It didn't take long for the plan to take shape: send this civil servant — apparently one of Mountbatten's favourites — to soon-to-be-defeated Germany, attached to the Foreign Office delegation. Let him stand beside the Americans in carving up the postwar order. The sort of assignment that could splash a thick, glossy stripe of prestige across Allen Wilson's résumé.
When it came to the aristocratic Commander of the Southeast Asia Theatre, the War Cabinet was united in its opinion: Mountbatten was indispensable in coordinating multi-national forces. Both Prime Minister and Foreign Secretary agreed on that much.
Mountbatten's reputation was such that among ministers and civil servants there were only two kinds of opinion: good and better. Anthony Eden was happy to oblige, giving this young man a post that would "polish the gold."
Allen was already busy. Freshly back in London, he'd gone from Mountbatten's residence to the India Office to take up his role as liaison between them and the Viceroy's Government in New Delhi.
The job suited him — regular contact with India was exactly what he wanted. With a few hours freed, he went to the Oriental Institute at Oxford to reclaim his student record. Graduation was still uncertain, but with the European front winding down, he suspected the day wasn't far off.
Next, a stop at the Royal Bank of Scotland to exchange some sterling. Then back to Mountbatten's home, politely informing his wife and daughter that he was now the official channel to India — and if they wished to contact family in Delhi, he could assist.
Their gratitude was warm; Allen kept his composure, his usual mild manners leaving them with a favourable impression.
A week later, it was Kim Philby from MI6 who brought the news: the India Office would second Allen to the Foreign Office. His title remained the same — liaison to India — but he would be physically stationed at the Foreign Office, "because they were short-handed."
"This is… quite unexpected," Allen said with mock surprise. "Is the Foreign Office really that busy?"
"Word is the Soviet offensive is tearing through the German lines. Some say Berlin could fall any day now, and there are even whispers of Germans quietly offering surrender to the Allies," Philby replied. "Once they do surrender, the workload will explode — occupation zones, local administration, keeping the Germans from starving… plenty to keep you occupied."
Allen's mind flicked to his earlier currency exchange. If Germany was on its last breath, its economy would be a carcass. Without imported grain, they'd soon struggle to eat. London might be grey and rationed, but compared to the ruin of the Continent, it was practically paradise.
"A tragedy," Allen said solemnly. "Europe — the centre of the world's civilisation — has been savaged by two wars in a generation. I can well imagine the hardships in Germany. If I have a chance to help them, I'd depart at once."
In truth, the Battle of Berlin had already been raging for days. The Soviets had hurled three Fronts — the 1st and 2nd Belorussian and the 1st Ukrainian — at the city: 2.5 million men, hundreds of divisions, thousands of tanks, artillery, and aircraft. The opening barrage had been a storm of shells and Katyusha rockets that lasted days. On the Western Front, the British, Americans, and French had tacitly agreed to let the Red Army take the capital.
Philby's words told Allen enough: once Germany formally surrendered, his posting to Berlin was inevitable.
"It's a good opportunity," Philby admitted, with the faintest note of envy. "And let's be honest, Mountbatten's influence is all over your appointment. In the War Cabinet, among the civil service — his name carries weight." Then, lowering his voice: "But one word of caution."
"Caution?" Allen tilted his head, playing the innocent.
Philby gave a dry smile. "The war ending doesn't mean the dangers vanish. There will still be German units unwilling to surrender. And the relationship between the Allies and the Soviets is… delicate. As a friend, I'd rather you didn't fall into the hands of any… unidentified state actors."
Ah. "Unidentified state actors." Allen's smile didn't reach his eyes. The word "Soviet" didn't need to be spoken. "Surely not?" he drawled.
He couldn't help admiring Philby's balancing act — serving the Crown while secretly feeding Moscow.
"Why not? Our enemies are capable of anything," Philby said, suddenly grave. "As an MI6 officer, I have to stay vigilant. And I'd prefer my friends weren't targeted."
Allen nearly asked whether Philby meant "friends" in the usual sense — or the Soviet sense. If Philby weren't MI6, Britain's security might actually be safer.
Still, Allen didn't mind the idea of going to Germany. An old power, stripped and bleeding, was still a rich mine to dig through. Anything worth salvaging could be quietly routed to the princely states in India — with a little extra for himself.
What did grate was listening to a Soviet spy speak earnestly about loyalty to Britain.
Enough was enough. Allen lowered his head in thought, then looked up as if inspired. "You're right. Germany's war machine must still have engineers and scientists the Allies will want. When I'm there, I'll make sure we get them before anyone else."
Philby's gaze flickered, his expression oddly unreadable. "You're right. The Allies will certainly be hunting them. I'll have to leave you here — duty calls."
"Let's get a drink tonight. I'll bring along a few colleagues from the Foreign Office," Allen called after him. Philby didn't turn, only lifted a hand in vague acknowledgment. Allen watched him go, blinking slowly. Off to report to the Soviets, no doubt.