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Infants, particularly daughters, left to die. Literally discarded, thrown away. In China, population control was nothing more than a crude numbers game. Yet undoubtedly she meant what she said.
    ‘Ah, I read your brow. You are wondering how I as a representative of the Beijing Government can favour large families?’
    Extraordinary, thought Goodfellowe. Diplomat. Grandmother. And psychic. ‘May I speak personally?’
    She nodded.
    ‘They’re barbaric, your Government’s policies on birth control. I understand the practice is often to inject the unborn foetus directly in the head to induce a miscarriage. Nothing short of barbaric. If I may speak personally.’
    He had expected an animated response, but she remained collected. ‘I do not have to agree with all the acrobatics of my Government’s policies. Not here in my heart. Any more than you do, Mr Goodfellowe. But I hold my office with pride, and office brings with it responsibilities. But also certain … what is the word? Privileges. If one of those privileges is the opportunity to ensure I can have many grandchildren, don’t expect me to apologize or feel shame. Above all, my family comes first. Which is why I understand the sacrifice you have made.’ She turned the globe slowly. ‘I think we are much alike.’
    ‘Except there is a difference between us, or at least between our systems. We both wish to protect our families. In your system, that means you must retain your office. Yet in my system, it seems, I have to give up my office. A curious contrast.’
    Her fingers began to drum in agitation, the sign of a chain-smoker denied her support. ‘I must go. My staff will be getting inquisitive. It does not do in these testing times to be out of step with one’s Government, or out of earshot of others. They become suspicious.’
    ‘I appreciate your staying on.’
    She held out her hand. This time her grip was firm. ‘I hope we shall meet again.’
    ‘Me too.’
    And with that she was gone.
    Rain. Brutal. Belligerent. Yet the Dalai Lama left the car window open. He wanted the wind on his face, the same monsoon wind that, once it had poured its heart out on this side of the Himalayas, would climb into Tibet and quarrel its way around the dusty plains. For that reason he envied the wind. And blessed it. The wind spoke to him while he in turn whispered prayers that would be wrapped within its folds and carried all the way to his homeland, slipping clean through the outstretched fingers of the People’s Propaganda Unit.
    The rain smothered the landscape in a relentless khaki shroud, turning the world to mud. Crops bent and were borne away, man and his beast stood miserable under dripping trees. The highway that had guided them away from the airport at Delhi was, ten hours later, little more than a track, and in some places not even that. Water rushed down the mountainside in great brown corkscrews, gouging and chafing at everything in its path. It was said in the state capital that at least a quarter of the road leading up into the hills from Kangra was waiting for repair; it was also said that the rest waited only for God.
    The car wheels spun before finding their grip and climbing out of yet another pothole, and the Lama sighed wearily, comforting himself that after his long trip to Europe he would soon be home – or at least what passed for home in a life of exile. As the small convoy of cars with its Indian police escort began the last stretch of the journey, the drivers were tired, the road grew more tortuous and the cascade of floodwater swept ever more implacably across their path.
    Trouble was inevitable, so they said. Afterwards.
    Inevitable.
    The Indian Army captain who conducted preliminary forensics at the scene was meticulous, and reported indications that some sort of explosion might have caused the landslide that carried away two of the cars.
    His colonel, who was in charge of the investigation and up for promotion, emphasized in his own report