“But you have, Mr. Chavasse. British intelligence still functions, it would seem.”

“So they tell me.”

“I understand you were told by the Indian government not to cross the border, but went anyway?”

“That’s true.”

“And Major Hamid went with you?”

“Also true.”

Piroo shook his head. “Crazy Pathan. They’ll court-martial him for this.”

“No they won’t. He’s behind me right now with the Dalai Lama. I only came ahead to confirm their arrival time. Hamid will be an instant hero to every Indian on this continent.”

“Perhaps not, my friend.”

“And what do you mean by that?” Chavasse demanded.

“Oh, that’s for my boss to tell you.”

Chavasse sat there, frowning, and they came over a rise and saw a number of Nissen huts below beside an airstrip. The aircraft parked at one end had twin engines and was painted white.

“A Navajo,” Chavasse said. “What’s that doing here?”

“A quick link with the lowlands. Supplies, communications. The Airstair door means we can get stretchers in.”

“And why the white strip?”

“So that if I stray over the border it will make it more difficult for the Chinese to shoot me down.” Piroo smiled. “Oh, yes, Mr. Chavasse. I am the pilot. Indian air force, not army,” and he drove down the track.

It was warm in the Nissen hut as the four officers and Chavasse leaned over the map on the table. Colonel Ram Singh was small and fierce with a thin moustache, the medal ribbons on his shirt making a fine show.

“Not good, Mr. Chavasse, not good. I can tell you unofficially that Prime Minister Nehru and the Indian government are prepared to receive the Dalai Lama. Piroo here was to fly him out as soon as he arrived.”

“Which isn’t likely now, I’m afraid,” Piroo said. “I made an overflight – quite illegally, of course.” His finger touched the map. “Here is the Dalai Lama’s column. I’d estimate by now about fifteen miles to go.” He indicated again. “And here, twenty-five miles behind them, a Chinese column coming up fast – jeeps, not horses. Certain to catch them before the border.”