Then came the heavy tread towards where I stood. For the longest of pauses, complete silence. The sense of inevitability. I held my breath, straining every fiber of my body not to move. He could only be a few feet away. Was he staring directly at the curtain? How could he not guess where I was hiding?

One of the monks spoke. I knew only enough Tibetan to catch the word “down.”

The Khampa was retracing his steps. There were raised voices as he bellowed to his associate. Aggrieved shouts accompanying their noisy exit. I remained in hiding for the longest time. Before the curtain was being lifted back. The elderly monk nodded at me gravely.

Meeting his eyes, I brought my palms to my heart.

•••

When I left the Viennese Cake Box half an hour later, it was from the kitchen door and in the company of the monks. It turned out that one of them spoke English and acted as translator after I emerged from behind the curtain. As soon as I explained that I was a student of Lama Tsering’s and was being pursued by those who wished to harm the Dharma, they were eager to help.

A couple of the monks went downstairs to get a taxi, arranging for it to collect the rest of us from the kitchen. Sandwiched in a car of red-robed monks, the journey to the outskirts of Kathmandu, was cramped but uneventful. Only able to shallow breathe between the bulk of two larger monks, who saw themselves as my sentries, I tried to work out what to do next.

The airport was one choice, but too obvious. If Dalberg really did have contacts monitoring it, he may decide that, having retrieved the scroll, I may be in a hurry to return to Bhutan. Kathmandu airport was chaotic at the best of times. I would be an easy target.

Instead, I had to opt for a choice that couldn’t be predicted. It turned out to be one I hadn’t been aware of myself until the taxi we were traveling in came to a stop near where the monks were staying, in an institutional-looking complex on a dusty street. People were milling around a dusty park, behind which was an old, colonial building on which a rickety billboard announced ‘Terminus.’ To the side of the building, I noticed a handful of ancient-looking buses.

Making an offering to the monks who had rescued me, I headed towards the terminus through the park. As elsewhere, stalls were selling everything from fresh produce to carved Hindu gods. A trestle-table of ritual Tibetan Buddhist ornaments included prayer wheels, bells, and other items. My attention caught by one of these in particular. I suddenly recollected the message that Lama Tsering had passed on to me through Geshe-la: where is the best place to hide a thing? In plain sight. It can also be the greatest distraction.

Coming to a halt, I stared at the object.