If Hyderabad and Junagadh could be tied together in even a loose alliance, they could draw other princely states in their wake. Congress and the Muslim League might fume, but the worst-case scenario would simply be the one history had already written: inevitable integration into a unified India.
But if that unification could be delayed by even a few years? That would be enough. Enough to let Alan Wilson walk back into Britain with his head high, pockets heavy, and conscience — more or less — clear.
News from the Viceroy's House arrived faster than he expected.Nehru himself had come to Delhi; Jinnah had not. The League's delegation brought his answer: if the Viceroy would clearly commit to partition, the League would support Britain's war effort.
Congress was equally pragmatic. Nehru would cooperate, at least on this matter.
The relief in the corridors of the Secretariat was almost palpable. A stable Raj meant supply lines to Burma remained secure; the war could grind on.
Still, Alan knew both Congress and the League were already watching the horizon beyond the war. The Legislative Assembly elections were looming, and in India, democracy was less a stabilizing force than a bargaining chip.
"That sort of cooperation," John remarked as they walked the wide, colonnaded streets, "hasn't been seen in twenty years."
"Nehru and Jinnah aren't ordinary men," Alan said mildly, though he didn't elaborate. The truth was, he saw in both of them the power of the outsider — the heretic.Nehru: a Western-educated Hindu intellectual with a fascination for Soviet planning.Jinnah: a Shia in a Sunni-dominated Muslim world, a man whose very survival in politics was a defiance of odds.
History, Alan mused, often turned on such heretics. The Church of England had once been an upstart sect itself, and it had birthed the Industrial Revolution.
From London's perspective, the balance was simple: encourage the League enough to prevent Congress from holding the field alone. Keep the subcontinent divided just enough to be manageable.
But that was London's game. Alan and John had their own: money, influence, and leverage while the map still showed the pink of the Empire.
"Two Muslim rulers should certainly meet," John said at last. "I'll arrange it when I'm back. I'll even make the trip to Hyderabad myself."
"We're commissioners," Alan said, with a spread of his hands that suggested noble resignation. "Advising our rulers is part of our duty. Maintaining Britain's influence is… the official reason, of course."
They shared the kind of look that didn't need words.
It was meant to be a farewell call to Sir Barron before they returned to their respective states. But when they entered his office, the Viceroy's right hand was on the telephone, brow furrowed.
"He's not in? Very well." Barron hung up, glanced up at them. "My private secretary's away. Wilson, would you be good enough to deliver this file to the Supreme Commander?"
Alan blinked. "Of course."
The Supreme Commander. Mountbatten.
Lord Louis Mountbatten was no ordinary officer.Great-grandson of the Grand Duke of Hesse. Grandson of Prince Alexander of Battenberg. Nephew, cousin, or in-law to the royal houses of Britain, Denmark, Greece, Russia, Germany, Belgium, Bulgaria, Yugoslavia, Romania, Portugal, Spain, Sweden — a living map of Europe's dynastic web.
And as a direct descendant of Queen Victoria, he had once been in line to the throne of Britain itself, before marriages, births, and history shuffled the order.
For two years he had been in India, the public face of the Southeast Asia Command. The reality, Alan knew, was quieter. The war plans needed little of Mountbatten's personal touch; compared to the grinding machinery of the India Office or the Viceroy's Secretariat, the Commander's office was… leisurely.
Which, Alan thought as he accepted the folder, meant Mountbatten might be more inclined to talk.
And sometimes, talk was the most dangerous weapon of all.