‘My cousin has news.’ It was Geshe-la. ‘His friend, a renowned statue-maker called Rakesh Sharma, was taken by some bad men to the airport last night and told to open a statue. He described the Sangye Menla Buddha perfectly.’

I sat up.

‘The men were interested only in jewels, of which there were several including a large sapphire. There was also an old metal tube that they believed to be worthless. Sharma kept it.’

‘He still has it?’

‘Yes.’ I was wide awake now. ‘And he is expecting you,’ Geshe-la continued. My cousin has arranged.’

‘There’s some kind of payment—?’

‘Fifty dollars to one hundred is usual.’

‘He’s in Patan?’

Geshe-la gave me the street address. ‘Go there soon, before the thieves discover what they overlooked.’

I glanced at my disheveled appearance in a mirror. I was still in the clothes I’d travelled in yesterday. My jacket and shirt were crumpled. Hair sticking out like a scarecrow. Too bad. Reaching into my pocket, I checked my wallet and, on impulse, grabbed the backpack I had brought on the plane. ‘I’m going now,’ I said.

Downstairs, taxis were crammed in the narrow street outside the hotel entrance. Looking across, trying to work out if it would be quicker to walk to the main road nearby, I saw a man waving at me from further down the road. Another taxi driver touting for business? Then I spotted a scratched, blue Fiat a short distance behind him. Dipesh.

I was instantly wary. How long had he been staking me out? I strode towards him.

‘You want a lift, Mr. Lester?’

‘Go home, Dipesh,’ I shook my head. ‘I’m okay for transport.’

‘Mr. Dalberg asked me to be of service.’

‘You have been.’

From the opposite side of the road, I couldn’t work out his expression, but there was an intensity about it. Was he angry I wasn’t following his master’s orders?

‘I’ll call if I need you.’ I headed past him to the next crossing, and continued walking.

It unnerved me that Dalberg was spying on me. He was the one who supposedly had contacts at the airport. Why was it Geshe-la had been the one to find out what had happened to the statue?

I was soon in the back of a taxi, heading towards Patan. On the way, my phone rang. I looked at the screen. Dalberg. I’d call him back when I’d got the terma.

•••

We turned into one of Patan’s streets of statue makers. Small shops lined both sides, most of them concealed behind security grilles still padlocked to the pavements. There were few people about. The only activity was around a couple of food kiosks, where vendors were already setting out their stalls for the day.

Our progress slowed as we both looked at the jumble of signs painted on windows and hanging from brackets on the walls, counting the street numbers.