Alan Wilson never believed in "clean exits."Leaving India didn't mean leaving the game. Even now — with the Congress Party's pressure forcing him onto a ship — he was setting markers for future moves.
Pamela Mountbatten thought he was simply inviting her to see Junagadh's coast.In truth, he was planting a seed — a reminder to the Mountbatten family that South Asia was never far from his reach, even from Europe.
At the dock in Bombay, the crowd was a strange mix — soldiers, porters, and a handful of political figures. Among them, Hyderabad's parsimonious Finance Minister, who clasped Alan's hands like an old friend.
Once Pamela's lineage was mentioned, the Minister's restraint melted; he beamed, proclaiming that London's recall was merely preparation for "greater responsibilities." Then came the gift: a small box, heavy in the palm, brimming with uncut gems.
Alan knew better than to believe the flattery. If this had been a disgrace, that box would still be in the man's pocket.
"Give my regards to His Highness," Alan said smoothly. "I may be leaving India, but my heart remains here."
Pamela tilted her head, gazing at the glitter in her hands. "You really don't care about wealth?"
Care? Of course.Why else design steel crates with hollowed walls to hide gold, each crate a miniature fortress? The work had taken longer than his university thesis.
But outwardly, Alan's tone was careless:"Value is relative. Compared to certain things, these are just… stones."
That single line — equal parts arrogance and detachment — did more for his image in Pamela's eyes than a dozen gallant speeches.
The ship's whistle cut the air.Alan tipped an imaginary hat. "Until next time, Miss Pamela. And—"
"I'll watch over your staff," she interrupted, chin lifting. "Write if you can. And… tell my mother and sister I'm well."
Alan gave her a silent thumbs-up before boarding, the gangway thudding under his boots.
Out at sea, Europe was moving into its own endgame.The Ruhr Offensive was underway. Eisenhower's armies drove forward against Field Marshal Model — Germany's "fireman" — now fighting without water, without engines, without hope. Berlin had stripped his forces to face the Soviets in the east.
By the time Alan reached London, the headlines were blunt: MODEL DEAD. WESTERN FRONT COLLAPSES.The fall of Germany was a matter of days.
"Three years ago, they thought they owned the world," Alan muttered, stepping off the ship with his precious cargo. Priority one: secure the crates. Priority two: deliver his letters — to Churchill, to India Secretary Leo Amery, and perhaps to Cabinet Secretary Sir Edward Bridges at Whitehall.
Whitehall. The very spine of the Empire's bureaucracy, where departments huddled like chess pieces awaiting the next move.
And there was also MI6 — wartime loyalty wasn't assumed, especially for men like Alan, who had worked the Empire's edges.
First stop, though, was the Mountbatten home.No barricades this time. Lady Edwina was in, as was the elder daughter, Patricia. The London townhouse was no less lavish than its Delhi counterpart — a reminder that Edwina had been wealthy long before marrying into the royal line.
"I've just come from the Indian colonies," Alan explained. "Pamela asked me to deliver this."
Patricia's questions came rapid-fire: "You work in India? How is it there? And Pamela — she's well?"
"All well," Alan said with a polite half-smile. He'd heard this cadence before — the "three-point interrogation" — and suspected the younger Mountbatten had inherited it wholesale from her sister.