Chapter 1
"Don't be late this evening darling! you know we have to go to the theater."
His wife Penelope called out to him from the bedroom as he finished his breakfast and took one last critical look at his immaculate three piece suit, gleaming patent leather shoes, smart briefcase and neatly furled umbrella; preparatory to leaving for office. This last item was not merely a fashionable appendage to his sartorial elegance, it was a positive necessity, because Christopher Pelham- Jenkins, Assistant Under Secretary in the Foreign Office, preferred to walk to his work from his tiny flat in St. James' Park- the only private residence still surviving there apart from the Libyan People's Bureau- and the weather, as always, was uncertain this time of the year. It was a cold December morning. A mist had come up from the river, not the old London smog made up to dirt, soot, and grime suspended in smoke, this was a real English mist, a damp, dewy sort of exhalation that brushed a moist hand over the granite and sandstone facades of old Whitehall buildings, kept the grass green, and left tiny droplets clinging to wrought iron banisters, railings, lamp posts and the occasional flowers that still bloomed in isolated window boxes. There was no knowing when the mist might turn into a drizzle and when it did, an umbrella came in rather handy.
Christopher Pelham- Jenkins walked to his office with a springy stride. He walked across the Pall Mall, then down Marlborough Road and the Mall, and finally through the Horse Guards Parade before turning into the Foreign Office. He was looking forward to meeting a rather unusual visitor this morning. The meeting had been arranged at the instance of the Foreign Secretary himself, no less. He had unexpectedly been summoned to the sanctum the previous evening, when he was preparing to leave for home. It was not often that he was called for a one-to-one meeting with the Foreign Secretary. Usually the Permanent Under Secretary, the chief mandarin of the diplomatic service took care to be present when these confabulations took place. Christo pher was somewhat surprised therefore, when he was told by Bobby Ponsonby, the Foreign Secretary's Chief of Staff and Man Friday, that the FS was alone and was waiting to see him. He entered the Foreign Secretary's chamber with the usual mixture of deference and awe, he could never forget, that it was in this room overlooking the Cenotaph, that so many of Britain's greatest had sat and worked.
"Come in Christopher ! come in! said the Foreign Secretary in his deep bass voice. He sat, not behind the imposing rosewood desk where he worked, but on a sofa that was placed in one corner of the vast room where he usually conducted visiting foreign dignitaries. The Foreign Secretary was an impressive man. He was tall and stout and had a mane of silvery white hair and a thick moustache that added to the leonine appearance. He spoke with a clipped accent that he made no attempt to disguise, his speech and manner were in fact that of an old fashioned aristocrat, which is what he was.
"Ah Christopher ! What has been happening in your neck of the woods?" said the great man, his bushy brows arching up in mock surprise over the old fashioned pince-nez that he wore.
"Everything in order sir. The Indians are flexing their muscles more often than they were want to, but this given their size and recently acquired nuclear capability, is not really surprising. Nothing really worth mentioning on the whole."
Christopher Pelham Jenkins was in charge of the South Asia desk in the Foreign Office. Officially this meant India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka and Bangladesh. He had served as a Counsellor in the High Commission in Delhi and been the second-in-command to the High Commissioner in Sri Lanka. He could speak Hindi, and Sinhalese with passable fluency and knew a bit of Bangla as well as some Urdu. He was a little vain about his linguistic accomplishment and his knowledge of the area in his charge. But he surmised that he had not been called for a routine briefing. Something was up and it was better to hold his horses and let the Foreign Secretary come to it in his own way.
"How much do you know about Tiber, Christopher?" asked the Foreign Secretary.
The question took Christopher by surprise. Tibet was not his beat, it was under the China division and it was an old Foreign office maxim that you did not poach on another man's territory. "Tibet, not very much, I am afraid."
"Oh! I know its not your turf. But for some reason I do not want to bring the China Division into this matter. Not yet. They have all become Sinophiles. Tell me, what did you read at Oxford."
"Modern History sir, got away with a good second too,"
"Does Modern History include British Indian History?"
"I suppose so," said Christopher a little doubtfully.
"Good," said the Foreign Secretary. "Cigar?"
No thanks, don't smoke. Gave it up. years ago."
The Foreign Secretary took out a cut glass decanter from a cabinet that was built into the wall. "Claret? Or have you given up that too?"
"Thank you sir ! I should like some." He couldn't tell the old boy that he was a health freak, went for a jog in the park every evening after coming home and did not drink anything except beer and ale. The old man would have labelled him a social liability and therefore unsuitable for any posting in the Foreign Office.
The Foreign Secretary smoked his cigar and sipped his claret in silence. He seemed to be lost in some reverie from which he roused himself presently. "Do you know Christopher, I have been to Tibet, one of the last Europeans to do so, before the Chinese overran the country in 51? It was just after the war. I was a Major in the Grenadiers, waiting to come home and resign my commission to take up politics. But before I left India to take up the ancestral calling, I had a great desire to see Tibet for myself. I have always been fascinated with places that are off the beaten track, that are forbidden to ordinary visitors, and Tibet, though so close to India was practically uncharted territory. It might have been Antarctica for all we knew about it. The government of Tibet, was a medieval institution. It was run by Lamas and they were terribly secretive and paranoid about all foreigners. The only foreign government which had some influence with them was the Government of India. The Chinese, who are now the masters of Tibet had no influence then. They were regarded with hostility and suspicion and were practically kept out of the country. Well I knew a few people in the Government of India and was able to get a visa to visit the country."
At this juncture. Bobby Ponsonby popped in. "There is a cabinet tonight minister," he said rather severely.
"I know Bobby, that's why I am fortifying myself, as you can see. What’s on the agenda?"
"The new bill on Local Authority Finance, among other things."
"Damn! that could take all night. Tell Tom to bring the car around at nine. I should be through by then," said the Foreign Secretary. After a pause he resumed his story." We were stationed in Calcutta then and I decided to follow the nearest route to Tibet. This went up to Sikkim via the Teesta valley, passing the charming town of Gangtok on the way and then through the Nathu La pass into Tibet. The country on the Indian side was rugged and beautiful. The Teesta Valley was a delightful place where you made the transition from a hot-house tropical luxuriance to alpine vegetation within the space of a few miles. The snowy citadel of Kanjenjunga towered over the whole scene like a presiding deity. But nothing had prepared me for what lay on the other side. As soon as we crossed the pass of Nathu La, we entered a bleak plateau, dotted with small peaks that rose like icebergs becalmed on a tranquil ocean. This plateau was a place of stark beauty. It changed colour with the passage of the sun, sometimes being almost a brick red in colour, at other times almost purple or indigo. The wind blew furiously at all times and when the night came on the sky was full of large, bright stars. Oh it was wonderful and beautiful. I went up to Lhasa via Shigatse and then turned westwards towards the Kailash Mansarovar region. Do you anything about this region, by the way?"
"Mr Kailash is thought to be the centre of the universe by the Hindus as well as the Buddhists and the lake is considered sacred by both. Both Hindu and Buddhist pilgrims make circuit of the holy mountain as a ritual."
"Excellent, you also know in that case that the lake is one of the deepest in central Asia and has peculiar property in the sense that its centre is considered to be higher than it margins. Don't ask me why all the water doesn't simply flow out, I don't know. However to cut a long story short, I lost my way while returning from the Mansarovar region. We were in the neighbourhood of Mount Everest on the famous. Tingri Plain and I wanted to see for myself the route that Mallory and Irvine had followed in their doomed expedition in 1929. A blizzard caught us as we were wandering in the region. It was the Lamas who saved my life and I spent the next few weeks recovering in a monastery. The monastery of Rongbuck. That was the place. The lamas set me back on my feet, guided me on my way and enabled me to return to India. I won't bore you with the details my boy, but I just want you to know my old connection with Tibet."
"It was the Abbot of the lamasery, Kalu Rinpoche, who nursed me personally. I remember him as a man of about middle age, with charming manners and a great presence. He radiated a kind of benign power that immediately calmed you down. I could not help being impressed in spite of myself. The title Rinpoche, incidentally is given only to the incarnate lamas. As a parting gift he gave me this," the Foreign Secretary, pointed to a small engraved prayer wheel fashioned out of solid silver that he kept on his desk and that had always intrigued Christopher, "one of my most treasured possessions."
"Imagine my surprise, my boy, when who should call on me yesterday but the same Rinpoche, looking not a day older than he used to forty years ago. With him was Sonam Namgyal, who represents the Dalai Lama in the UK. What he had to tell me was simply amazing." The Foreign Secretary shook his head in amazement.
Christopher wondered what this amazing piece of information could be. What could an old Lama have to say to the Foreign Secretary of Her Majesty's Government that could cause him such obvious surprise.
"I know what you are wondering about. Could the old boy really know anything of value that our spies and diplomats did not know. After all the MI6 has a fairly extensive operation in China. So has the CIA. Not to mention the KGB. What could an old Lama know that has eluded the spy networks of the major powers of the world. Well! I won't go into the details. I have no doubts about the authenticity of the Rinpoche's information. But then, you see, I am inclined to be partial. I want an independent witness to make an assessment about the Lama's information. That is where you come in. I have asked the Lama to see you tomorrow. Give him a hearing. Question the Rinpoche in detail. If at the end of the day, you are as convinced about the truth of the information, as I am, we will have to act. The consequences as I have already said, could be mind boggling. Really mind boggling."
The Foreign Secretary continued to shake his head in disbelief. He was still staring out of the window and muttering to himself when Christopher took his leave of the great man and bent his steps homewards.
