandiose peacekeeping and nation-building efforts. But as Anwar Anwar-Sadat saw it, the current system of UN multinational forces—one lie pointedly insisted he had only inherited—was too ad-hoc. What the United Nations—and thus the world—really needed was a permanent quick-reaction force entirely under United Nations control. Which meant it would be under the control of no less trustworthy a person than Anwar Anwar-Sadat.

  Once he had that, the secretary general knew he could weld the fractious nations of the earth more firmly together and remake the global community in his own grandiose vision.

  But that was for the future. This was today. He had a speech to give to the General Assembly about a very nagging problem and was loath to start the workday without a visit to his situation room.

  As his liquid eyes scanned the global situation map, he was pleased to see so many nations colored in UN blue. On other maps these nations were colored red to denote their status as troublesome hot spots. But to Anwar Anwar-Sadat, blue meant they were under UN influence. Here were his peacekeepers. In Haiti, along the Iran-Iraq border. Why, the entire continent of Africa seemed to be rimmed in blue. The Horn of Africa was especially blue this year.

  As he looked over the sphere of his influence, Anwar Anwar-Sadat could almost see an entire world colored a peaceful, quelling blue. Even the United States one day. He could easily see UN blue helmets patrolling Manhattan, Detroit, Miami and other high-crime areas. The vision had come to him during a midnight stroll through Times Square, which had been interrupted by unsavory persons who offered to let him keep his life in return for his wallet but struck him on the head when the contents of his billfold proved insufficient for their immediate needs.

  The factotum handed him a clipboard. Anwar Anwar-Sadat glanced at it brusquely. He was a brusque man. The international media criticized him for that, too. Said he was too autocratic for the job. Had no business meddling in Africa especially, where his own country had interests and concerns. His penchant for sending in UN troops on the flimsiest pretext had earned him the nickname "Generalissimo War-War."

  But Anwar Anwar-Sadat prided himself on being above the local concerns of his native Egypt. He had his eyes on the entire world.

  Right now he had his eyes on the clipboard. "I see the flame war over Macedonia is heating up again," he muttered.

  "They are exceedingly contentious today," agreed the aide.

  "I will look into it," said Anwar Anwar-Sadat.

  The order reports were perfunctory. UNIIMOG, monitoring the Iran-Iraq border, was quiet. As was UNMIH, in Haiti, and UNIKOM, the Iraq-Kuwait buffer force. The token force wedged between the two Koreas was likewise secure. Nothing would happen there. Not as long as the U.S. Eighth Army was permanently camped there. Korea had been the first UN action and to date the only war successfully prosecuted by UN forces. That forty years later an armed truce existed instead of a true peace bothered Anwar Anwar-Sadat not in the least.

  Handing the clipboard back to his aide, Anwar Anwar-Sadat said, "Bring up alt.macedonia.is.greece forme."

  "At once, Mr. General."

  And the secretary general leaned back in his Moroccan leather chair as the factotum bent over and input the computer commands that launched him onto the Internet.

  This was a very interesting development, he reflected. The entire world now communicated with itself via computer links. Scholars at Swinburne University in Australia spoke with Swedes at Uppsala University or Americans at Carnegie Mellon or with ordinary persons in the privacy of their homes. The one-world order was swiftly becoming a reality in impalpable cyberspace.

  If only it were so easy on the ground, he thought ruefully.

  And if only the computer manufacturers would design their machines so that one could simply flip a switch or ask the machine to perform the desired function. Try as he might, Anwar Anwar-Sadat never could master the arcane art of logging on and finding his way around the Internet.

  When the alt. newsgroup list came up, the functionary typed in the search command and then the cryptic string "alt.macedonia.is.greece."

  Up came the list of topics. Anwar Anwar-Sadat could see just from the subject heads that the two sides were having a particularly angry day.

  alt.macedonia.is.greece

  1

  +

  Why Greeks are such loosers

  Zoran Slavko

  2

  +

  PATHETICA!

  Delchev@mut.edu

  3

&n
bsp; +

  Stupid Fanatic

  Spiro A.

  4

  +

  Alexander The Great is Macedonian

  Zoran Slavko

  5

  +

  ALEXANDER IS

  C. Mitsotakis

  GREEK!!

  6

  +

  Still Nonsences from Velikovski

  P. Papoulious

  7

  +

  Makedonsko ime nema da zagine!

  Zan Zankowski

  8

  +

  New name for Slav-Macedonia: Pseudomakedon

  Evangelos V.

  9

  +

  Velikovski is a idiot!

  P. Papoulious

  10

  +

  Papoulious must die!

  V. Velikovski

  11

  +

  Greece does NOT exist!!

  Kiro@Mak.gov

  12

  +

  Skopje is only capital

  Branko

  of Macedonia

  @mut.edu

  13

  +

  More Greek Lies

  Zan Zankowski

  14

  +

  Bulgar Stupidities Continue

  Peter Lazov

  15

  +

  This is Macedonia Banging

  Zoran Slavko

  16

  +

  GREEKS ARE CULTURE THEBES

  Zan Zankowski

  The dispute was a microcosm of current world troubles, down to the shouting, historical inaccuracies and gross misspellings.

  When Yugoslavia broke up, a section of it had peacefully seceded, avoiding the bloodshed of Bosnia, Croatia and Greater Serbia. This section took for itself the name Macedonia, which had angered the Greeks. Hot words flew. Threats. Sanctions. But no bullets.

  The dispute had festered for several years now, and while there was no sign of a diplomatic resolution, neither was war imminent.

  Months would go by and the Macedonia question didn't make the news. But every day of every week adherents and partisans on both sides flamed one another with insults, twisted history lessons and open threats in a propaganda war largely unwitnessed by the greater world.

  Here, Anwar Anwar-Sadat firmly believed, lay the future of the United Nations. When there was one great peacekeeper, international disputes would be argued and settled in cyberspace. It was unpleasant in its coarse language, messy in its facts. But no widows were created or children orphaned.

  Best of all, it wasn't a budget buster.

  Pointing to a topic, Anwar Anwar-Sadat said, "I wish to view this one."

  "You need only press Enter to read it," the factotum said.

  "Yes, yes, I know," Anwar Anwar-Sadat said peevishly. "But I am no good with mechanical things. They are too absolute. Not like persons, who can be swayed one way or another. Please obey my instructions. It will be good practice for the coming geopolitical reality."

  The functionary pressed Enter.

  Up came the text.

  It was a flame war all right. Insults were flying thick and hot. It was particularly difficult to follow because all sides were calling themselves Macedonians. The Hellenic Macedonians insisted upon calling the Slav Macedonian irredentist Slavophones and the Slav Macedonian preferred to characterize the Hellenic Macedonians and thieving Hellenophones.

  No one accepted Macedonia's official name. Some called if Skopje, after the capital, or Pseudo-Macedon.

  It would have been amusing except their language was so serious. And with the Greeks having troubles with the Turks, and the Albanians eyeing Macedonia greedily, the problem of Macedonia threatened to make the Balkans explode anew.

  Satisfied that the current flame war reflected nothing more than a minor escalation in the actual dispute, Anwar Anwar-Sadat told his aide, "I am done now."

  The aide obligingly logged off.

  Standing up, Anwar Anwar-Sadat rubbed his stony face with both hands and said, "One day all international disputes will begin to boil in the unseen spaces between computers. When that day comes, it will be so much easier to nip them in the making."

  The factotum clicked his heels and dipped his head. "Of course, my General."

  Glancing at his watch, the secretary general frowned and muttered, "I must hurry. I am late to give my speech."

  But on his way out of the building to the headquarters of the United Nations, he was met by the under secretary for peacekeeping operations.

  "My General."

  "Secretary General,"' Anwar Anwar-Sadat corrected." I am no longer in my situation room."

  "Mr. Secretary General. Someone has taken the podium in your place."

  "Who is this upstart person?"

  "No one knows. But he has the General Assembly in an uproar."

  "What is he saying?"

  "This also is unknown. He is not speaking English, French or Egyptian."

  "Come. I must see this with my own eyes."

  And reaching the curb, Anwar Anwar-Sadat flung himself into his limousine for the dangerous cross-traffic ride to the other side of the street.

  Security at the headquarters of the United Nations was a constant, and the constant was boredom.

  No terrorist cell or rogue nation had ever attacked the UN complex. Even during the height of the Cold War, it was inviolate. It would always be inviolate. As an institution.

  The reason was very simple. While terrorist groups couldn't belong to the UN, their sponsors and host nations did. Membership was open to all dues-paying nations, whether they were governed by presidents, despots or clowns.

  And because even rogue nations valued their diplomats, the UN Buildings had never been and would never be attacked.

  This was all explained to Sergeant Lee Mace when he had assumed his post as an official UN guard.

  "It is a cushy post," he was assured by his commander. "The cushiest."

  "I'll take it."

  "I knew you would."

  And it was a cushy post. Also boring. There was an excess of ceremony and dullness and having to look the other way as grinning Third World diplomats in dashikis and thobes, sarongs and saris and other exotic native costumes pilfered rest-room towels and even toilet seats and plumbing fixtures.

  Standing post before the delegates' entrance to the General Assembly Building, Sergeant Mace began to relax now that the last of the delegates had been seated.

  Then he saw the tiny scarlet-kimonoed Asian approaching.

  The tiny Asian was very old. Sergeant Mace failed to recognize him. Perhaps he was an aide.

  "May I help you, sir?"

  "Stand aside. I have journeyed far to address this august body."

  "You must be mistaken. I understand the secretary general himself is about to address the General Assembly."

  "I am the Reigning Master of Sinanju. I outrank a mere secretary even if he is a general."

  Sergeant Mace blinked. "What country do you represent?"

  "Sinanju."

  "That country I am not familiar with, sir."

  "It is not a country. Countries rise and countries fall. Sinanju is eternal even if certain ingrates spurn the opportunity to head the House."

  "Sinanju is a house?"

  "You are blocking my path and wasting my time."

  "Excuse me, but if you are not a delegate or an aide to a delegate, I cannot let you pass. Security, you must understand."

  "You are in charge of security?"

  "For this door, yes."

  "Then allow me to teach you an important lesson in guarding doors to important chambers."

  The little Asian beckoned Sergeant Mace to lean over, the better to hear him dispense his advice.

  Sergeant Mace decided to humor the little Asian because the use of force was frowned on by UN guards just as it was frowned upon by UN peacekeepers. He bent over. And a hand he didn't see and barely felt tapped the lumbar region where the
vertebrae were most flexible.

  Acid seemed to pour into the sergeant's spine, spreading in both directions, and as if he had a crick in his back, Sergeant Mace suddenly couldn't straighten his back.

  "Something is wrong with my back," he bleated.

  "Allow me to help you," said the little Asian, taking him by the hand. Sergeant Mace found himself guided to the nearest men's room and escorted into a stall.

  "I am not sick," he insisted.

  "You are not well," said the little Asian, abruptly closing the stall door in such a way that the bolt slipped into place.

  "Let me out."

  "If you wish to be let out, you should have let the Master of Sinanju in. That is the lesson of guarding doors."

  And Sergeant Mace, unable to straighten his back and use his dangling arms, took the bolt handle in his teeth and went to work freeing himself.

  The General Assembly of the United Nations was abuzz as it awaited the appearance of the secretary general at the green marble podium under the great blue seal of the UN.

  When the tiny Asian breezed up to the podium and began speaking in an unfamiliar tongue, they grabbed for their earphones and tried to focus on the words coming from their translators.

  But no translation came.

  "What is he saying?" asked the delegate from Italy.

  "I do not know," replied his Brazilian counterpart.

  "What language is he speaking?" wondered the ambassador from Norway.

  No one seemed to know that, either.

  Then the delegate from Surinam noticed the delegate from the Republic of Korea turn absolutely white while the representative from the Democratic People's Republic of Korea begin grinning from ear to ear, his dark eyes squeezing into slits of crafty pleasure.

  "Try Korean. I think he is speaking Korean."

  The word spread through the General Assembly as the tiny Asian continued speaking in a squeaky yet serious voice. He was so small his chin barely rose above the lectern, giving the appearance of a floating talking head.

  When the representative Democratic People's Republic of Korea bolted for the exit, the delegate from the Republic of Korea tackled him. A fist flew, missed and another fist connected.