Chavasse drew smoke deep into his lungs and coughed as it caught at the back of his throat. “Russian!” he exclaimed, holding the cigarette up, and suddenly things became a little clearer.

“But certainly.” The man smiled. “Andrei Sergeievich Kurbsky at your service.”

“I hope you won’t be offended if I don’t return the compliment.”

“Perfectly understandable.” Kurbsky laughed good-naturedly. “Rather bad luck for you, our happening along when we did.”

“Come to think of it, what are you doing out here at night anyway?” Chavasse demanded. “I understood this was a bad security area.”

“I was on my way to Changu. Our engine broke down and by the time we’d diagnosed the trouble, it was dark so I decided to camp here for the night. It was quite a surprise when you flew in. Almost as great as when I heard you cry a warning to your comrade in English.”

“I must be getting old.” Chavasse sighed. “So it was your light we saw?”

Kurbsky nodded. “You interrupted my supper. Of course, I turned off the spirit stove as soon as you appeared. You obviously intended to land, and I didn’t want to discourage you.”

“And we thought it was a herdsman’s fire,” Chavasse told him bitterly.

“The fortunes of war, my friend.” Kurbsky opened the first-aid box. “And now, if you’re ready, I’ll see what state you’re in.”

“It’s only a scratch,” Chavasse said. “The bullet ploughed a furrow across my shoulder, that’s all.”

The Russian examined the wound and then expertly bandaged it with a field dressing.

“You seem to know your stuff,” Chavasse told him.

Kurbsky grinned. “I was a war correspondent in Korea. A hard school.”

“And what are you doing in Tibet?” Chavasse said. “Seeing firsthand how well the grateful peasants are responding to the new regime?” “Something like that.” Kurbsky shrugged. “I have what you might describe as a roving commission. I’m a staff writer for Pravda, but my work appears in newspapers and magazines all over the Soviet Union.”

“I’ll bet it does.”

“This little adventure will make most interesting reading,” Kurbsky continued. “The mysterious Englishman, if that is what you are, landing guns by night disguised as a Tibetan. It’s a great pity you couldn’t have been an American. That would have made it even more sensational.”

The flame of the spirit lamp, flickering in the wind, danced across Kurbsky’s face and there was a glint of humour in his eyes. An involuntary smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and Chavasse sighed. It was hard not to like a man like this.

“What happens now?”

“Some coffee, a little supper and sleep if you can manage it.”

“And tomorrow?”

Kurbsky sighed. “Tomorrow we go on to Changu and Colonel Li, the military commander in this area.” He leaned forward, and his good-humoured face was solemn. “If you take my advice, I would tell him what he wants to know, without any foolish heroics. They tell me he is a hard man.”

For a moment, there was a silence between them, and then Kurbsky slapped his thigh. “And now, some supper.”

He made a sign and one of the soldiers brought coffee and a tin of assorted biscuits.

“Don’t tell me the army of the People’s Republic is going soft on me,” Chavasse commented.

Kurbsky shook his head. “My own private stock, I assure you. I always find that a few little luxuries make all the difference on a trip like this in rough country.”

Chavasse swallowed some of the coffee. It was good and he grunted his approval. “Taking a leaf out of the old empire-builder’s book, eh? Dinner jackets on safari in darkest Africa and all that sort of thing.”

“Thank God for the English,” Kurbsky said solemnly. “At least they gave the world respectability.”

“At any time a most dubious virtue,” Chavasse said, and they both laughed.

“How is London these days?” Kurbsky asked.

For a moment Chavasse hesitated, and then he shrugged. After all, why not? “When I left there was a steady drizzle blowing in from the river, bringing with it all the signs of a typical English winter; there wasn’t a leaf in sight in Regent’s Park, and five nuclear disarmers had chained themselves to the railings outside 10 Downing Street.”

Kurbsky sighed. “Only in London! I was there last year, you know. I managed to catch Gielgud in The Cherry Orchard one evening. A memorable performance – for an Englishman playing Chekhov, of course. Afterwards we had supper at Hélène Cordet’s Saddle Room.”

“For a Russian abroad, you certainly visit the right places,” Chavasse told him.

Kurbsky shrugged. “It’s a necessary function of my work to mix with all classes and to try to see something of every facet of your society. How else are we to understand you?”

“The sentiment does you credit,” Chavasse told him. “Although I can’t say it’s one I’ve frequently encountered among Russian journalists.”

“Then you have obviously been mixing in the wrong circles,” Kurbsky said politely.

One of the soldiers brought more coffee. When he had moved back to the fire, Chavasse said, “One thing puzzles me. I thought things were strained between Moscow and Peking. How come the Chinese are letting you run loose in their most closely guarded province?”

“We have our differences from time to time. Nothing more than that.”

Chavasse shook his head. “Don’t kid yourself. You people like to make cracks about American political immaturity, but at least they had the good sense to realize before the rest of the world who the real enemy of peace was. China’s your problem as well as ours. Even Khrushchev’s got the brains to see that.”

“Politics and religion,” Kurbsky sighed, and shook his head. “Even friends quarrel about such matters. I think it is time we turned in.”

In spite of the quilted sleeping bag which Kurbsky gave him, Chavasse was cold. His head was splitting and he was again conscious of that slight feeling of nausea.

He looked out through the tent flap and concentrated on the flame of the spirit stove, trying to will himself to sleep. One soldier had wrapped himself in a sheepskin rug beside the stove and the other paced up and down on guard, his rubber boots drubbing over the frozen ground.

Chavasse thought about Kurbsky, remembering some of the things the Russian had said and the way laughter had glinted constantly in the grey eyes. A man hard to dislike. In other circumstances, they might even have been friends.

He dozed off and awakened again only an hour later, his teeth chattering and his face beaded with sweat. Kurbsky was kneeling beside him, a cup in one hand.

Chavasse tried to sit up and the Russian pushed him back. “There is nothing to worry about. You have a touch of the mountain sickness, that’s all. Swallow this pill. It will help.”

Chavasse took the pill with shaking fingers and washed it down with cold coffee from the cup which Kurbsky held to his lips.

He folded his arms inside the sleeping bag to keep them from shaking and managed a smile. “I feel as if I’ve got malaria.”

Kurbsky shook his head. “In the morning, you’ll feel much better.”

He went outside, leaving Chavasse staring up through the darkness and reflecting that you learned something new every day of your life. The last Russian with whom he’d had any direct physical contact had been an agent of SMERSH just before Khrushchev had disbanded that pleasant organization. It hardly seemed possible that he and Kurbsky had belonged to the same nation.

But there was no real answer – no answer at all – and he closed his eyes. Whatever was in the pill, it was certainly doing the trick. His headache was gone and a delicious warmth was seeping slowly throughout his entire body. He pulled the hood of the sleeping bag around his head and, almost immediately, drifted into sleep.