Its from Chavasse.
So he got through?
Unfortunately theres a Chinese column very close to us on the other side of the Cholo Gorge. It would seem Chavasse has dropped in by parachute in an effort to blow the bridge. I must go to his aid.
I understand, the Dalai Lama said.
Good. Ill take two of the escorts with me. The rest of you must press on with all possible speed.
He rode across to one of the carts and picked up a Bren gun and two magazines, which he stuffed into his saddlebag, then he gave a quick order to two of the Tibetans and galloped away. A few moments later, leading a spare horse, they went after him.
Chavasse hit the ground heavily perhaps a hundred yards from the bridge. He lay there for a moment, winded, then stood up and struggled out of his parachute harness. There was still no sign of the Chinese and he unslung the Sten gun and ran along the uneven track between outcrops of rock.
It was stupid, of course, such exertion of that altitude, and by the time he reached the bridge he was gasping for air, his breath like white smoke. He started across and it swayed gently. He got to the centre, took off the haversack and selected a block of plastique, inserted a five-minute timer, lay down and reached over the edge and wedged the explosive into a space between the ends of two struts. He activated the timer and stood up, and at that moment a Chinese jeep appeared on top of the rise on the other side.
Its machine gun opened up at once. Chavasse ran, the Sten gun in one hand, the haversack in the other. He reached the end of the bridge, ducked behind one of the supporting posts, found another block of plastique, inserted a yellow two-minute fuse and activated it.
The jeep kept firing, bullets clipping wood from the post. He laid the plastique block down and returned fire with his Sten, and a lucky shot knocked one soldier out. The jeep, halfway across the bridge, paused, with another just behind it, and on the ridge above the rest of the column arrived.
Just stay there, Chavasse prayed, and tossed the block of plastique out onto the bridge.
To his horror, it actually bounced over the edge, where it exploded in space. Firing relentlessly, the jeep started forward, followed by the other, and the column moved down on the other side.
Chavasse ran up amongst the rocks, head down, glancing back to see the two jeeps reach firm ground. At that moment and just as the convoy started across, there was a huge explosion. The centre of the bridge twisted up into the air, lengths of timber flying everywhere. The two lead jeeps in the convoy on the other side went with it.
As the reverberations died away there were cries of rage from the Chinese in the two jeeps that had got across, three soldiers in one and four in the other. They fired their light machine guns into the rocks below the escarpment and Chavasse cowered down and opened his haversack. There was one block of plastique left. He inserted the remaining two-minute pencil and started to count, the Sten gun ready in his other hand.
He fired it in short sharp bursts with his left hand, still counting, and the soldiers raked the rocks with machine-gun fire so fierce that he had to keep his head down and hurl the block of plastique blindly. This time his luck was good, for it landed in the jeep containing four soldiers and exploded a second later, with devastating effect.
He glanced over a rock and saw only carnage. The four soldiers had been killed outright and the other jeep tilted on one side, its three occupants having been thrown from it. As Chavasse watched, they got to their feet, coughing in the acrid smoke, and picked up their weapons. He stood and opened fire with the Sten, three bullets kicking up dirt beside them. Then the magazine simply emptied itself. He threw it down, turned and ran for his life as the three Chinese cried out and came after him.
Bullets ploughed into the ground beside him, kicking up snow as he struggled up the slope, and then a cheerful voice cried, Lie down, Paul, for Gods sake.
Hamid appeared on the ridge above, holding the Bren light machine gun in both hands. He swept it from side to side, cutting down the three Chinese in a second. As the echoes died away, he looked at the ruins of the bridge.
Now thats what I call close.
You could say that. Chavasse scrambled up the slope and saw the two Tibetans below holding Hamids horse and the spare. How thoughtful youve brought one for me. Prime Minister Nehru and the Indian government are prepared to receive the Dalai Lama. The Indian air force plane that just dropped me in will be waiting on the airstrip at Gela. Well all be in Delhi before you know it.
Excellent, Hamid said. So can we kindly get the hell out of here?
The British embassy in Delhi was ablaze with light, crystal chandeliers glittering, the fans in the ceiling stirring the warm air, the French windows open to the gardens.
The ballroom was packed with people, anyone who counted in Delhi, the great and the good, not only the British ambassador, but Prime Minister Nehru, all there to honour the Dalai Lama, who sat in a chair by the main entrance, greeting the well-wishers who passed him in line.
The ballroom was packed with people, anyone who counted in Delhi, the great and the good, not only the British ambassador, but Prime Minister Nehru, all there to honour the Dalai Lama, who sat in a chair by the main entrance, greeting the well-wishers who passed him in line.
Chavasse, in a white linen suit, black shirt and pale lemon tie, stood watching. Hamid was at his side, resplendent in turban and khaki uniform, his medal ribbons, particularly the Military Cross from the British, making a brave show.
Look at them, Chavasse said. All they want to do is to be able to boast that they shook his hand. Theyd ask for his autograph if they dared.
The way of the world, Paul, the Pathan told him.
There was a Chinese in the line, a small man with horn-rimmed glasses, an eager smile on his face. Chavasse stiffened.
Whos that?
The young lieutenant behind them said, His name is Chung. Hes a doctor. Runs a clinic for the poor. Hes Chinese Nationalist from Formosa. Came here six months ago.
Dr. Chung took the Dalai Lamas hand. Chung Formosa, Holiness, they heard him say. Such an honour.
The Dalai Lama murmured a response, and Chung moved away and took a glass from a tray held by one of the many turbanned waiters.
The Dalai Lama beckoned the young lieutenant, and said to him, Enough for the moment. I think Ill have a turn in the garden. I could do with some fresh air. He smiled at Chavasse and Hamid. Ill 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. Ill just go and tell them at the door to warn new guests that hes not available for presentation.
He walked away and Hamid said, When do you return to London?
Chavasse lit a cigarette. Not sure. Im waiting for orders from my boss.
Ah, the Chief, the famous Sir Ian Moncrieff.
Youre not supposed to know that, Chavasse said.
No, youre 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 Id join in the festivities. He turned to the Pathan. Youll be Hamid?
They shook hands. A pleasure, Sir Ian.
Moncrieff took a glass from the tray of a passing waiter and Chavasse said, Well, theyre 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 thats what Indian intelligence believe theyre singularly ill-informed. I saw his picture in a file at the Chinese Section of SIS in London only last month. Hes a Communist agent. Wheres the Dalai Lama, by the way?
In the garden, Hamid told him.
At that moment Chung went out through one of the open French windows. Come on, Chavasse said to Hamid, and pushed his way quickly through the crowd. The garden was very beautiful flowers everywhere, the scent of magnolias heavy on the night air, palm trees swaying in a light breeze. The spray from a large fountain in the centre of the garden lifted into the night and the Dalai Lama followed a path towards it, alone with his thoughts. He paused as Dr. Chung stepped from the bushes.
Holiness, forgive me, but your time has come.
He held an automatic pistol in one hand, a silencer on the end. The Dalai Lama took it in and smiled serenely.
I forgive you, my son. Death comes to all men.
Hamid, running fast, Chavasse at his back, was on Chung in an instant, one arm around his neck, a hand reaching for the right wrist, depressing the weapon towards the ground. It fired once, a dull thud, and Chung, struggling desperately, managed to turn. For a moment they were breast to breast, the tall Pathan and the small Chinese. After another dull thud, Chung went rigid and slumped to the ground. For a moment he lay there kicking, then he went very still.
Chavasse went down on one knee and examined him as Moncrieff arrived on the run. Chavasse stood up, the gun in his hand.
Is he dead? the Dalai Lama asked.
Yes, Chavasse told him.
May his soul be at peace.
Id suggest you come with me, sir, Moncrieff said. The fewer people who know about this the better. In fact it never happened, did it, Major?
Ill handle it, sir, Hamid said. Utmost discretion. Ill get the head of security.
Moncrieff took the Dalai Lama away. Hamid said, Pity the poor sod decided to shoot himself here, and well never know why, will we? As good a story as any. You stay here, Paul. Youll make a fine witness, and so will I. He shook his head. Peking has a long arm.
The Pathan hurried away and Chavasse lit a cigarette and went and sat on a bench by the fountain and waited.