A sharp stab of pain cut into his face and he winced and reined in his mount. To his surprise he found that the horse was almost knee-deep in snow, and when he wrenched off his glove and touched his face he felt caked snow and ice on his cheeks and discovered that the flesh had split in several places.

He frowned and pulled on his gloves and then panic ran through him quickly because when he raised his eyes, he saw that he was alone and that darkness was falling.

He had paused beside a great black finger of rock standing on its own like some silent sentinel, and already the wind was whipping the snow into a frenzy, obscuring the tracks left by the others. As he urged his horse forward, they disappeared completely.

For what seemed like hours he rode blindly on, trusting to the instinct of the horse, and the wind spun around his head and sliced at his cheeks until his face was so numb, he could feel no more pain.

He raised his head as his horse came to a halt. Rearing out of the gloom, thrusting upwards into the falling snow was the black finger of rock he had passed at least an hour earlier. He had been travelling in a circle.

He lowered his head against a sudden blast of wind and when he looked down at the ground, he saw great slurred prints in the snow. He urged his weary mount forward so that he could follow them.

The wind was howling like a banshee and he was completely covered with frozen snow, but he kept his head bowed and his eyes on the ground and after a while he saw a fur glove.

The cold had chilled his brain and his mind worked at half its normal speed. He examined his hands. He was wearing gloves; therefore, to whom did this glove belong?

A little farther on, he came across a Chinese military fur cap. He dismounted and picked it up and stared at it uncomprehendingly, and then a figure emerged from the whirling darkness and staggered into him.

Chavasse dimly discerned a frozen white mask and when he looked down at the hand that rested on his shoulder, he saw that it was bare and frozen.

He raised his glove and wiped snow from the face before him and gazed into the vacant, expressionless eyes of Colonel Li. Chavasse stood there for a long moment looking at him and then he pulled off his glove and reached into the right-hand pocket of his sheepskin coat for the automatic he had taken from Captain Tsen.

He brought it out, his finger already tightening over the trigger, and held it against Li’s chest. Quite suddenly, he put it back in his pocket and pulled on his glove.

Why don’t I kill you, you bastard? Why don’t I kill you? There was no answer – nothing that would have made any sense – and he dragged Colonel Li unresistingly towards the horse and tried to lift him up into the saddle.

But it was no good. He didn’t have that kind of strength anymore. He leaned against the horse, one arm around his enemy’s shoulders, and there was a coldness on his face, a sense of limitless distance, and he felt his remaining strength ebbing.

But something white-hot still burned deep inside him, some essence of courage that refused to allow him to give in. He took a deep breath and made a final and supreme effort, which ended in Li hanging head-foremost across the horse. As Chavasse pulled himself up into the high wooden saddle and urged the beast forward, Osman Sherif came riding out of the storm to meet him.

The hut was low-roofed and built of great blocks of rough stone. Outside, the wind howled through the pass all the way from Mongolia, piling snow against the walls in great drifts.

It was more like a stable than anything else, with the horses occupying at least half of the available space, and Chavasse sat in a daze drinking hot tea from a bowl while steam rose from his sheepskin coat.

On the other side of the fire Katya, utterly exhausted, slept beside the two children, and their mother waited patiently for more water to boil in an iron pot.

In the corner farthest from the door, a small butter lamp flickered in a niche, and in its feeble light, Hoffner and Osman Sherif crouched over Colonel Li. He groaned several times and Hoffner spoke soothingly to him; once he reared up convulsively and the Kazakh had to force him down again.

After a while the old man got to his feet and returned to the fire, instructing Osman Sherif to cover the Chinese with a sheepskin.

“How is he?” Chavasse said.

Hoffner sighed. “I’ve had to amputate three fingers on his left hand. A drastic step, but better than gangrene. It’s a good thing Osman Sherif found you when he did.”

The wind roared through the great tunnel of the pass and Chavasse shuddered. “We wouldn’t have lasted long outside on a night like this. He’s quite a man. It took a lot of guts to come looking for me in that blizzard. I’d already circled back on my own tracks when I found Colonel Li.”

Hoffner filled his pipe slowly and frowned. “I used to think I understood him rather well, but now I’m not so sure. I wonder what drove him on to follow us on foot in such appalling weather.”

“God knows. The workings of the Communist mind are too complicated for my understanding.”

Osman Sherif squatted beside them and grinned as his wife handed him a bowl of tea. “You make things too complicated; that is the trouble with you Westerners. Out here, our values are more basic. The hunter never stops following his quarry until he has made the kill or is himself dead.”

Hoffner shook his head and said softly, “No, there’s more to it than that in this case. It needed something stronger to drive a man on in the state Colonel Li was in.”

“It’s perfectly simple,” Chavasse told him. “He was after the briefcase.”

“But how could he have been? Captain Tsen didn’t get a chance to report back to him.” Hoffner shook his head and said gently, “I think it was you he wanted, Paul.”

“He was after all of us,” Chavasse said. “That’s obvious.”

Hoffner shook his head again. “I meant something more than that, but it doesn’t matter now.” He leaned back, his head on his briefcase, and pulled a sheepskin coat over his body. “I think I’ll get a little sleep.”

Chavasse stretched out beside him and stared into the fire and tried to make some sense out of it all, but there was no answer. Or none that he could think of. After a while, he drifted into sleep.

He awakened and lay for several moments staring up at the low roof, trying to decide where he was. So many places, he thought. So very many places, and where am I now? As realization came, he tried to sit up.

His hands were swollen and chapped and his face hurt. He touched his cheeks and winced as his fingers probed great splits in the flesh.

Everyone seemed to be asleep and he leaned forward to stir the embers into life. As the flames leapt up he saw that Katya was crouching beside Colonel Li.

She looked pale and ill as she picked her way between the sleeping bodies and sat down beside him, holding her hands out to the blaze.

“How are you feeling?” she said.

“I’ll survive. How’s our friend?”

“I couldn’t sleep and heard him groaning. I thought I’d better take a look. What’s wrong with his hand?”

“Frostbite,” Chavasse said. “Doctor Hoffner had to amputate three fingers.”

Her breath hissed sharply between her teeth and he put an arm around her shoulders. “I know this has all seemed like some terrible nightmare, but it won’t last much longer. As soon as the weather clears, we can move across the border.”

For a little while there was silence and then she said, “Paul, why do you think he continued to follow us alone and on foot in such awful weather?”

“Whatever it was, it must have been eating him up inside,” Chavasse said. “Hoffner thinks it was me he was really after, not the rest of you.”