Mountbatten's office was an exercise in imperial confidence: dark teak paneling, the scent of naval polish, maps spread with a general's precision. Alan stepped inside, keeping his face polite and his mind calculating.
The admiral was already watching him — not coldly, not warmly, but with the amused detachment of a man who'd spent his life deciding which men rose and which quietly disappeared.
"I've heard your sort before," Mountbatten began, leaning back in his chair, a silver pen spinning between his fingers. "Every civil servant believes he's the cleverest man in the Empire. The trouble is, you all mistake cleverness for control."
Alan inclined his head, masking the urge to bristle. He'd expected posturing — instead, the man radiated the kind of authority that came from knowing half the world's power brokers on a first-name basis.
"Your… networking… reached my daughter."
The pause was deliberate. A small smile followed. "Unexpected. Bold. Not necessarily wise."
Alan kept his tone even. "The situation in Hyderabad required… unconventional channels."
Mountbatten waved the explanation aside. "Cleverness doesn't win wars. Stability does. And right now, India must be stable. No distractions. No—" His gaze sharpened. "—unhelpful surprises."
So this was about Congress. About Nehru's sudden interest in Hyderabad. Alan's mind moved quickly: if they wanted a show of control, someone had to be sacrificed — and apparently, the chosen example was him.
"You'll leave India," Mountbatten said, as though announcing the weather. "Temporarily. Congress sees its influence. I keep the board steady. You… get seasoning."
"Seasoning?" Alan echoed.
"Experience," the admiral clarified. Then, with the precision of a man delivering a coup de grâce, he slid two sealed envelopes across the desk. "To the Prime Minister and the Colonial Secretary. My personal recommendation."
Alan looked down at the heavy cream paper, the familiar, flowing hand. These weren't dismissal notices. They were lifeboats — and bargaining chips.
"You can make yourself useful in Europe while the pieces here settle. Colonial Office placement. Temporarily seconded to the Foreign Office. When the Japanese front collapses, I'll bring you back. More seasoned. And, I hope, less… visible."
Visible. Alan translated it instantly: less dangerous to the narrative.
He left with the letters in his inside pocket, already calculating what a stint in Europe could mean — Berlin in ruins, Paris simmering, the first tremors of Cold War lines being drawn. In politics, retreat was often just the long flank of an advance.
Outside, Barron was waiting, as unruffled as ever. "Sometimes," he said, the faintest curve of a smile on his lips, "a door closing is only the draught from another one opening."
Pamela was less philosophical. "He's sending you away?" she demanded later, eyes flashing. "Over some Indian politician? I'll speak to him."
Alan had to fight the urge to laugh. "Pamela, I'm devastated," he deadpanned, straightening his tie. "But do me a favor. Keep an eye on Hyderabad while I'm gone. My people there have work worth protecting."
She frowned, studying him. "You don't seem devastated."
"I'm in mourning," Alan said lightly, blowing a strand of hair off his forehead. "But London has its uses. Besides…" His smile thinned into something sharper. "When I come back, I'd like to make sure Nehru remembers this little gesture."