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.
Into this melee stepped a very befuddled secretary general and his under secretary for peacekeeping operations.
As he observed the open brawling, the secretary general's stony face did not change one particle. He looked to the under secretary, and the under secretary looked back. Both men shrugged their shoulders in mirrored gestures.
When the delegate from Iran, sans Islamic turban, went tumbling past, the secretary general asked him, "What is wrong?"
"I do not know. I did not hear the speech."
"Then why are you fighting?"
"I am fighting the delegate from Israel. I have always wanted to punch him in the face. This seemed like the perfect opportunity."
The delegate from Iraq came sliding by on his Saddam Hussein-style mustache. "Allow me to guess. The delegate from Israel did that."
"How did you know?"
"Because they did exactly that to my country during the Six Day War," replied Anwar Anwar-Sadat.
Striding forward, the secretary general waded through the surge and clash of bodies, pushing and tripping combatants as they swirled around him. His liquid brown eyes sought the podium. He caught a brief glimpse of a colorful little man as he exited through a side door.
"I do not recognize him," he muttered.
"Nor do I," said the under secretary.
Then their eyes went to the red lights scattered through the upper booths. TV camera lights.
"CNN," they said in a single hoarse voice.
The secretary general filled his lungs with air. "Guards! Seize those cameras. They must be stopped, and all tapes confiscated."
But it was too late, the secretary general realized with a cold, growing horror.
The lavish spectacle of the United Nations General Assembly embroiled in the diplomatic equivalent of a barroom brawl had already been broadcast to the entire television-viewing world.
And there was absolutely no stopping it.
What the secretary general didn't know and couldn't suspect was that the public relations ramifications of the day were immaterial. The damage was already done. And it extended far, far beyond the injured prestige of the United Nations.
Most incredible of all was the still-unrecognized fact that the havoc to come had been wrought by an anonymous man giving a three-minute speech.
Chapter Six
The speech that set diplomat against diplomat and was destined to set nation against nation was never broadcast, ironically enough. It hadn't been given in English, which was the lingua franca of international commerce and diplomacy. Had it been in English, CNN and the U.S. television networks would probably have excerpted a sound bite, which might have run as a lead-in to what the world thought was the story.
Namely that a brawl rivaling that seen in Russian or Japanese parliaments had broken out in the General Assembly Building.
Nothing like it had ever before been witnessed. The international viewing public was used to the same stock General Assembly shot—the delegates seated in the semicircular rows, some waving pencils, others yawning with the tedium of representing their countries before a body that debated endlessly and did little.
It was the biggest thing that had happened in the General Assembly since Khrushchev had pummeled the podium with his shoe.
And no one understood the true import of it all.
Least of all the secretary general.
After the evening newscasts had run the spectacle with inappropriate commentary, Anwar Anwar-Sadat came out of his office on the thirty-eighth floor of the Secretariat Building and deigned to address the news media.
"I have a statement," he began in his slow, measured cadences.
As usual the media could not have cared less.
"Does this mean the end of the United Nations as we know it?" asked one reporter.
"I would like to give my statement if you do not mind."
"How do you explain this unprecedented behavior?" another reporter demanded.
"My statement will be brief."
"Why did another person give your speech, and will your office provide the text of the address that was given?"
Anwar Anwar-Sadat's stony reserve was broken by that last question.
"My speech was never delivered—by myself or any other. I do not know what was said on the podium. Now, as to my statement—"
"Are you or will you resign over this breach of security and decorum?" he was asked.
"My statement follows," he snapped.
Scenting a sound bite, everyone shut up.
"On this afternoon occurred as regrettable an incident as has ever occurred during the history of the United Nations. Owing to an unfortunate lapse of security, a person of unknown affiliation took the podium and delivered remarks before the General Assembly that were most unfortunate and resulted in the lamentable incident that was unfortunately telecast this evening. It would have been far, far better had the news media shown due restraint and not telecast this regrettable occurrence."
The secretary general paused. The news media held their collective breath.
"Thank you for coming," concluded the secretary general.
"That will be all," said an aide, shooing the media from the reception area.
"What about the future of the United Nations?" a reporter demanded. "How can the peacekeepers keep peace in the world if they themselves can't get along?"
"Will the UN go the way of the League of Nations?" an older correspondent chimed in.
That last in particular stung, but Anwar Anwar-Sadat swallowed his angry retort and slipped back into his office.
He had given the statement that his job demanded he give, one festooned with "unfortunates" and "lamentables" but which said nothing. If he remained out of the public eye and the General Assembly behaved itself when it reconvened tomorrow, the events of this day, he felt confidently, would quickly fade from public memory. At worst, it would resurface in the year-end roundup of memorable and unusual world events the media seemed to delight in recapping.
In that, the secretary general was dead wrong. The story didn't go away, because the General Assembly was not to reconvene the next day. It was impossible to reconvene the General Assembly for a very simple reason.
Every diplomat without fail had been recalled for consultations.
And no diplomat with whom Anwar Anwar-Sadat spoke could give anything but a vague, evasive and diplomatically correct explanation.
There was one exception. The delegate from the United States.
She was the only one to call him in the aftermath of what the media had already dubbed the UN Fiftieth Anniversary Gala Ruckus.
"Mr. Secretary General, we at the State Department are very concerned about this afternoon's incident."
"It is nothing," Anwar Anwar-Sadat insisted.
"We understand the delegates have been recalled for urgent consultations."
"A mere cover story, I assure you. In truth, I myself suggested a cooling-off period."
"In the middle of debate over the Macedonia question?"
"Tut-tut. Macedonia will not convulse overnight."
"We would like to know what happened."
The secretary general searched the ceiling for a plausible explanation. "You will remember the events that triggered the First World War?" he purred.
"Not personally, of course."
"Europe was then a network of treaties and alliances with no broker or mediator. Unlike today. When the unfortunate assassination at Sarajevo took
place, a domino effect resulted. Countries bound by paper treaties found themselves at war with other countries with whom they had no quarrel. It was to avoid such recurrences that the United Nations was created."
"You're thinking of the League of Nations," the U.S. delegate said acidly. "And let's skip the commercial for a new world order and go directly to the point."
"Very well," the secretary general said stiffly. "A disagreement broke out between two delegates. I have already forgotten whom, this is such a trivial matter. A blow was struck, a delegate fell. A third delegate, whose nation was on excellent terms with the one that was struck, interceded and knocked down the aggressor. Very quickly there were escalations and counterattacks. It was just like the prelude to the First World War, only without bloodshed."
"Not quite. The Cuban observer bopped me on the nose."
"Most regrettable. I trust the bleeding has abated?"
"Mine has. I don't think that's true of the Cuban observer. Now, let's become serious, shall we? I was there. I saw it all. Everything you say is probably true. But who was the old fellow at the podium and what on earth did he say that riled up the entire assembly?"
"That, I admit I do not know."
"That," the U.S. delegate continued, "was the answer I was looking for at the start of this conversation. If you do find out, be so good as to share it with me, will you? My President is interested in the answer."
"Very good, Madame Delegate," said Anwar Anwar-Sadat, and hung up.
It was not surprising that the U.S. was in the dark, he reflected. They were always in the dark about truly sophisticated issues. Anwar Anwar-Sadat took secret pleasure in U.S. ignorance, because it was easier to mold U.S. political opinion this way.
But this was one time he took no pleasure in United States ignorance. Before she called him, Anwar Anwar-Sadat was considering swallowing his pride and reaching out to her in the hope—faint as it was—that the United States government had some inkling of what had transpired.
"I would like to see a complete text of the remarks made before the General Assembly," he informed the under secretary.
The under secretary was pained to admit that no such transcript existed.
"Why not?"
"Mr. Secretary General, inasmuch as the remarks were not cleared with the Secretariat and not delivered in a language the translators were prepared for, there is no transcript."
"What do we know of what was said?"
"The entire first minute was lost, owing to the translators' unpreparedness."
"Yes. Yes. I understand this."
"It was then noticed that the delegates from the two Koreas were agitated by these remarks and the translators who understood Korean captured the second minute."
"Only the second?"
"All the uproar and violence forced them to abandon their posts."
The secretary general nodded unhappily. "So what do we have?"
"It is imperfect."
"I know it is imperfect," he snapped. "You have already explained the circumstances of the translation."
"No, I mean the portion we have reconstructed is imperfect because the Korean spoken was not modern Korean, but an older dialect."
"Which dialect?"
"Northern."
"This provocateur was North Korean? Can we assume that?"
"We can," the under secretary admitted. "But we might be wrong."
The secretary general sighed. Once they got into the habit of couching their words as diplomatically as possible, leaving room for all shades of meaning—including no meaning at all—it was exceedingly difficult to break the staff of the habit. Usually this was good. In this particular instance, it was exasperating.
"I would like to hear these remarks, imperfect as they are," the secretary general said wearily.
"Actually what we have is not in the form of remarks as much as a string of numerals."
"Numerals? What do you mean numerals?"
"Digits."
"Numbers?"
"Yes, numbers. The person was reciting numbers."
"Why would a man reciting numbers throw the entire General Assembly in chaos?"
"Perhaps they were very important numbers, Mr. Secretary General."
"How? Numbers are numbers. They are only important if given in a context that imparts their importance to the hearer."
"This is the difficulty with our imperfect translation," the under secretary sighed. "We are missing the first and third minutes of this man's remarks. Therein must lie the context."
The secretary general leaned back in his chair. Behind him, in Arabic so it would not offend the English-speaking world should U.S. television cameras intrude, was his favorite saying inscribed in silver ink against a black background: If You Stick To Your Principles You Are Not A Diplomat.
It was Anwar Anwar-Sadat's favorite saying because he himself had authored it. When it was reported in Time magazine, he received much hurtful mail from those who didn't understand the demands and realities of his job.
But now even he himself didn't understand his job.
Was there a crisis? Had the United Nations, after fifty years of bringing nations under one roof to air their differences, dissolved into irrelevancy because a nameless man had recited a mathematical formula to the General Assembly?
It was unthinkable. Yet there it was—an ugly, undeniable truth.
"Bring me these numbers so that I may see them with my own eyes," Anwar Anwar-Sadat ordered his under secretary for peacekeeping Operations.
"At once, my General."
Harold Smith saw the outbreak of fractiousness on his home television during the 11:00 p.m. news and immediately sat up straighter in the overstuffed chair that dominated his Rye, New York, parlor. He wore a faded flannel bathrobe and carpet slippers, both gray from many washings.
The clip was brief, a feed from one of the networks, and was aired just before the weather for comic relief.
Wise in the ways of the United Nations body, Harold Smith knew that there was nothing comic about the General Assembly reverting to hand-to-hand combat. Diplomats were highly trained individuals, schooled to show reserve when reserve was called for, anger when it served their governments, and it was rare when an outburst occurred that was uncalculated and spontaneous.
The outbreak of violence in the UN was clearly spontaneous. In fact, it was wildly spontaneous.
It may have been the most important news event of the past six months, but less than fifteen seconds of airtime was given to it and absolutely none was devoted to helping the public understand that event.
Not that Harold Smith gleaned any understanding. But he knew enough to feel a cold tightness creep into his chest as he reached for his battered briefcase.
Unlocking the safety catches so the explosive charge remained inert, Smith exposed his portable computer and booted it up.
He was soon logged on the net and was calling up the wire-service news bulletins.
AP had a brief digest and included the secretary general's remarks. They were as devoid of substance as the TV report had been.
Other accounts were similarly sketchy. None identified the trigger for the commotion. Skimpy statements of an unidentified Third World delegate addressing the General Assembly at the time of the violence suggested a link between his remarks and what followed. But no one was saying that on the record. In fact, no one was saying much of anything.
But where lines of text existed, Harold Smith could read between them.
Reading between the lines, Smith came to a firm conclusion.
The person who had stood before the United Nations had made a declaration of war. That was the only possible explanation. There could be no other.
But who was this person? What representative of what country other than a nuclear-capable nation could declare war and have it send diplomats scurrying home for urgent consultations?
Harold Smith didn't know, but he was prepared to toil far into the night to find out.
F
rom the bedroom door a voice called sleepily. "Harold, are you coming to bed?"
"Please start without me," Smith said absently.
"Start what?" came the puzzled voice of Maude, his wife of many years. "I'm going to sleep."
"Goodnight, dear," said Harold Smith as his aged fingers made the keyboard click with a hollow rattle like plastic bones.
Chapter Seven
It was the middle of the night, and Remo lay dreaming.
He dreamed of a woman he had never met but whose face and voice were imprinted on his memory. His mother.
For most of Remo's life, his mother had been a vague concept in his mind. She had no name or face or any voice. When he got old enough to develop an imagination, Remo started imagining mothers. Sometimes she was blond, sometimes her hair was brown or black. Mostly it was black. She usually had brown eyes because Remo had brown eyes. Even as a boy, he understood who he was somehow reflected who his mother had been.
There were times when Remo imagined her alive and there were times he lay awake sobbing silently into his pillow so the nuns and the other orphans wouldn't ask him why.
On those nights he mourned for his dead mother. It was easier to imagine her dead. It made more sense. If she lived, she wouldn't have abandoned him to be raised in an orphanage. No one's mother could be so heartless.
So Remo had buried her and mourned her and in time forgot about her all except in the secret recesses of his imagination.
A year ago she had appeared to him, wearing a face more angelic than the most idealized product of his longing imagination. That was when Remo knew with certainty she had died.
To this day he didn't know if she was a ghost or spirit or the product of some infant memory. But she had spoken in a voice he could hear and bidden him to seek out his living father.
Just to hold on to the memory, Remo had gone to a police sketch artist, who drew her face from Remo's description. He carried it with him wherever he went.
Nearly a frustrating year had passed before she had appeared to him for a second time. This time to tell him that the time to find his father was growing short.
Remo would have scoured the planet to find his father except the spirit of his mother had also showed him a vision of a cave and in the cave sat a mummy Remo had recognized as Chiun.
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