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Authors: Peter Watt
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just about anything, and it had secured her one of the best suites in the luxurious Cairo Shepheardâs Hotel, where she had access to the magnificent Ezbekiyya Gardens and the Royal Opera House, both within a short walk. Cairo had been called Paris on the Nile and its landscape was dominated by elegant minaret spires, noisy street stalls, and tiny shops selling replicas of ancient Egyptian artefacts. Camels, donkeys and automobiles jostled side by side along the streets and narrow lanes.
Joanne was dressed in a long white cotton dress nipped at the waist. She wore a broad but elegant hat to ward off the sun, and as she entered the spacious marbled foyer of the hotel she undid the ribbons and took it off. It had been a long day of poring over maps of the crumbling Ottoman Empire in the company of other archaeologists, British military officers and tropical-suited men from the British Foreign Office.
The request for her services as a consultant on the drawing-up of postwar borders had come directly from the American presidentâs office. Woodrow Wilson was concerned that the French and British intended to colonise the lands taken from the Ottomans in order to dominate the rich oilfields producing much of the worldâs crude. Not that the USA had much to fear for lack of oil, as discoveries in places like Texas had ensured that the rapidly expanding industrial base of the country had an adequate supply of the black gold. But it was rumoured that the ancient lands of Mesopotamia had even more reserves, to fuel a world requiring the precious energy source for the new oil-driven era. American intelligence concerning the British and French intentions appeared to indicate that those two countries wanted to corner the market, and the USA was not going to be left out of any such scheme.
Joanneâs reputation as an archaeologist specialising in Mesopotamian history and culture had earned her a place on the team exploring where borders would be drawn so that the British and French could share the wealth of the conquered. Her inclusion on the team had caused some raised eyebrows among the British. A selected handful knew her dark reputation as a double agent for both Mr Churchill and Mr Wilson.
âI have booked us for a six oâclock dinner at my hotel,â said a man at Joanneâs elbow. He had been waiting for her in the lobby, reading a copy of the London Times . Joanne had spotted him as soon as sheâd 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.
âDo you think the Brits have you under surveillance?â Jonathan asked.
âI donât think so,â Joanne replied with a smile. âMy relationship with Winnie ensures that the British military intelligence respect my privacy. The English like to think theyâre gentlemen, and it wouldnât be cricket to spy on an ally.â
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
Joanne was dressed in a long white cotton dress nipped at the waist. She wore a broad but elegant hat to ward off the sun, and as she entered the spacious marbled foyer of the hotel she undid the ribbons and took it off. It had been a long day of poring over maps of the crumbling Ottoman Empire in the company of other archaeologists, British military officers and tropical-suited men from the British Foreign Office.
The request for her services as a consultant on the drawing-up of postwar borders had come directly from the American presidentâs office. Woodrow Wilson was concerned that the French and British intended to colonise the lands taken from the Ottomans in order to dominate the rich oilfields producing much of the worldâs crude. Not that the USA had much to fear for lack of oil, as discoveries in places like Texas had ensured that the rapidly expanding industrial base of the country had an adequate supply of the black gold. But it was rumoured that the ancient lands of Mesopotamia had even more reserves, to fuel a world requiring the precious energy source for the new oil-driven era. American intelligence concerning the British and French intentions appeared to indicate that those two countries wanted to corner the market, and the USA was not going to be left out of any such scheme.
Joanneâs reputation as an archaeologist specialising in Mesopotamian history and culture had earned her a place on the team exploring where borders would be drawn so that the British and French could share the wealth of the conquered. Her inclusion on the team had caused some raised eyebrows among the British. A selected handful knew her dark reputation as a double agent for both Mr Churchill and Mr Wilson.
âI have booked us for a six oâclock dinner at my hotel,â said a man at Joanneâs elbow. He had been waiting for her in the lobby, reading a copy of the London Times . Joanne had spotted him as soon as sheâd 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.
âDo you think the Brits have you under surveillance?â Jonathan asked.
âI donât think so,â Joanne replied with a smile. âMy relationship with Winnie ensures that the British military intelligence respect my privacy. The English like to think theyâre gentlemen, and it wouldnât be cricket to spy on an ally.â
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
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