through the heart of Islamabad, en route to the hotel where Abdul Dakkon had booked them each a room. Hawke had come to think of the man as a one-armed magician. There was literally nothing he could not accomplish, no detail he had not considered, and the answer to every question was a big smile and an 'Absolutely, sir!'
'What can you tell me about the hotel?' Hawke asked Abdul.
'The Punjab Palace? Well, first of all, sir, it is not a palace.'
'No? What is it?'
'A Holiday Inn, sir. Renovated last year, with a new sign out front. I am sorry I cannot offer you the Marriott, sir. It was the only four-star hotel in Islamabad, but it was totally destroyed by a truck bomb.'
'I remember that. Our thought at MI6 was that the bomber had intended to blow up President Asif Ali Zadari's residence a block away but was frightened off by the security cordons and so drove into the Marriott instead.'
'This is absolutely correct, sir. But the Punjab is now slowly acquiring the same clientele, the same atmosphere. You may recall Rick's Cafe in the movie Casablanca, sir. That's what it is like. A neutral ground for the media, American diplomats, warlords, drug lords, peddlers of nuclear weapons, technology, and perhaps a few who fall into all those categories. The commodity in the Punjab is information, sir. In Pakistan, information is power. And power is a daily life-and-death struggle.'
'Sounds like we should spend a lot of time in the bar,' Harry said.
'It's not at all a very bad idea, sir,' Abdul replied, peering out through a gun port. 'No bars, but there are cafes, and a restaurant. Here you can get black-market whiskey in brown bags. I believe we are pulling over to transfer your team to the hired cars. We are near the Punjab now, it will only be a short ride from here. Ten minutes with no traffic.'
The Punjab Palace was an undistinguished slab of 1970s architecture, and certainly no palace, Hawke thought as he climbed out of the car at the entrance. No different from any of the countless anonymous 'business' hotels in every part of the world. The only difference was that in this one, the primary business was weapons of war and terror. There were security barriers out front, but they didn't look like they could stand up to a teenage martyr with a truck full of explosives and a death wish.
Hawke's team looked exactly as they should look, a bunch of travel-weary Western journalists. Each one had a plasti-coated 'Press' ID card hanging from around the neck, each with a different news-gathering organization. The CIA had provided everything. Passports, driver's licenses, cash, even the clothing on their backs. Four large black nylon duffel bags containing weapons and gear for each of them were removed from the two hired cars.
A Punjab porter, obviously on Abdul's payroll, immediately loaded the bags onto a rolling cart. He and Abdul then took the bags to the rear entrance of the hotel. Dakkon had explained to Hawke that by avoiding the metal detector inside the revolving doors at the lobby entrance, Dakkon could personally deliver the 'luggage' to their various rooms using the service elevator near the kitchen. 'The guard at the rear is a friend of mine,' Abdul said with a smile.
Hawke said, 'Abdul Dakkon, little friend of all the world.'
Dakkon lit up. 'Kim! By Rudyard Kipling. My most favorite book, sir!'
'Mine too,' Hawke said, clapping his new friend on the back.
Once everyone was checked in, Hawke suggested they all go to their rooms and get some real sleep and a hot shower and meet in the restaurant at seven that evening. He told Brock he had a few details to iron out and suggested the two of them go to the lobby coffee shop for a quick breakfast. Hawke instinctively sat facing the hotel entrance so he could keep an eye on anyone who came through the door.
He knew you minded your back in a country like this, especially when you suspected your movements were being compromised by a rat in the cupboard. A few minutes after they sat down, Abdul Dakkon joined them, giving Hawke a thumbs-up, his mission accomplished.
'Listen, Harry,' Hawke said once they'd all ordered coffee, 'you don't look so good.'
'I don't?'
'You look peaked.'
'What the cuss does 'peaked' mean, anyway?'
'Pronounced pee-kid. Sickly. You look sick. Let me take a look at that knife wound you got. Lift up your shirt.'
'Jesus,' Harry said, pulling up his violently colored Hawaiian aloha shirt. The wound was still puffy and red, looked like about twenty stitches to Hawke, healing normally.
'I think it's infected, Harry, you might have picked up a staph infection in the emergency room, happens all the time.'
'Staph? That's not good, is it?'
'Nope. Fatal unless you get on some powerful antibiotics in a hurry. I think we'd better get you to an emergency room. Abdul, where's the nearest hospital? I was there a while back.'
'Quaid-e-Azam? The International Hospital?'
'That's the one. Have you got your car here?'
'Yes, sir. It's valet parked. Full tank of gas, oil topped off and-'
'Let's go,' Hawke said, throwing some money on the table. He was halfway across the lobby when some Pakistani 'player' swung through the front doors, a self-important entourage in his wake, armed to the teeth, all of them simply ignoring the loud screeches of the metal detector. Hawke smiled. You just didn't see this kind of stuff at Claridge's.
'IT IS BRAND-NEW, SIR,' ABDUL said as he swung his Toyota into the hospital entrance. 'The most modern hospital in the country. The people here are very proud of it.'
'I can see why,' Hawke said.
'Sorry, sir, the outdoor parking lot is full. We will have to use the underground parking garage.'
Abdul exited the lot and circled the entire building, looking for the underground entrance.
'I can't seem to find the entrance, sir. It must be somewhere.' He was clearly embarrassed at this turn of events.
'You would think,' Harry Brock said from the backseat.
Hawke said, 'Maybe there is no underground garage, Abdul.'
'Oh, no, sir. There was a big delay in construction. I read about it in the papers. Something about the structure of the underground garage. Load-bearing walls. I remember that clearly.'
'Okay, let's just get Mr. Brock to the ER and then we'll go park the car anywhere we can. Okay with you, Harry? If we just drop you off? We'll come back for you shortly.'
'Yeah, sure, whatever works. I am starting to feel kind of sick.'
FIFTY-TWO
ABDUL DAKKON SAID, 'THERE IS a VIP section on one of the very top floors of the main building. If Sheik Abu al-Rashad truly is a patient here, sir, that is most assuredly where we shall find him.'
'Good. We'll start there. Drive around to the main entrance, please. I need to speak to Reception for a few moments before we have a good look around the property. I'd like you to wait at the curb. I don't imagine I'll be too long.'
'Yes, sir. Absolutely. No problem.'
Hawke walked straight past the two armed security guards and entered through the revolving doors. There was a newsstand in the lobby and he picked up a copy of this morning's International News, crossed to the reception desk, showed his press ID card, and asked for the VIP floor. The receptionist carefully examined his credentials, then gave him the floor number and pointed to a single elevator with yet another armed guard.
The doors opened on a small but extraordinarily lavish reception room. Quite empty of visitors. Behind a black granite semi-circle sat a very officious looking middle-aged woman. Sullen and sallow-faced, she did not look promising. Her black hair was pulled back severely, forming a slightly lopsided bun. Formidable, Hawke thought, attempting to disarm her with a smile.
'Yes?' she said before he could open his mouth to charm her.
'Good morning, madame. My name is Lord Alexander Hawke. I'm here from London on holiday and wanted to
