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Lhasa would be like under Tibetan rule, thank heavens the Chinese have it, thought Tashi.
    It was just after 0915. Question Time in the Parliament-in-exile started at 0930. They called it Question Time to satisfy the Western democracies, but it was nothing more than a recitation about
waging war against China. Tashi would wait five minutes and then go in. Sattar manoeuvred through the squalid little town and headed down Nawrojee Road towards Lower Dharamsala.
    He stopped just outside the compound which housed the small Parliament building. Tashi got out of the car. The pockets held the weight of the grenades well and he felt for the pistol with his
right hand. He pulled the robe around him against the morning mountain wind, waiting while Sattar turned the car, then he walked briskly, his head lowered to avoid eye contact with other monks.
    He walked under the arch of the compound, looking right towards the offices of the Tibetan security, which he didn’t consider a threat – the .38 would see them off if they suspected
him. He kept his pace as he took the two steps leading to the Parliament building, ignoring the office marked Dept of Religious Affairs on the right. Directly in front of him were wooden
pigeonholes, each stuffed full of memos and newsletters.
    He went to the left, taking his bearings from the faded sepia pictures of Mahatma Gandhi and the Dalai Lama.
    His left hand moved to a grenade and his right opened the double doors inwards. A wooden screen blocked his view and he stopped. There were no voices behind him. No one chasing or suspecting
him. There was no hurry. Hardly a face turned to look at him. A naked light bulb hung from the ceiling over a centre desk where clerks took notes. The room couldn’t have been more than 550
square metres, and there were two rows of seats on each side, each with shared microphones which could deflect the grenade throw. A deputy on the right was speaking, leaning across the microphone,
and the room was a mixture of saffron robes, business suits and women in striped Tibetan aprons. The red light of a cheap Panasonic camera showed that it was recording the proceedings.
    Tashi moved to the left, so that he had a clear line to the Speaker. He drew the pistol, taking the safety catch off and used his left hand to clear the robe. He fired at the Speaker’s
head, hitting him twice, and as the first scream of panic reverberated around the chamber he threw a grenade towards the last bench by the window. A second grenade he rolled on the floor straight
down to the Speaker’s chair and the third he tossed to his right, the pins coming out smoothly just like they had when he practised, and he kept the fourth as he backed out of the door.
    The grenade in one hand, the pistol in the other, he ran until he was out of the building, then slowed to a fast walk. Three explosions tore through the small room, and Tashi turned, like an
onlooker, watching as the victims stumbled out.
    Sattar was waiting, the car door open, engine running, and drove off as soon as his passenger got in. Tashi pulled off the robe and struggled into a shirt and trousers. They edged painfully down
through Lower Dharamsala, passing an ambulance and a police car before they got to the bottom. An army helicopter hovered over the Dalai Lama’s compound. Sattar kept going. Neither man spoke
and eventually they were clear. An hour later, just before Palampur, Sattar pulled up past an Ambassador car parked on the left side of the road. This was where they parted company. Tashi left his
weapons and robe with Sattar. The Ambassador driver gave Tashi an envelope with his new identity.
    The second driver was called Sadek. Like Sattar, he had been trained for Kashmir and was part of the Lashkar-e-Jhangar, the people who had tried to assassinate the Prime Minister of India.

Zhongnanhai, Beijing, China
    Local time: 1430 Friday 4 May 2007
GMT: 0630 Friday 4 May 2007
    ‘It was a complete success,’ said Tang Siju,