Warren Murphy: Bidding War

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.

Instantly, there was a rolling, spitting commotion in the aisle, but no one moved to intervene. They were listening with rapt intentness to the running translation, while it was now getting organized.

Soon other delegates bolted for the exits. And were jumped before they could make it.

Fistfights broke out everywhere. Chairs were lifted and broken over tonsured heads. Alliances were quickly formed, lasting only as long as it took for a common foe to be knocked senseless. Then the alliances degenerated into fisticuffs.