“For the kind of money he’s being paid, he doesn’t need to be happy,” Chavasse said. “On the other hand, he had a hell of a war. Probably worried about taking the hitcher to the well too often.”

“And you, Paul.” Ferguson glanced sideways at him. “What about you?”

“You should know better than to ask a question like that,” Chavasse said. “I go where the Bureau sends me. This is just another job as far as I’m concerned. Perhaps a little tougher than most, but that’s all.”

“But doesn’t the thought of going in there worry you?” Ferguson persisted.

“Sure it does.” Chavasse grinned. “If it didn’t, I wouldn’t go.”

Ferguson turned the car off the highway and they followed a dirt road for several miles. They were moving up through the lowlands, climbing high into grassy meadows, when suddenly they topped a small rise and saw twenty or thirty tents below, beside a small stream.

It was a peaceful scene, with the smoke of the cooking fires rising straight in the calm air. Several women stood knee-deep in the stream washing clothing, their long woollen shubas tucked into their belts, and barefooted children played a noisy game of hide-and-seek.

The tents were typically Tibetan and consisted of yak skins sewn together and stretched over a round wickerwork frame which was surrounded by a low wall of stones or turves.

The camp had a primitive, quiet charm, and Chavasse smiled as a young boy noticed their approach and called to his friends. A moment later, the whole pack of them surged forward, calling excitedly to their mothers down at the stream.

The women looked up, shading their eyes against the sun, and at that moment a horseman galloped over the crest of a hill fifty or sixty yards away, scattering a group of grazing yaks, and rode down into the camp.

He wore a long, wide-sleeved robe and sheepskin shuba which left his chest bare to the waist, and knee-length boots of untanned hide that had been dyed green. His hair was coiled into plaits on either side and covered by a conical sheepskin hat. There was a large silver ring in his left ear.

He reined in his small Tibetan horse, dismounted and came towards them, a strangely medieval figure. He was tall and muscular, and his deeply tanned face was not in the least oriental. His high cheekbones and aquiline nose gave him a definitely aristocratic air and the children, who quickly parted to let him through, ducked their heads in respect as he passed.

“Joro,” Ferguson said. “This is Mr. Chavasse.”

The Tibetan held out his hand. “I am glad you are here,” he said simply.

Chavasse was impressed. Joro’s English was excellent, but there was more to it than that. He was a man who would have stood out in any company. He looked intelligent and tough, every inch a leader – not at all the sort of man who would run away from a fight. Chavasse was intrigued.

They walked a little way out of the camp and sat down on a grassy bank. Chavasse offered Joro a cigarette, which he accepted, and took one himself. As he gave the Tibetan a light, he said, “Ferguson tells me you’re willing to return to Tibet and to help me as much as you can. Why?”

“For two reasons,” Joro said. “Because Mr. Ferguson has told me that you were one of those who helped the Dalai Lama to escape, and because you wish to help Dr. Hoffner.”

“But why did you leave Tibet in the first place? Were you in trouble?”

Joro shook his head. “I was not a suspected person, if that’s what you mean. No, Mr. Chavasse. My people are brave, but we can’t fight the Chinese with broadswords and muskets. We need modern rifles and machine guns. I came through the Pangong Tso Pass with gold in the lining of my shuba. I came to buy arms, and Mr. Ferguson has arranged this for me.”

“You’ll be taking them in with you,” Ferguson said. “It’s all fixed up. Some rifles and ammunition, a couple of submachine guns and a box of grenades. It’s all I could manage. We’ve just come from Kerensky. He wants to fly to Leh this afternoon. Is that all right with you?”

Joro nodded. “I see no reason for delay if Mr. Chavasse is ready.”

“If the weather is good, Kerensky wants to try for Rudok tonight,” Chavasse said, “so we haven’t got much time. You’d better fill me in on a few things. What’s the general state of affairs in western Tibet?”

“Very different from the rest of the country. The Chinese have built a road to link Gartok and Yarkand through the disputed territory of the Aksai Chin Plateau, which they claim from India, but there is little traffic. The area is the most sparsely populated part of Tibet, and they only control the villages and towns, and not all of those.”

“So there’s been some local resistance?”

Joro smiled faintly. “Most of my people are herdsmen who move constantly with their flocks, hard mountaineers who do not take kindly to Chinese brutality. What would you expect?”

“I thought that as Buddhists, the Tibetans were generally against any kind of violence?” Ferguson remarked.

“That was true once,” Joro said grimly, “but then the Reds came to butcher our young men and defile our women. Before the Lord Buddha brought the way of peace to us, we Tibetans were warriors. The Chinese have made us warriors again.”

“He’s right,” Chavasse told Ferguson. “When I was in the south, even the monks were fighting.”

“That is so,” Joro said. “Near Rudok at the monastery of Yalung Gompa we shall find many friends. The monks will help us in any way they can.”

“Now tell me about Hoffner,” Chavasse said. “What shape was he in when you last saw him?”

“He had been very ill. That was why I went to see him. I told him I intended to visit Kashmir and he asked me to take the letter for him.”

“He’s not closely guarded then?”

Joro shook his head. “He is allowed to continue living in his old house at Changu, which is an ancient walled town of perhaps five thousand people. The Chinese commandant for the entire area lives there, Colonel Li.”

“And Hoffner is confined to his house?”

“He occasionally walked in the streets, but he is forbidden to leave the town.” Joro shrugged. “They don’t bother to guard him closely, if that’s what you want to know. Where would he go, a frail old man?”

“That means we can probably work something out without too much difficulty,” Chavasse said. “After all, we’ll only have to get him from Changu to this landing ground you’ve found near Rudok, and then Kerensky can take over.”

“There may be difficulties you have not foreseen,” Juro said. “For instance, there is Hoffner’s housekeeper. She may prove awkward. She was not there on the last occasion I saw Hoffner, but I believe she is still with him, and I don’t trust her.”

“Why not?” Chavasse asked.

“For the best of all possible reasons,” Joro told him. “She is Chinese – or rather her mother was. Her father was Russian, which is as bad. Her name is Katya Stranoff. She had been travelling with her father from Sinkiang to Lhasa, and he died on the way.”

“And Hoffner took her in?”

Joro nodded. “It is his great fault that he must always help others, no matter what the cost to himself.”

Chavasse thought about it for a moment, a frown on his face. Finally he said, “What it comes down to is this: You don’t trust her, but you’ve nothing concrete to go on. For all we know, she may be perfectly harmless?”

“That is so,” Joro said reluctantly.

“Then we’ll have to take a chance on her. When we get to the monastery, you’ll have to go to Changu anyway to spy out the land for me. But we can sort all that out later.”

Ferguson got to his feet. “If that’s all for the moment, we’d better be getting back to Srinagar. I’ve got plenty to arrange before that plane takes off, and you could use the time to catch up on a little sleep, Paul.”

Chavasse nodded. “That’s the best idea you’ve had yet.” He smiled and shook hands with Joro. “Until this afternoon then.”