Jack Higgins - Chavasse 02 Read Online Free PDF Page A

boast that they shook his hand. They’d ask for his autograph if they dared.”
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œWho’s that?”
    The young lieutenant behind them said, “His name is Chung. He’s a doctor. Runs a clinic for the poor. He’s Chinese Nationalist from Formosa. Came here six months ago.”
    Dr. Chung took the Dalai Lama’s 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 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.
    â€œHe seems tired. I’ll just go and tell them atthe 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.”
    â€œAh, the Chief, the famous Sir Ian Moncrieff.”
    â€œYou’re not supposed to know that,” Chavasse said.
    â€œNo, 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.
    â€œWhere on earth did you spring from?” Chavasse demanded.
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Hamid asked.
    â€œOur Chinese friend over there.” Moncrieff indicated Chung, who was working his way through the crowd towards the French windows.
    â€œChinese Nationalist from Formosa,” Chavasse said. “Runs a clinic for the poor downtown.”
    â€œWell, 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?”
    â€œIn 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.
    â€œHoliness, 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.
    â€œI 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