Chavasse sighed. “Well, I was begging for action,” he said, “and now I’ve got it, though how the hell I’m supposed to pull it off, I don’t know.”

“I’ve already given that quite some thought.” The Chief pushed the chessboard out of the way and unfolded a large map.

“Now this is the area involved – Kashmir and western Tibet. Changu is about a hundred and fifty miles from the border. You’ll notice that some fifty miles into Tibet, there’s a village called Rudok. In his despatch the other day, Ferguson had already informed me that, according to the young Tibetan nobleman who brought out the letter, the Chinese have little control of the area. He says the monastery outside Rudok is quite a centre of resistance. If we could get you there, you’d at least have a base. Of course, from then on, you’d have to play it by ear.”

“Two obvious points,” Chavasse said. “How do I get in and how do I get the locals to accept me if I do?”

“That’s all arranged,” the Chief said. “Since yesterday evening when Professor Craig first came to me to point out that there was more in the letter than met the eye, I’ve used the special line to speak to Ferguson in Srinagar no fewer than four times. He’s arranged for this young Tibetan to go in with you.”

“And what about transportation?”

“We’ll fly you in.”

Chavasse frowned. “Are you sure it’s possible from Kashmir? The Ladakh range is a hell of a height.”

“Ferguson’s dug up a bush pilot named Jan Kerensky. He’s a Pole – flew for the R.A.F. during the war. He’s doing government work in the area, aerial reconnaissance and so forth. Apparently, there’s an old R.A.F. emergency airstrip outside Leh which he sometimes uses. That’s only eighty or ninety miles from the Tibetan border. We’ve offered him five thousand to fly you in and land you at this monastery near Rudok and another five to pick you up again exactly one week later.”

“Does he think he can do it?”

The Chief nodded. “He says it’s possible, no more than that. You’re obviously going to need a hell of a lot of luck.”

“You can say that again,” Chavasse told him. “When do I go?”

“There’s a Vulcan bomber leaving R.A.F. Edgeworth at nine for Singapore. It’ll drop you off at Aden. You can fly on to Kashmir from there.”

The Chief got to his feet and said briskly, “I don’t think there’s anything more we can do here, Professor. I’ll take you home. You look as if you could do with some sleep.”

As Craig started to get up, Chavasse said quickly, “Just a moment, Professor, if you don’t mind.” Craig sat down again and Chavasse went on, “There’s always the question of how I’m to identify myself to Doctor Hoffner. I’ve got to make him believe beyond a shadow of a doubt that I’m absolutely genuine. Can you suggest anything?”

Craig stared into space for a moment, a slight frown on his face, and then, quite suddenly, he smiled. “There is something in Karl Koffner’s past which only he and I know,” he said. “We were in love with the same girl. There was a certain May evening at his rooms in Cambridge when we decided to settle the matter once and for all. She was sitting in the garden and on the toss of a coin, Karl went out to her first. I’ll never forget the look on his face when he returned. Later, as I stood in the garden with her after she’d promised to become my wife, he sat in the darkness inside and played the Moonlight Sonata. He was a superb pianist.”

“Thank you, sir,” Chavasse said gently.

“A long, long time ago, young man, but he’ll remember every detail of that night. I know I do.” Craig stood up and held out his hand. “I can only wish you luck, Mr. Chavasse. I hope to see you again, very soon.”

As Craig picked up his coat, the Chief turned to Chavasse briskly and smiled. “Well, Paul, it’s going to be a tough one, but just remember how important this is to all of us. Jean’s going to stay and cook you a meal and so on. She’ll drive you to Edgeworth and see you off. Sorry I can’t come myself, but I’ve an important conference at the Foreign Office at nine-thirty.”

“That’s all right, sir,” Chavasse said.

The Chief ushered Craig to the door, opened it and turned. He seemed to be about to say something else and then thought better of it and closed the door gently behind him.

Chavasse stood in the middle of the room for a long moment after they had gone, and then he lit a cigarette and went back into the kitchen.

Jean Frazer was making a bacon and egg fry.

She turned and wrinkled her nose. “Better have a shower. You look awful.”

“So would you if you’d been handed a job like this,” he said. “What’s happened to the coffee, anyway?”

“I didn’t want to disturb you.” She hesitated and came towards him, smoothing her palms nervously along her thighs. “It’s not so good, is it, Paul?”

“It shines,” he said. “Putting it mildly.” He grinned crookedly. “Sometimes I wonder why I ever got mixed up in this crazy business.”

Suddenly, she seemed close to tears. He bent down quickly and kissed her on the mouth. “Give me ten minutes to shower and change and I’ll have breakfast with you. Afterwards, you can drive me to my doom.”

She turned away quickly and he went back into the living room and started to take off his tie. He opened the window and stood there for a moment, breathing in the raw freshness of the rain, and suddenly he felt exhilarated – tremendously exhilarated. It was the first time in two months that he had felt really alive. When he went into the bathroom, he was whistling.

When Chavasse crossed the tarmac at Srinagar airport the following morning, Ferguson was waiting by the gate, a tall, greying man in his middle forties who looked cool and immaculate in a white linen suit.

He grinned and shook hands. “It’s been a long time, Paul. How are you?”

Chavasse was tired and his suit looked as if it had been slept in, but he managed a smile. “Bloody awful. I caught my flight out of Aden on time, but we ran into an electric storm and I missed my connection in Delhi. Had to hang around for hours waiting for a plane out.”

“What you need is a shower and a stiff drink,” Ferguson told him. “Any luggage?”

“I’m travelling light this trip.” Chavasse held up his canvas grip. “I’m relying on you to supply me with the sort of outfit I’m going to need.”

“I’ve already got it in hand,” Ferguson said. “Let’s get out of here. My car’s parked just outside.”

As they drove into Srinagar, Chavasse lit a cigarette and looked out the window at the great white peaks of the mountains, outlined like a jagged frieze against the vivid blue sky. “So this is the Vale of Kashmir?”

“Disappointed?” said Ferguson.

“On the contrary,” Chavasse told him. “None of the books I’ve read do it justice. How long have you been here?”

“About eighteen months.” Ferguson grinned. “Oh, I know I’ve been put out to pasture, but I’m not complaining. I’m strictly a deskman from now on.”

“How’s the leg these days?”

Ferguson shrugged. “Could be worse. Sometimes I imagine it’s still there, but they say that kind of hallucination can last for years.”

They slowed down as the car nosed its way carefully through the narrow streets of a bazaar, and Chavasse looked out into the milling crowd and thought about Ferguson. A good, efficient agent, one of the best the Bureau had until someone had tossed that grenade through his bedroom window one dark night in Algiers. It was the sort of thing that could have happened to anybody. No matter how good you were, or how careful, sooner or later your number came out of the box.

He pushed the thought away and lit another cigarette. “This flier you’ve dug up – Kerensky? Is he reliable?”

“One of the best pilots I’ve ever come across,” Ferguson said. “Squadron leader in the R.A.F. during the war, decorated by everybody in sight. He’s been out here for about five years.”