‘In many guises,’ he said, ‘especially the art of the early Christian church. The halos of the saints,’ he gestured to a thangka of Shakyamuni Buddha, with a cerulean aura about his head, ‘the sign of the fish,’ he nodded towards one of the eight auspicious symbols of Buddhism. From his pocket he drew out a cord of cascading bodhi seeds. ‘The mala preceded the rosary by millennia.’

He was watching me closely, and I him. Intrigued though I was by what Dalberg was saying, I was also trying to work him out. There was something enigmatic about him, something hard to place. The abbot had said I could trust him. Few in Bhutan would agree.

Switching the subject abruptly, Dalberg asked, ‘How is the abbot?’

Was this the same trick Lama Tsering used to play on me? While firmly denying that he possessed any telepathic powers, he would often catch me out by repeating a fragment of what I’d just been thinking. A flicker of amusement seemed to pass across Dalberg’s face as he watched.

‘Abbot Lhamo is well and sends his warm regards.’ I was relieved when he turned away to lead me through a dimly lit passage to a paved garden.

Outside, Dipesh was pouring water into two glasses at a table setting.

‘I know you’ve had a long trip,’ said Dalberg. ‘But when you told me the reason for your visit, I thought it best we meet immediately. Events can move with great speed with things like this.’

Completing his task, Dipesh bowed slightly and returned to the house. Dalberg sat forward in his chair. ‘So,’ he fixed me with that expression of quiet but intense scrutiny, ‘two Khampas stole the jewel in the crown of Tiger’s Nest monastery yesterday.’

‘That’s the sum of it,’ I confirmed what I’d already told him from the airport. ‘The abbot sent someone to the local police this morning to lodge an official report.’

Dalberg shrugged, acknowledging the futility of the gesture.

‘And directed me to you,’ I held his gaze. ‘I, we, really need the statue back.’

‘I’m flattered that Abbot Lhamo considers my network to be current.’ Dalberg folded his hands in his lap. ‘There was a time when I was one of the busiest dealers in Himalayan antiquities. I gave all that up years ago for more contemplative pursuits.’

Something about what he said didn’t ring true. Contemplative pursuits, yes, I could believe. But was he really no longer connected?

‘You said on the phone you had an idea who might be behind things?’

‘Comrade Ziu is the usual suspect,’ he was wry.

‘Comrade?’

‘Head of the Xizang Autonomous Region of China. Which the rest of us know as Tibet. In recent years he’s been restocking Buddhist temples with as much original artwork and statuary as he can lay his hands on.’

‘Even though Buddhists are still being suppressed?’ It was well known that small groups of Tibetan refugees continued to flee through the mountains, each with their own harrowing tales of violence at the hands of the Chinese.