The border post was quite simple. A large stone hut, no barbed wire, no defence system. Half a dozen Indian soldiers stood outside wearing white winter combat uniforms, the hoods pulled up over their turbans. There was a jeep painted in white camouflage, and the young man leaning against it smoking a cigarette came forward and looked up at Chavasse.

“Mr. Chavasse? I am Lieutenant Piroo. We heard over the radio from Tibetan freedom fighters that you were coming.” He smiled. “I’m surprised that there are any left, if the reports we get of Chinese reaction are true.”

Chavasse heaved himself out of the saddle and a soldier led the pony away. “Oh, they’re true all right. They’re killing people by the thousands, wiping out whole villages.” Piroo gave him a cigarette and lit it for him and Chavasse continued. “No, I’m afraid this time they intend to wipe out Tibetan resistance once and for all.”

“Which is why the Dalai Lama has fled?”

“Yes, he hopes to continue the struggle from India. Do you think Prime Minister Nehru will accept him?”

“Oh, yes, that has been made quite clear. But come, Mr. Chavasse, my boss is waiting to see you at Gela. That’s about ten miles from here.” He smiled. “And only sixteen thousand feet.”

Chavasse got into the jeep and Piroo slipped behind the wheel. “And who might your boss be?”

“Colonel Ram Singh. Very correct and old school. Even went to Sandhurst.” Piroo, in spite of the jeep sliding from side to side on the rough track, found another cigarette and lit it one-handed. “I thought the CIA were to do great things? Help the rebels and so on?”

“They dropped in a certain amount of arms,” Chavasse told him. “Mostly British, because they didn’t want the Chinese to make an American connection. Other than that, they haven’t done much.”