Tsen complied, hate and fear in his eyes, and Chavasse tied his wrists together behind his back with the strap and pushed him down in a chair.

He went and stood over Hoffner and Katya. The old man had his black medical bag on the floor and was gently swabbing blood away from her face.

“How bad is it?” Chavasse asked.

“She’s a lucky girl,” Hoffner told him. “The bullet has simply grazed her. She’ll be unconscious for some time and when she wakes up, she’ll be suffering from shock and possibly confusion.”

“Can she travel? That’s the important thing.”

Hoffner shrugged and started to unroll a bandage. “She’ll have to – we can’t leave her here after this.”

Chavasse laid the machine pistol on the floor beside him. “I’ll get the necessary clothing and so on from the bedrooms. I’ll leave you the gun in case our friend tries to give you any trouble.”

When he returned five minutes later with several sheepskin coats and quilted jackets in his arms, Hoffner had just finished bandaging Katya’s head and was in the act of giving her an injection.

He closed his bag quickly and stood up. “Well, she’s as ready as she’ll ever be.”

Chavasse lifted her gently from the ground and Hoffner slipped her arms into the sleeves of a quilted jacket and then a heavy sheepskin coat, pulling the hood up around her head.

Chavasse carried her out to the jeep while Hoffner got himself ready. It was still raining outside, and a cold wind was blowing. Chavasse made Katya as comfortable as he could on the rear bench seat and then hurried back inside.

Hoffner stood in the centre of the room dressed in a long sheepskin coat and fur cap with earflaps, the machine pistol in his right hand looking somehow incongruous and out of place.

There was a slight frown on his face, but it suddenly cleared and he crossed to his desk, opened one of its cupboards and took out a worn leather briefcase. “I mustn’t forget this, of all things.”

“The papers?” The old man nodded and Chavasse asked, “Anything else?”

Hoffner looked around the room and sighed. “So very many years.” He shook his head sadly. “I think I’d like to leave everything exactly as it is. I’ve never believed in the erection of sentimental monuments, and I’m too old to start now.” He picked up his medical bag.

Tsen still sat huddled in his seat, and he glared at them malevolently. “You’ll never get away with this.”

“Oh, but we will,” Chavasse said, pulling him to his feet, “because you’re going to sit beside me as we go right through the gates.”

Tsen suddenly looked as if he were going to be sick, but Chavasse remembered Joro and there was no pity in his heart. He sent Tsen staggering out into the hall with a powerful shove and followed.

When they reached the jeep Hoffner got into the rear seat beside Katya and Chavasse took the wheel, Tsen sitting beside him.

The streets were completely deserted as they rolled through the town. As they approached the gate, Chavasse brought the automatic out of his pocket and held it in his lap.

“Remember to say the right things,” he said warningly.

There was no sentry box and the soldier who stood under the lantern by the closed gates looked the picture of misery as the rain beat down on him.

Chavasse slowed and the soldier moved forward, burp gun shining in the headlights. Tsen leaned out and cried, “Get the gates open, you dolt, I’m in a hurry.”

The man’s jaw dropped in dismay and he turned at once and lifted the great swing bar which secured the gates. He pulled them back quickly and stood to one side.

Chavasse kept his head down as they went by, the peak of the military cap shading his face. He turned once to look back and saw the gates beginning to close and then he moved into top gear and drove forward into the night.

Dogs barked as they passed through the camp of the herdsmen and then they were climbing up out of the valley, leaving Changu in the darkness below.

About twenty minutes later, Chavasse braked to a halt and turned to Tsen. “Get out.”

“But my wrists,” Tsen pleaded. “How can I walk all the way back?”

“I said get out!” Chavasse told him coldly.

As Tsen scrambled to the ground and started back along the track, Chavasse got out and went after him.

“Captain Tsen!” he called. “I was forgetting something. A debt I owe you, for myself and a lot of other people.”

As Tsen turned warily, Chavasse pulled the automatic from his pocket and shot him twice through the head at close quarters.

For a moment he stood over the body, then he returned to the jeep and, disregarding Hoffner’s shocked face, drove away into the night.

In the grey of the early dawn, the walls of Yalung Gompa were a vivid splash of orange against the storm-filled skies. Chavasse frowned in puzzlement. There was something different about the place, something not quite right. As they drove down into the valley, he realized what it was: There was no encampment under the walls.

The whole place had a strange, neglected air about it. It was as if they were approaching some ancient ruined city, empty and forlorn. He drove slowly through the great open gates into the courtyard and braked to a halt at once.

A line of saffron-clad monks sprawled against the far wall, some with fingers digging into the dirt, others with knees drawn up to their bellies as if they had died hard.

“Oh, my God,” said Hoffner, and there was horror in his voice.

“This gives you a mild idea of how the Chinese are trying to run this country,” Chavasse told him. “You stay here. I’m going to have a look round.”

Earlier, in a compartment in the dashboard, he had discovered an excellent military map of the area, two stick grenades and a canvas belt of.45 ammunition, obviously intended for the machine gun which was usually mounted in the rear. He quickly reloaded the machine pistol, put a handful of rounds in his pocket and crossed the courtyard to the main door.

It was cold and dark inside and he moved along a stone-flagged passage cautiously. From somewhere near at hand he could hear a low, monotonous voice raised in prayer, and he ducked through a small door and found himself in the central temple.

Candles burned beneath a great golden Buddha and a monk knelt there in prayer. He got to his feet and turned and Chavasse looked down into the familiar parchment face of the abbot, the old man whom he had found sitting beside his bed when he had awakened from his deep sleep after Kurbsky’s death a thousand years ago.

“I am happy to see you,” the abbot said calmly.

“And I you. What happened here?”

“The Chinese have decreed that all monasteries must close. We knew our turn would come sooner or later. They came yesterday. A strong force of cavalry.”

“But what about Joro’s men?” Chavasse demanded. “Couldn’t they help you?”

The old man shook his head. “They left two weeks ago to join forces with a stronger group in the south.”

His wise eyes stared up at Chavasse and he placed a hand on his shoulder. “But you, my son. You are a changed man. You have passed through the furnace.”

“Joro is dead,” Chavasse said.

The abbot nodded. “The time comes for all men. There is no escape. Can I do anything to help you?”

Chavasse shook his head. “Not now. I’m trying to cross the border into Kashmir with two friends. I’d been hoping Joro’s men would help.”

“A family passed through here two days ago,” the abbot said. “Kazakhs from Sinkiang. A chieftain, his wife and two children. They also were hoping to cross into Kashmir. They had horses with them, which slowed them down. Perhaps you will catch up.”

Chavasse nodded. “I’ll have to go now.” He hesitated. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

The abbot smiled tranquilly and shook his head. “Nothing, my son.”