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had haunted him for over a week, giving him a nervous cramp in his bowels, and that was just after a few HR discussions with the man.
    After he had made the call, they both sat in silence as the second hand ticked around on the wall clock. Sweat had started to flow freely from the aide’s armpits and down the sides of his body when there was a soft knock on the door.
    ‘Come in,’ said the Director General, pulling himself to his feet again.
    He looked at the man who walked in, remembering, with a sudden chill, how effeminate he always seemed.
    He was pale, even for a Chinese, with black hair combed awayfrom his forehead and swept over in a neat side parting. The hair around his ears and the back of his neck had been cropped so short that the white skin of his scalp was visible underneath. His face was oval, with a delicate jawline and thin, pursed lips that were nearly the same colour as his skin. It looked as if all the blood had drained out of them.
    Zhu was dressed in an immaculately pressed uniform which hung from his narrow shoulders in perfect vertical lines. He didn’t salute or make any gesture of greeting, but merely stood rigid in the centre of the room with one hand folded over the other, while the gold epaulettes of his captain’s insignia stood out in proud horizontal streaks across his shoulders. As the Director began speaking, outlining the events of the last twenty-four hours, Zhu remained absolutely still, not a single twitch from his entire body betraying his air of composure.
    The aide found himself leaning forward slightly, trying to see past Zhu’s silver wire-framed glasses and into his eyes. He remembered them from before: the blank stare, the wide, black pupils.
    The Director finished. After a brief silence Zhu finally moved, unclasping his hands and placing them behind his back. The movement caught the aide’s eye and something nagged at the back of his mind. He had heard a rumour from one of the other aides on the sixth floor . . . what was it about Zhu’s right hand?
    ‘So your man murdered the wrong brother?’ Zhu said, his voice soft, almost pleasant.
    The Director nodded. ‘Yes, exactly, and if it ever got out that an attempt had been made on the eleventh Panchen Lama’s life, there would be a full-scale revolt across Tibet. We need you to contain this.’
    Zhu didn’t answer. The Director continued, his tone becoming unusually conciliatory, ‘I will obviously have you reinstated on the active list, with whatever team you deem necessary to carry out the operation.’
    Zhu smoothed his side parting. He was clearly in no hurry to make a rejoinder and instead seemed to look around him for the first time,taking in the large rectangular coffee table, the solid wood desk and the hard, high-backed chairs. As his gaze fell on the aide, he gave a tiny smile of satisfaction that made the aide’s mouth go dry. Zhu’s reversal of fortune was obviously pleasing him hugely, and no wonder – from being struck off the Ops list, he now had the Director General of the PSB practically begging him to clean up his mess.
    ‘I would like the lieutenant who failed in his mission to be on my team,’ he said finally.
    The Director shrugged. ‘I cannot imagine he will be of much use, but if that’s what you wish . . .’ he gave a nod in the direction of the aide ‘. . . consider it done.’
    Zhu nodded. ‘And how long do I have to complete the mission?’
    ‘There are seven weeks until the Linka Festival and we need to be absolutely confident that this matter is resolved by then. You are booked on a flight to Chengdu tonight, with a connection to Lhasa the following morning. I am granting you the same dispensation as previously. You are free to use whatever methods you deem appropriate.’
    He shot a sideways glance at the aide before looking Zhu straight in the eye.
    ‘But, Captain, there’s no need to . . . complicate matters. You are required to contain this situation and ensure