by Peter Watt
‘I have booked us for a six o’clock dinner at my hotel,’ said a man at Joanne’s elbow. He had been waiting for her in the lobby, reading a copy of the London Times. Joanne had spotted him as soon as she’d walked in.
Jonathan Myles was a handsome man in his thirties, with a touch of grey at his temples. His American accent bore traces of his time studying at Oxford.
‘Do you think the Brits have you under surveillance?’ Jonathan asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ Joanne replied with a smile. ‘My relationship with Winnie ensures that the British military intelligence respect my privacy. The English like to think they’re gentlemen, and it wouldn’t be cricket to spy on an ally.’
Jonathan had been briefed by his department in Washington on Miss Joanne Barrington. She was an exceptional woman. He had been impressed that she had killed a German officer and two Turkish soldiers while working under the cover of her archaeological profession in the Sinai desert. He also knew that her father controlled a banking empire and was personal friends with Woodrow Wilson. When Joanne had become pregnant while working as an intelligence gatherer in Palestine, giving birth to twins and refusing to name the father, the scandal had been cleverly hidden by her father with a cover story of her British fiancé having been shot down over France. This was partly true, as she had once been engaged to a British aristocrat, killed in action while flying in French skies.
Jonathan Myles had to admit that it would not be hard to fall for this remarkable woman. And they would make a fine couple. He was of the right pedigree, Protestant, from a good family with a background in manufacturing. His family was doing very well out of military contracts, and it was expected that after his stint in the government’s foreign affairs department he would return to take over the reins of the family’s many companies. A union with the Barringtons, with their banking empire, could be highly profitable for both families.
‘I have reserved us a table overlooking the Nile,’ Jonathan said quietly, aware that the foyer was filled with high-ranking British officers and British government officials. ‘The food is excellent and the breeze from the river makes the heat almost tolerable.’
Joanne nodded, deciding that it would be a good opportunity to debrief him on the British plans for a postwar Mesopotamia. However, she was astute enough to know that the American diplomat was attracted to her.
‘Did your enquiries regarding the Australian flyer’s whereabouts bear any fruit?’ she asked and she could see the shadow of annoyance cross Jonathan’s patrician face.
‘Yes, Captain Duffy,’ he frowned. ‘Apparently his plane was shot down a few days ago. He is presumed killed in action. It seems that another flyer with him did not see him escape from his burning aircraft after it crashed.’
Joanne tried to conceal her shock. Surely it couldn’t be true? Matthew, missing presumed dead? She could hardly take it in.
She’d known it was foolish to make enquiries about Matthew, especially as she had promised her father that she would not try to contact the Australian airman again. She and her father had had a blazing row and he’d threatened to cut her off without a penny. She’d thought perhaps she could earn enough money to support herself, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to support two children as well. She wanted James and Olivia to grow up with all the advantages wealth brought, and so she’d given in to her controlling father. She was glad in a way; Matthew had not replied to any of her letters and she’d started to feel a niggling, painful suspicion that his silence was an indication of his indifference.
James Barrington had arranged for a staff of nurses and servants to take care of the twins in Joanne’s absence. She had been surprised to see how much her stern, unaffectionate father had taken to his grandchildren, despite their parentage. He’d been a doting grandfather from the moment he’d held the twins in his arms. She’d convinced herself she had made the right choice; but now, hearing about Matthew’s death, she realised she’d been a coward. She should have stood up to her father and demanded that Matthew have contact with his children. Now it was too late.
‘Has his death been confirmed?’ Joanne asked, trying to sound calm.
‘He went down in some godforsaken stretch of land. If he survived the crash, there’s no chance he’d make it back safely. I’m sorry, but that’s war.’
War, Joanne thought bitterly, staring at Jonathan. What would you know of war? Jonathan had spent his war in the world’s best hotels; he had no idea what it was like to fight, to risk your life for your country every single hour.
‘Will you excuse me,’ she said. ‘I wish to retire to my rooms and rest. It has been a rather warm day and I have a headache.’
In her room Joanne flung herself on the bed and stared up at the ceiling fan. Outside she could hear the Moslem call to prayer, and the clip-clop of hooves on the cobblestones below. She couldn’t hold back the tears any longer and she began to sob. Why had she given in to her father when Matthew was the only man she had truly loved; he had never left her heart or her thoughts.
The pregnancy had come as a shock to her as they had only shared one beautiful and passionate night together. At first she had kept the news to herself – lest she miscarry under the prison conditions – but her father’s international influence, contacts and money had secured her freedom. When Joanne had arrived home her condition could not be hidden. Her father had concocted some story about her dead aristocratic fiancé and she had gone along with it. In war, such lapses of morality could be glossed over as unfortunate mistakes deserving of forgiveness. James Barrington knew of a score of eligible men who would gladly take her hand in wedlock and not question his cover story.
Joanne had thought she could forget Matthew, but when the twins were born she had realised that she would never be able to dismiss their father from her heart. She and Matthew had shared dangerous times and he had proved to be strong, funny and brave. She’d felt immensely sad that he would not reply to her letters, but she supposed that he may have forgotten her, maybe even have met someone else.
Then Woodrow Wilson had personally requested Joanne as the American agent for this mission. He knew of her work in Mesopotamia and thought her gender made her less obvious as a spy; she was also a darling of the British politician of some influence, Winston Churchill. Joanne had agonised over whether to accept the position; she felt heartbroken over leaving her little son and daughter, but she also knew that this was daily occurrence among the men being posted to the front. Her gender was no bar to her duty to her country. In the back of her mind she had also hoped that by getting to Egypt she would be that bit closer to Matthew, although she tried to tell herself that she would obey her father’s orders and not make contact with him.
How could he be dead? She wondered whether he’d known about his son and daughter. She’d bumped into Matthew’s close friend, Saul Rosenblum, one day and told him about the twins in the hope that he would see Matthew again and relay the news.
Joanne sat up, wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand and swore at herself. It was not possible for the enemy to kill the man she loved. Captain Matthew Duffy, AFC. Until his body was produced she would not accept that he had been killed in action. Somehow she had to use every resource at her disposal to find him and express how much she had missed his slow smile and warm laughter.
It was the fourth day since Matthew’s Nieuport had been shot down and he struggled to climb the next ridge. He’d seen desert birds swarm near sunset yesterday and had followed them to the remains of a slimy smear of water trickling from a natural spring. Now he was paying for quenching his thirst with bouts of vomiting and loose bowels. The cramping pain forced him to stop constantly and the dehydrating effects of the illness were starting to make him very weak. Matthew inched his way up the slope and eventually reached the top, only to look out on a scene identical to the one behind him: ravines and arid hills as far as the eye could see.
He lay down on the ground and gazed up into the sky, even now tak
ing on the hues of evening. Then he saw it, and the sight of the great desert eagle circling overhead gave him a glimmer of hope. Surely it must be Wallarie, he thought. Wallarie had come to guide him to safety.
With great effort, Matthew pulled on his leather flying jacket to ward off the chill of the coming night and checked his revolver to ensure it had not clogged with sand. He held the pistol in his hands and considered ending his life again. Thirst was making him delirious and his sun-cracked lips and blistered skin told him how dry his body had become.
Goats! Matthew could smell goats on the gentle zephyr drifting from the west. He crawled to the edge of the ridge to gaze down into the ravine below, and saw a tiny flock of goats grazing on a patch of sparse grasses whitened by the dry air. A young boy was tending the flock, sitting on a rocky ledge. Maybe his camp was nearby, or maybe he even came from a village. Either way, they would have food and water.
Not wanting to frighten the shepherd boy, who he guessed was around ten years of age, Matthew stood and called softly, ‘Hey!’
The boy’s head jerked around and he stared up in terror. Without hesitation he took flight, scattering the goats who bleated in protest at the disturbance.
‘Damn!’ Matthew cursed. Maybe the boy thought he was one of the evil desert Jinns prevalent in Arabic folklore. At least the boy would tell those in his camp or village what he’d seen, and someone would have to return to gather the flock.
Matthew slumped to the earth and curled up. He hardly had the strength to pull the trigger of his pistol and he prayed that if he was found by the Bedouin that they would be on the side of the Allies against their Ottoman masters.
Matthew was woken by a sharp pain in his ribs. He blinked up at the fearsome sight of a great bearded man standing over him, prodding him with an ancient musket. The man was dressed in the flowing robes of a desert nomad, and Matthew could see that the man was not dressed as a leader, more as a wandering tribesman. The man held out a waterskin and Matthew took a few small sips, then nodded his thanks.
The man was not armed with a British-issue Lee Enfield, which made Matthew think that he was not associated with the Arab rebellion. He shouted something at Matthew and struck him sharply in the ribs again with the point of the barrel.
Matthew rose slowly – he was so weak he wasn’t sure he could support his own weight. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. Behind the man, Matthew could see around seven others dressed in a similar manner, and also the boy he had hailed yesterday evening.
‘Australian pilot,’ Matthew said, using one hand to point at himself, but his gesture did not seem to raise any interest from the fierce-eyed men watching him. ‘Need food, water.’
The Arab with the musket pointed down the slope and prodded him in the back. Matthew guessed that he was being directed to some camp or village and was not reluctant to follow orders. Maybe he might find someone who could speak English and explain his position. He could promise financial reward for his care and release to his own forces.
It took only about an hour to march to an area in the ravine dotted with a few scraggly palm trees and a scattering of Bedouin tents, camels and horses. Matthew’s entry into the camp was met with curious glances from behind heavy veils, and looks of interest from raggedly dressed children. He was taken to a stone well and more water was drawn for him. It had a brackish taste but seemed relatively clean and Matthew drank gratefully, careful not to take too much and make himself sick again. One of the men noticed his pistol and took it from him. Matthew did not resist – he did not have the strength – but he was aware he was virtually defenceless without his side arm. He was relieved of all other items he was carrying and even his leather jacket was taken. The man who had prodded him awake appeared to be the leader and Matthew saw him push forward a tired and ragged-looking man in his middle years.
‘My master wishes to know who you are,’ he said, surprising Matthew with his fluency in English. ‘I am a slave who once lived in Jerusalem as a free man, praise Allah, but I fell on bad times and was sold by my creditors to this tribe.’
‘I am Captain Matthew Duffy of the Australian Flying Corps, and I was shot down east of here a few days ago. I need to return to my squadron.’
The man looked at him with a sad expression. ‘Your fate is in the hands of Allah,’ he said. ‘The people who have captured you have no allegiance to either the Ottomans or your people. They are bandits and your life will only be spared if you are worth something as a ransom. They know that the Turkish will pay to have you handed over. If they find it difficult to get you to the Ottomans and your own people do not wish to barter for you, they will amuse themselves with your slow death. They are cruel beyond imagining.’
The last statement chilled Matthew to the core. He did not know if the Allies would consider a ransom deal with the Arab bandits. ‘You can tell your master that I am worth a lot of money to my people,’ Matthew said, hoping to at least buy himself some time.
The interpreter nodded and turned to his master; it was clear that the interpreter was the only one who understood English. Afterwards two of the men tied Matthew’s hands behind his back. He did not struggle; escape was an impossible option for now. They frogmarched him to a date palm and forced him down with his back to the trunk. At least for now he was alive, had quenched his thirst and had the shade of the date palm. One of the Arab men squatted a few feet away; he was armed with a deadly-looking curved dagger and an ancient musket.
The interpreter was right: Matthew’s life was now in the hands of Allah.
*
Joanne had finished the consultation on the possible future borders of new nations to be formed after the war. She had reported back to the State Department in the USA via Jonathan Myles that it appeared the Franco–British alliance intended to go ahead and divide the former Ottoman Empire among themselves, leaving out the USA. Joanne had made it plain to Jonathan that she had no romantic interest in him and he had refrained from pursuing her. Now she was free to make contact with her British Secret Service contacts in Cairo.
‘You want to do what, dear lady?’ Major Christopher Wilkins spluttered when she walked into his office, marked with the gold sign Army Intelligence. It was an elegant, spacious room, with slowly whirring fans and open balustrades overlooking the Nile.
He was standing with his hands behind his back, looking at her with raised eyebrows. He was wearing the khaki dress uniform of a Royal Engineer. Across his right breast he sported the campaign ribands of many colonial wars.
‘I want your permission to return to Palestine to continue with my work as an intelligence officer,’ Joanne replied calmly. She had reported to Major Wilkins in the past and he had become a friend. She hoped she would be able to count on his support again this time.
‘Miss Barrington,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘You must know that I have never truly approved of using a woman as delicate as you for our intelligence-gathering missions.’
‘Oh, poppycock,’ Joanne said. ‘You know I can take care of myself. Didn’t I prove that when I was swanning around in the Sinai for your department?’
Major Wilkins looked at her carefully. ‘Your request to be reassigned to our operations department would have nothing to do with a downed colonial flyer, would it?’
Joanne was only slightly taken aback. Major Wilkins had always been an astute operator, despite looking like a character from the Boy’s Own Annual. Clearly Jonathan Myles had been talking out of turn. ‘Nothing whatsoever,’ she replied smoothly. ‘I just feel that I can do more good by being back on active service.’
‘And what about your children?’ Major Wilkins asked.
Joanne winced. She missed James and Olivia more than she had thought possible, but they were safe and being well cared for; she had something very important to do for them before she went home again. ‘With all due respect, Major Wilkins, that is not a question you would ask my male counterparts. My children are in their grandfather’s very capable hands; had I not
been absolutely certain about that, I would never have agreed to leave them in the first place.’
Wilkins sighed, then began to pace the marble floors of his luxurious office, deep in thought. Finally he paused and turned to her. ‘What do you need?’ he asked and Joanne broke into a winning smile, rising from the settee to go to him.
‘Christopher, you are such a darling,’ she said, kissing him on both cheeks. ‘I will need supplies for at least a month in the field. I intend to use my role as an archaeologist as a cover. Ostensibly, I will be attempting to locate and protect significant historical sites. Needless to say, I will be in contact with the Bedouin, who are always a good source of intelligence regarding the Turks. I will require the services of a trustworthy guide . . . someone who works indirectly for you. Mr Saul Rosenblum will do very nicely, and I believe he can also act as my bodyguard.’
The British officer returned to his desk and removed a folder from the top drawer. ‘I will issue orders to our quartermaster, along with instructions for your briefing tomorrow. Just remember, you work for me.’
‘Of course,’ Joanne replied, eyeing the papers he was filling in, which approved her mission to collect intelligence for the British Army. ‘And if I happen to bump into General Allenby I will relate how helpful you have been.’
Major Wilkins snorted. ‘Don’t think I don’t see through your conniving, Miss Barrington.’
Joanne smiled at him sweetly. ‘Christopher darling, you are one of the most wonderful men I know.’
‘Next to your colonial flyer,’ Wilkins said with a grin. ‘I pray that you find him hale and hearty. Now, leave my office.’
Joanne left the office with a spring in her step. Major Wilkins knew very well what she was up to, but, like most men, she could twist him around her little finger. Not Matthew, though; he was one man who wasn’t swayed by her charms. That was one of the reasons why she was in love with him.
