"Can't these people find something more… constructive to do?"Anderson — "Andy" to his friends — had been in India for exactly six days and was already delivering the sort of imperial pronouncements that required no experience, only the comfort of a British passport.
Alan set his teacup down with a measured clink."In the last two years, riots between Muslims and Hindus have become more frequent," he said, tone almost professorial. "In princely states and in provinces alike. That's not random. It's the by-product of a widening split between Nehru's Congress and Jinnah's Muslim League. When their quarrel sharpens, the streets follow."
He let the point rest there. The truth was uglier. Ever since the Great War, Britain had made deliberate use of the Muslim minority to counterbalance Hindu political ambitions. The strategy had been endorsed by none other than Churchill — back when he was merely an up-and-coming minister rather than the wartime lion of Westminster. Promises of Dominion status had been quietly shelved; divide-and-rule had been dusted off and put to work.
Yesterday's riot had been an inconvenience, delaying the train for a day. Inconvenient, but not costly — at least, not for anyone holding a British passport. The dead were all locals.
A week later, the Residency's party crossed into Hyderabad territory, where the Nizam's troops awaited to greet the Empire's newest Resident.
The welcome was warm — too warm, Alan thought — the handshake of an old accomplice who knew the rules of the game. For three centuries, Hyderabad had been Britain's most reliable ally in the Deccan. From the Maratha Wars to the Mutiny, the Nizams had chosen the winning side, and had been rewarded with survival.
"Such youth," said the young man who greeted them — the Nizam's son, smiling with diplomatic ease. "One hopes our relationship will be a long one."
Alan smiled back, as though unaware that "long" meant perhaps three years at most. "One hopes so," he said, the words a polite fiction between men who both knew the future was already in motion.
The day's work consisted mostly of ceremonial courtesies. In Hyderabad, it seemed, even the Second World War was something that happened to other people.
Taking over the Residency's files, Alan learned something useful — and unsettling. Hyderabad had the right to communicate directly with the India Office in London. No detours through New Delhi, no filtration by the Viceroy's Secretariat.
That made the Nizam more than a local prince. It made him, in certain contexts, London's peer in correspondence. And it meant Alan was not just New Delhi's man in Hyderabad — he was London's as well.
It was, in theory, a mark of prestige. In practice, it meant more bureaucracy. The Viceroy's Council, the Southeast Asia Command, the India Office — all of them could issue instructions, and all of them did. Alan had long suspected that the myth of a ruthlessly efficient British civil service was just that: a myth. We were efficient at collecting taxes. Everything else was a polite shambles.
At sunset, a uniformed officer from the Nizam's army arrived at the Residency."Mr. Wilson, His Highness will receive you tomorrow," he said without preamble.
"Please tell His Highness I shall be punctual," Alan replied smoothly. "Building a bridge between Hyderabad and London is, after all, the Resident's duty."
The phrase was pure theatre, and both men knew it. The Nizam's purpose in this meeting would become clear soon enough.
The following day, Alan crossed the palace gardens under the watchful eyes of armed guards. The architecture was grand, with domes and arches that hinted at Persian roots. Somewhere within, he heard the low murmur of prayer — a reminder that Mir Osman Ali Khan, ruler of the largest princely state in India, was Muslim in a realm that was four-fifths Hindu.
The audience chamber was large but austere, its occupant almost incongruous against the scale. The Nizam was a small man, wiry, with a thin moustache that — Alan couldn't help noticing — gave him a faint resemblance to a certain European dictator.
For a long moment they regarded each other. Then the Nizam spoke."So young. New Delhi must think very highly of you."
Or very highly of your gold reserves, Alan thought. If he hadn't pushed old Wilson to pry treasure from Amritsar's Golden Temple, he doubted Baring would have moved heaven and earth to place him here.
Aloud, he said, "They send men they believe can do the job. Just as with money, Highness — everyone wants it, but in the end, only some possess it."
It was a line meant to sound respectful, but with just enough weight to suggest that he knew exactly what kind of fortune sat in the vaults beneath this palace.
The real game had begun.