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."