Free Beyond the Horizon by Peter Watt

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 taking 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