short sharp bursts with his left hand, still counting, and they raked the rocks with machine-gun fire so fierce that he had to keep his head down and hurl the block of plastique blindly. This time his luck was good for it landed in the jeep containing four soldiers and exploded a second later with devastating effect.
He glanced over a rock and saw only carnage. The four soldiers killed outright and the other jeep tilted on one side, its three occupants thrown out. As Chavasse watched, they got to their feet, coughing in the acrid smoke and picked up their weapons. He stood and opened fire with the Sten, three bullets kicking up dirt beside them, then the magazine simply emptied itself. He threw it down, turned and ran for his life as the three Chinese cried out and came after him.
Bullets ploughed into the ground beside him, kicking up snow as he struggled up the slope and then a cheerful voice cried, ‘Lie down, Paul, for God’s sake.’
Hamid appeared on the ridge above, holding the Sten light machine gun in both hands. He swept it from side-to-side, cutting down the three Chinese in a second. As the echoes died away he looked at the ruins of the bridge.
‘Now that’s what I call close.’
‘You could say that.’ Chavasse scrambled up the slope and saw the two Tibetans below holding Hamid’s horse and the spare. ‘How thoughtful. You’ve brought one for me. Prime Minister Nehru and the Indian Government are prepared to receive the Dalai Lama. The Indian Air Force plane that just dropped me in will be waiting on the airstrip at Gela. We’ll all be in Delhi before you know it.’
‘Excellent,’ Hamid said. ‘So can we kindly get the hell out of here?’
The British Embassy in Delhi was ablaze with light, crystal chandeliers glittering, the fans in the ceiling stirring the warm air, the French windows open to the gardens.
The ballroom was packed with people, anyone who counted in Delhi, the great and the good, not only the British Ambassador, but Prime Minister Nehru, all there to honour the Dalai Lama, who sat in a chair by the main entrance, greeting the well-wishers who passed him in line.
Chavasse in a white linen suit, black shirt and pale lemon tie, stood watching. Hamid was at his side resplendent in turban and khaki uniform, his medal ribbons, particularly the Military Cross from the British, making a brave show.
‘Look at them,’ Chavasse said. ‘All they want to do is to be able to boast that they shook his hand. They’d ask for his autograph if they dared.’
‘The way of the world, Paul,’ the Pathan told him.
There was a Chinese in the line, a small man with horn-rimmed glasses, an eager smile on his face. Chavasse stiffened.
‘Who’s that?’
The young lieutenant behind them said, ‘His name is Chung. He’s a doctor. Runs a clinic for the poor. He’s Chinese Nationalist from Formosa. Came here six months ago.’
Dr Chung took the Dalai Lama’s hand. ‘Chung – Formosa, Holiness,’ they heard him say. ‘Such an honour.’
The Dalai Lama murmured a response, Chung moved away and took a glass from a tray held by one of the many turbaned waiters.
The Dalai Lama beckoned the young lieutenant to him. ‘Enough for the moment. I think I’ll have a turn in the garden. I could do with some fresh air.’ He smiled at Chavasse and Hamid. ‘I’ll see you again in a little while, gentlemen.’
He made his way through the crowd, escorted by the lieutenant, nodding and smiling to people as he passed, and went out through one of the French windows. The lieutenant returned.
‘He seems tired. I’ll just go and tell them at the door to warn new guests that he’s not available for presentation.’
He walked away and Hamid said, ‘When do you return to London?’
Chavasse lit a cigarette. ‘Not sure. I’m waiting for orders from my boss.’
‘Ah, the Chief, the famous Sir Ian Moncrieff.’
‘You’re not supposed to know that,’ Chavasse said.
‘No, you’re certainly not,’ a familiar voice said.
Chavasse swung round in astonishment and found Moncrieff standing there, in a crumpled sand-coloured linen suit. He wore a Guards tie, grey hair swept back.
‘Where on earth did you spring from?’ Chavasse demanded.
‘The flight from London that got in two hours ago. Magnificent job, Paul. Thought I’d join in the festivities.’ He turned to the Pathan. ‘You’ll be Hamid?’
They shook hands. ‘A pleasure, Sir Ian.’
Moncrieff took a glass from the tray of a passing waiter and Chavasse said, ‘Well, they’re all here, as you can see.’
Moncrieff drank some of the wine. ‘Including the opposition.’
‘What do you mean?’ Hamid asked.
‘Our Chinese friend over there.’ Moncrieff indicated Chung, who was working his way through the crowd towards the French windows.
‘Chinese Nationalist from Formosa,’ Chavasse said. ‘Runs a clinic for the poor downtown.’
‘Well, if that’s what Indian Intelligence believe they’re singularly ill-informed. I saw his picture in a file at the Chinese Section of SIS in London only last month. He’s a Communist agent. Where’s the Dalai Lama, by the way?’
‘In the garden,’ Hamid told him.
At that moment Chung went out through one of the open French windows. ‘Come on,’ Chavasse said to Hamid and pushed his way quickly through the crowd.
The garden was very beautiful, flowers everywhere, the scent of magnolias heavy on the night air, palm trees swaying in a light breeze. The spray from a large fountain in the centre of the garden lifted into the night and the Dalai Lama followed a path towards it, alone with his thoughts. He paused as Dr Chung stepped from the bushes.
‘Holiness, forgive me, but your time has come.’
He held an automatic pistol in one hand, a silencer on the end. The Dalai Lama took it in and smiled serenely.
‘I forgive you, my son, death comes to all men.’
Hamid, running fast, Chavasse at his back, was on Chung in an instant, one arm round his neck, a hand reaching for the right wrist, depressing the weapon towards the ground. It fired once, a dull thud, and Chung, struggling desperately, managed to turn. For a moment they were breast-to-breast, the tall Pathan and the small Chinese. There was another dull thud, Chung went rigid and then slumped to the ground. For a moment he lay there kicking, then went very still.
Chavasse went down on one knee and examined him as Moncrieff arrived at the run. Chavasse stood up, the gun in his hand.
‘Is he dead?’ the Dalai Lama asked.
‘Yes,’ Chavasse told him.
‘May his soul be at peace.’
‘I’d
