The Dalai Lama beckoned the young lieutenant, and said to him, “Enough for the moment. I think I’ll have a turn in the garden. I could do with some fresh air.” He smiled at Chavasse and Hamid. “I’ll see you again in a little while, gentlemen.”

Escorted by the lieutenant, he made his way through the crowd, nodding and smiling to people as he passed, then went out through one of the French windows. The lieutenant returned.

“He seems tired. I’ll just go and tell them at the door to warn new guests that he’s not available for presentation.”

He walked away and Hamid said, “When do you return to London?”

Chavasse lit a cigarette. “Not sure. I’m waiting for orders from my boss.”

“Ah, the Chief, the famous Sir Ian Moncrieff.”

“You’re not supposed to know that,” Chavasse said.

“No, you’re certainly not,” a familiar voice said.

Chavasse swung round in astonishment and found Moncrieff standing there. He wore a crumpled sand-coloured linen suit and a Guards tie, and his grey hair was swept back.

“Where on earth did you spring from?” Chavasse demanded.

“The flight from London that got in two hours ago. Magnificent job, Paul. Thought I’d join in the festivities.” He turned to the Pathan. “You’ll be Hamid?”

They shook hands. “A pleasure, Sir Ian.”

Moncrieff took a glass from the tray of a passing waiter and Chavasse said, “Well, they’re all here, as you can see.”

Moncrieff drank some of the wine. “Including the opposition.”

“What do you mean?” Hamid asked.

“Our Chinese friend over there.” Moncrieff indicated Chung, who was working his way through the crowd towards the French windows.

“Chinese Nationalist from Formosa,” Chavasse said. “Runs a clinic for the poor downtown.”

“Well, if that’s what Indian intelligence believe they’re singularly ill-informed. I saw his picture in a file at the Chinese Section of SIS in London only last month. He’s a Communist agent. Where’s the Dalai Lama, by the way?”