Alan had barely returned from Delhi when the Nizam summoned him."Your presence reassures me, Wilson. These Congress agitators… intolerable. But enough of that. What news from Delhi?"
"Mandalay," Alan said simply. "The counteroffensive into Burma. Peace restored under the Union Jack — and not, I should add, outsourced to others."
He didn't mention that the Americans had a hand in it. They had — but the decisive force was still British. History, he reflected, would remember the banners that stood in Mandalay Square, not the accountants who paid for them.
"Oh, and I met Junagadh's Resident. We've agreed to a quiet discussion on… India's future."
The Nizam's eyes brightened. The riot earlier in the week had made him more receptive to such talk."You're young, Wilson, but you deal in sincerity. I have a gift for you."
Moments later, the Nizam returned with a ring — heavy, old, a ruby glowing in its setting. India, the so-called 'jewel in the Crown', had been quite literal once; before South Africa and Brazil, this land had been the world's jeweller.
"I couldn't possibly—" Alan began, already sliding it onto his finger. "I see in this stone the weight of history, the brilliance of culture."
"It's only a keepsake," the Nizam said mildly. He had once been the richest man alive; such a jewel was to him what a cufflink was to others.
"In that case, I'll treasure it." Alan's smile was swift and calculated. "I'll also reach out to John in Junagadh. Best we set the meeting soon."
The Nizam nodded. "That would be far more valuable than a ring."
Back at the Residency, Alan began to work. Junagadh was one piece; Mysore and Travancore were the others. A full sweep of five hundred princely states was impossible — but a coalition of the largest? That might just shift the board.
The Nizam sent him away with another gift: a Bengal tiger skin. "The Deccan Plateau is not as warm as Delhi," the Treasurer said.
Alan accepted with the same grace as before. Gifts, like alliances, were never refused.
That evening, in his own kitchen, Alan prepared dinner. India's hygiene did not inspire trust, and cooking for himself had become habit. His aides, accustomed to the infamy of British cuisine, considered it a luxury. A bottle of Delhi-bought whisky appeared — another small morale victory.
"Most of these states we're targeting are southern," said Eliza, idly twirling her hair. "We could manage the talks with ten people, easy."
"North India's states are weak, boxed in by the provinces," Alan replied, laying out handkerchiefs for each of his five female aides, pausing before Eliza. "One more guest to invite."
"What about us men?" Andy asked.
"I'm a traditionalist," Alan said with mock solemnity. "Men should be able to fend for themselves." He leaned back. "One of you will take a trip to Portuguese Goa. A private gathering. We expect nothing concrete — but connections matter."
The map in his mind was clear. In 1945, South Asia was not purely British. France still held a scattering of enclaves; Portugal, a real colony in Goa.
The French could be ignored. Their colonial policy was obstinate in Africa but half-hearted in Asia. They had given up Indochina when it became untenable. Their Indian enclaves would fall to Delhi without a shot.
Portugal, though… different. Goa had been theirs before there was a British India. When independence came, Delhi would demand it — and Lisbon would refuse. Even the United Nations couldn't budge them.
That, Alan thought, was the sort of stubbornness that could be useful.