Bidding War td-101

by Warren Murphy

  The President's puffy eyes skated down the page. At the very bottom was typed a .tempting target. The Federal Emergency Management Agency.

  "Didn't we slash FEMA's budget last year?"

  "So? Slash it again. The Cold War's over. FEMA is an albatross."

  "They're pretty handy for hurricanes and earthquake relief and stuff like that."

  "Leave enough to manage natural disasters. But cut off all Cold War survival stuff. We don't need it."

  "If we're invaded by Mexico, we may need to go to that hardened FEMA site in the Maryland mountains."

  "It's already built. It's not going away if you freeze their funds. Besides, if we don't have FEMA hard-sites, neither does Congress. Maybe that'll make Speaker Grinch think twice the next time he sends over his damn regressive legislation."

  "How many times do I have to tell you, don't call him that. If the media gets it on tape, we'll have a real problem."

  "Just sign it. I'd do it myself, but it wouldn't be legal."

  "Okay," said the President, signing the paper. "There. Their funds are frozen for the duration of this crisis."

  The First Lady snatched the paper off the desk, said a frosty "Thank you" and marched out with her heels clicking.

  The President of the Unites States sighed wearily. "Why does that woman always get her way?"

  The chief of staff opened his mouth to say the obvious. But decided that "Because you let her" wasn't something the beleaguered President needed to hear right now.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When word reached Anwar Anwar-Sadat that Mexican armed forces were massing on the U.S. border, he thought he was dreaming.

  In fact, he had been dreaming in his Beekman Place high-rise apartment. He had been dreaming of his namesake, Anwar al-Sadat.

  Anwar Anwar-Sadat had served under Egyptian President Anwar al-Sadat. It was a very confusing time because in those days, Anwar Anwar-Sadat's name had been simply Anwar Sadat. Two Anwar Sadats could be confusing, even in the Byzantine inner circles of Egyptian government, where any number of men bore identical names. It was easier to shift blame that way.

  President Anwar al-Sadat had called the then-Foreign Minister Anwar Sadat into his sumptuous office and suggested that it was time for a change. "One of Us must change his name," had said President Anwar al-Sadat.

  And so great had been Foreign Minister Anwar Sadat's ego in those days that he naturally assumed it would be the president who changed his name. After all, had it not been his idea?

  Fortunately Anwar Sadat's diplomatic training saved him from saying so. So he sat in strained silence as the president went on to say, "And of course it must be you."

  This struck Anwar Sadat like a cruel blow. He was proud of his name. He had striven mightily to make it a name to contend with in diplomatic circles. Now he was being stripped of it by this runty little despot with the wooly-worm mustache.

  But being a diplomat, he didn't air his grievance. He merely said, "As you wish, my President."

  "Then it is done," purred the Egyptian president.

  "It is agreed," said the other Anwar Sadat, which sounded to the first like agreement but was actually temporizing.

  A week passed and Anwar Sadat remained Anwar Sadat. Two weeks soon became three.

  The Egyptian president had taken to becoming very testy with his namesake as he saw his foreign minister drag his feet. But he said nothing. This was Egypt, after all. Change came slowly.

  On the day the president of Egypt was slaughtered in a reviewing stand by his own disloyal troops, Anwar Sadat was seated two rows behind him and four seats to the left. And survived with no more than a spattering of blood on his starched shirtfront. Other persons' blood.

  In another culture this might have relieved a subordinate of his half promise to change his name, but not in Egypt. The very next day, tearful of eye and stony of visage, Anwar Sadat announced to a mourning nation that only a short time before, he had promised to change his name to please the martyred leader of Egypt. And now he would.

  "I have taken my beloved leader's full name as my last name," he said. And when the people's assembly rose in thunderous applause, he took his seat behind a nameplate that bore the legend Anwar Anwar-Sadat.

  From that day on he was Egypt's rising diplomatic star.

  It was a magnificent gesture, one applauded the world over. But it had a downside. Comedians made fun of his name. Others misspelled it constantly, or placed the hyphen between the two Anwars instead of between the second Anwar and the only Sadat. It became especially acute when he assumed the exalted title of UN Secretary General, an office often held by men of unusual names. What was U Thant if not an odd name? Or Dag Hammarskjöld? Even when a secretary general was unmasked as a former Nazi, there were not such jokes.

  And then there were the dreams. In his dreams the late President Anwar al-Sadat forever chased him through the red desert sands, screaming that he could not rest in the afterlife among the pharaohs and khedives of old so long as the upstart diplomat dragged his proud name through the headlines.

  Anwar Anwar-Sadat was rudely awakened from his latest such dream by the ringing of the telephone.

  "Another of those dreams, my General?" asked the obsequious voice of the under secretary for peacekeeping operations.

  "It is nothing. I was glad to be roused from it, for the dead one had me by the ankles and held me prostrate as jackals circled."

  "Jackals are a pharaonic symbol of the dead."

  "I am not dead, I assure you."

  "The army of Mexico is massing on the border."

  "Which border?"

  "Why, the United States border. What other border would interest them?"

  "This is wonderful news!" burbled the secretary general, for a moment wondering if he hadn't slipped from the valley of nightmare to the realm of dreams come true.

  "I thought you would see it this way," purred the under secretary.

  "We must convene an emergency meeting of the Security Council and call for peacekeeping forces to be deployed between the two belligerent nations."

  "It goes without saying."

  Anwar Anwar-Sadat snapped his fingers impatiently. "A name. We must have a name for this operation."

  "United Nations United States-United States Observer Group."

  Anwar Anwar-Sadat made a face. "UNUSUSOG?"

  "You say it as if it were a bug you discovered in your mouth."

  "The Security Council will never approve it," Anwar Anwar-Sadat barked.

  "And why not? It is easy to say and remember."

  "There are two United Stateses in the name. Who is to know which is which?"

  "An excellent observation, my General. I had not thought of this. May I suggest UNMEXUSOG, then?"

  "A good suggestion. But I myself prefer USUNMEXOG."

  "That is just as good. But I fail to see the difference."

  "It is elementary," said Anwar Anwar-Sadat. "The United States will not consider this operation if their country name does not come first."

  "Yes, yes. I see this now."

  "Please send my official car. We must act upon this without delay."

  "There is only one other problem, my General."

  "And that is?"

  "The Security Council will be difficult to assemble with so many of the delegates having been recalled for consultations."

  "Of course. How forgetful of me. Has there been any word on this mysterious matter?"

  "None whatsoever."

  "Well, we might as well draft a resolution in anticipation of their return. My car. At once."

  "At once, my General."

  Chapter Fifteen

  Harold Smith watched the data stream with growing concern.

  Mexican army units were now entirely forward deployed. Their force strength, while far below U.S. levels, was counterbalanced by U.S. deployment in foreign countries. That put them roughly equal.

  Noon approached. There was no avoiding it now. The time had come to
contact the President directly.

  Smith took an aspirin and antacid tablet and a deep breath as he laid his gnarled grayish fingers on the red telephone receiver.

  He began to lift it.

  And his desk intercom buzzed.

  Frowning, he dropped the receiver, snapped the intercom switch and said, "Yes, Mrs. Mikulka?"

  "A Mr. Remo Durock to see you, Dr. Smith."

  "Send him in," Smith said quickly.

  Remo walked in. At first Harold Smith barely recognized him. He was deeply tanned with a sparkle in his eyes, and there was a distinct smile warping his cruel slash of a mouth.

  "Hiya, Smitty. Miss me?"

  "Remo. You were to convince Master Chiun to reconsider."

  "Been there. Done that. Bought the T-shirt."

  Smith started hopefully. "He has changed his mind?"

  "It's not a done deal but it's almost in the bag."

  Smith blinked. This seemed so unlike Remo and Chiun. "How do you mean that?" he asked guardedly.

  "I mean," said Remo, cheerfully plopping in a chair, "Chiun has authorized me to negotiate our next contract."

  "He has?"

  "All you gotta do is meet our demands, and Mexico will withdraw to a neutral corner."

  "I previously offered Chiun the same terms as last year."

  "And he turned them down. Nice try, Smitty, but I'm in the driver's seat. I want triple."

  "Triple gold?"

  "Triple everything. And a private jet."

  "A private jet is out of the question. A private jet would require a full-time maintenance crew and could be traced back to the organization if it is seen near operational zones."

  "Good point. Okay, skip the private jet. Let's talk about triple the gold and other incidentals. I want a car."

  "What make?"

  "A Tucker Torpedo."

  "Ridiculous! There are not a handful in existence. It would call attention to the owner."

  "As opposed to Chiun prancing about in those ridiculous kimonos of his?"

  "I cannot control the Master of Sinanju's choice of attire."

  "And I want a car no one else has," Remo insisted.

  "Something more inconspicuous might be arranged."

  "Inconspicuous may be acceptable. As long as it's metallic cherry red."

  "Why red?"

  "Why not?"

  Smith closed his eyes in evident pain and said, "Triple the gold is out of the question. As you know, we siphon the funds from another federal agency, convert it to gold and ship it to Sinanju by submarine. Triple gold, if I am not mistaken, might sink the nuclear submarine we use for transport."

  Remo blinked. "It would?"

  "If we can't ship it, we can't deliver it."

  "Make two trips."

  "Impossible. Last time the submarine was captured by the North Koreans. They are still extremely touchy up there."

  "Tell me about it. I gave Kim Jong II his first swirlie. There are probably Wanted posters all over Pyongyang with my face on it."

  The look of horror in Harold Smith's eyes was absolute.

  "Don't sweat it, Smitty. Jong's supposed to be dead."

  Turning in his cracked leather chair, Smith fussed with the water dispenser by his desk and drew a paper cupful to wash down three pink antacid pills.

  "I thought your stomach settled down about the time the AMA discovered that ulcers can be cured by antibiotics?"

  "My ulcer is under control. My reflux is not."

  "Then you'd better come around to my point of view, or it's gonna to get worse," Remo said with a cocky smile.

  Smith winced. "I could consider half again as much gold."

  "Double the gold."

  "Double is not in your long-term interest."

  "What do you mean?" said Remo. "The more I pull down, the bigger it'll impress Chiun. Gotta make a good first impression."

  "If I pay double this year—and I may not by any means guarantee I can—further raises will be impossible."

  "So?"

  "On the other hand, if we can agree to half again as much gold this year, I might be able to match that raise next year or the year after."

  "How come you can't do it now?" Remo asked.

  "I will need time to prepare the President for such a giant increase. This way it is doable over time, and you can impress Chiun with your ability to get multiple raises from me."

  Remo frowned deeply. "I dunno, Smitty."

  "What is more important to you—the best deal you can obtain or an opportunity to impress Chiun with your negotiating skills two years running?"

  Remo rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, the gold just sits in the treasure house. Chiun won't let anyone spend it."

  Smith suppressed a groan. He had always suspected it from the way Remo and Chiun ran up lavish expense bills.

  "So no one'll be hurt if I play it cagey," Remo muttered.

  "Then it is a deal?"

  "Okay," said Remo, "it's a deal."

  Smith stood up and hastily put out his hand.

  Remo hesitated. "Do you shake with Chiun?"

  "Not usually. But I think it appropriate here. You have always been a man of your word."

  Remo came out of the chair and shook Smith's hand. It was like shaking hands with a gloved skeleton.

  "It's a deal, Smitty," he said, grinning.

  "I am glad we could come to swift understanding. It saves us time. Now, you must convince Chiun to take the services of the House off the international market."

  "Was that in our contract?"

  Smith said angrily, "It was an unspoken assumption."

  Raising his hands, Remo backed away from Smith's cold glare. "Hey, hey, I was just kidding."

  Smith relaxed. "Shall I make arrangements for the gold now?"

  "Don't we need a contract?"

  "We have done business for over twenty years now. A contract is a formality. Have Chiun draw one up, and once I have seen it I will release the gold. But I would like to get it moving through the pipeline as soon as possible."

  "Sure. Why not?" Remo started for the door. "I don't know why you and Chiun would lock yourselves in for hours wrangling over this stuff. It's easy. Just state your position from the start."

  "One moment," said Smith, bringing his hands up to the desktop. The capacity keyboard lit up. He input computer commands with practiced ease.

  Remo looked interested. "What are you doing? Making a withdrawal?"

  Smith nodded.

  "Nice to have your own bank. Where are you withdrawing from?"

  "The Federal Emergency—" Smith's voice broke off. He froze in his chair. His gray face paled to a kind of ghost gray. "My God…" he croaked.

  "Don't tell me you're overdrawn."

  "In a manner of speaking," Smith said hoarsely.

  "Hey. I was kidding."

  "And I was not," Smith said grimly. "According to my screen, the Federal Emergency Management Agency operating fund was frozen not two hours ago by executive order."

  "What idiot did that?" Remo demanded.

  "The President of the United States."

  "Can he do that?"

  "Excuse me," said Harold Smith, reaching for the red telephone.

  In the Situation Room of the White House, the President was listening to a tactical briefing. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was doing the honors.

  "We have a division-strength unit at El Paso," he said, flicking a collapsible metal pointer so its end telescoped out and tapped a red triangle below El Paso, Texas.

  The President said, "Division. How many men is that?"

  "About fifteen thousand."

  The pointer flicked north to a blue dot. "And a regiment in reserve."

  "That's how many soldiers? Exactly."

  The chairman of the Joint Chiefs rolled his eyes as the President held his pen poised over a memo pad.

  "Over two thousand, but these numbers are unimportant."

  "I'm Commander in Chief. I should know how many
troops are in the field. Shouldn't I?"

  The chief of naval operations looked to the JCS chair, and the unspoken thought between them was, the Commander in Chief should have taken time to memorize a military table of organization. Preferably before his inauguration.

  The door was suddenly flung open in the unmistakable style that telegraphed a typical First Lady's hurricane entrance. Everyone stiffened. Especially the President.

  "It's the telephone," she hissed.

  "Can't it wait? I'm conducting the defense of the nation here."

  "This phone needs answering."

  "Take a message."

  "I tried. Smith hung up."

  "Smith?"

  "Exactly."

  The JCS absorbed this byplay with growing interest.

  "Gentlemen," said the President, pushing back his chair, "you must excuse me."

  "Of course, Mr. President."

  After he had left the room, the Joint Chiefs of Staff huddled.

  "Who's this Smith?"

  "I think there's a Smith over at State."

  "Don't we have an Admiral Smith, Admiral?"

  "I believe we have three."

  The door opened and the First Lady shoved her blond head in. Her blue eyes seared them like angry lasers. "That conversation never happened."

  "Yes, ma'am," said the Joint Chiefs of Staff, quietly folding their hands as they waited for the President's return.

  In the Lincoln Bedroom, the President of the United States sat on the immaculate bedspread and lifted the ringing red telephone from the rosewood nightstand. He took up the receiver and spoke into it, his voice hoarser than usual.

  "Smith?"

  "Yes, Mr. President."

  "The line is fixed?"

  "As of yesterday. I regret it took so long."

  "Glad to have you back. Have you been monitoring the Mexican situation?"

  "I have. I also have a matter of grave urgency to place before you."

  "What could be more urgent than a U.S.-Mexico showdown?"

  "The organization has come to the end of another contract, and I must meet the demands of my enforcement people."

  "Is there a problem?" the President asked.

  "This is black-budget money, as you know."

  "Yeah. I know. My people have gone over the budget with a fine-tooth comb. I could never find you."

  "That is the point. The agency that funnels money is out of funds."

  "What agency is that?" asked the President, noticing the door to the Lincoln Bedroom slowly easing open.