Warlord

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 pop in and say hello to an old friend of mine. I think he is a patient here."

Without a word, she spun around to her computer keyboard.

"Patient's name?"

"Sheik Abu al-Rashad."

She typed it in.

"Sorry, no one here by that name."

"Sorry, I should think he would definitely be here on the VIP floor." Hawke had his eye on the surveillance camera, indiscreetly mounted in one corner and swinging back and forth through a ninety-degree angle. He'd have to make his moves accordingly.

"I'm quite sure he would be. If he were a patient in this hospital. Which he is not."

"Not here then, is he? Well, that's certainly a shock. Has he been here recently at all? As a patient, I mean. I've been told he's quite ill."

"What did you say your name was again?"

"Hawke. Lord Hawke."

"Surname 'Hawke,' given name, 'Lord'?" She went to another screen and started to type it in.

"Correct," Hawke replied, not bothering to correct her.

"The man you are inquiring about is known to everyone on staff here, Mr. Lord Hawke. His benevolent generosity built the very building you are now standing in. As a most gracious gift to our nation and the beloved city of his birth."

"Did he really? Built the hospital? Isn't that interesting? Never mentioned a word to me, but, of course, his modesty always becomes him. Well, thanks for your time, madame, I'll be off."

She didn't even look up as Hawke walked away.

"Oh," he said, pausing and looking back at her, "one more thing. I can't seem to find the underground parking garage. Could you possibly tell me where it is located?"

"Closed for repairs."

"Ah, that explains it. Well, where is the entrance?"

"Closed for repairs, too."

Hawke turned and crossed back to the counter, glancing up at the closed-circuit TV camera.

"You know, I have a very difficult time believing you. I have seen the architectural renderings the Sheik's architects used during construction. Which include an entrance to an underground facility. Perhaps we could have a more frank discussion if you took a look inside this newspaper."

He placed a folded copy of the News on the counter.

She eyed it suspiciously and said, "What is inside?"

"Have a look. It won't bite."

She took the paper, opened it, and a letter-sized manila envelope plopped on the desk in front of her.

"And what is this?" she asked, picking it up by a corner and giving it a shake. Curiosity most definitely piqued, he observed happily.

"That, my good woman, is fifty thousand dollars in small bills, all U.S. currency."

She looked around to see if they were alone, then ripped open the seal. The thick wad of hundred-dollar bills was secured with a heavy red rubber band. Looking nervously about, she thumbed through it, her eyes widening incredulously. Obviously, she'd never seen this much money in her life. Few had. It always had a positive effect on people. Her dark eyes involuntarily registered greed. It was all he needed to see.

Without warning, Hawke's hand flicked across the counter with blinding speed. He snatched the cash from her hands so quickly she rocked back in her chair in shock.

"About that mysterious underground garage," he said, slipping the wad into the pocket of his windbreaker.

"Yes? What about it?"

"I want to see it. I want you to tell me how to find the entrance to it. If you do, and I see it for myself, I shall return here and give you this money. Of course, if I discover you have lied, or alerted anyone about my inquiries, you will never see me or the money again. Understood?"

"Yes."

"Use that pencil and draw a simple diagram of where the entrance is located. Quickly, before someone comes."

As she drew, she told him, in an anxious whisper and with a good bit of detail, exactly where the entrance was located. She folded the map into a small square and placed it on the counter. "You'll need this, too," she said, placing a metallic silver electronic reader card on the counter. "After that, there are guards. You'll be on your own."

"Thanks so much," Hawke said, turning and then striding across the inlaid marble-floored room. He paused in midstride again and looked back at her.

"By the way, don't even think about picking up that phone. If you speak to anyone, or I encounter any unexpected problems, you will never see this money or your family again. Because you will be dead. And if not you, my men will find your family. In the event you keep silent and prove helpful, there is another ten thousand in it for you. Do we fully understand each other, madame? A simple yes or no will do. Now."

"Yes."

Hawke observed her carefully. She was telling the truth.

"Good. Let's hope so for your sake."

As Hawke rode the elevator down, the mental tumblers rapidly clicked into place. The Sheik had followed the same hallowed tradition the Hamas War Council had adopted during the Israeli conflict in Gaza City.

Hamas commanders had used the Shifa Hospital's basement as their communications center, issuing orders, paying salaries, and discussing war strategies. The hospital, the largest in Gaza City had been chosen to avoid being targeted by Israel's military, who knew the location. But it would have been impossible to take out without bombing. Or a massive ground operation and unacceptable civilian casualties.

"Let's go find Harry," Hawke said, climbing into the car. "Tonight's the night."

"You found out where the Sheik is hiding?"

"I did. It seems he's in the morgue."