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The Miracle
The Miracle
The Miracle
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The Miracle

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Marina has always dreamed of being a spy, but when she gets recruited by the Mossad in her junior year in college, she gets more than she bargained for. Her growing obsession with Ali Chalabi, a fellow student from Saudi Arabia, takes her from New York to Riyadh to the Arabian Desert and almost costs her life.

Marina is Jewish and a passionate supporter of Israel. When she learns that Ali has broken into Israeli military computers, she volunteers to help Israeli intelligence track his activities. Ali likes to brag about his computer hacking exploits, so spying on him is easy, and a lot of fun. He is handsome and rich, and Marina enjoys expensive restaurants, torrid sex made even more exciting by the deception and a newfound sense of purpose. When Ali is recalled home to work for the Saudi Defense Ministry, she marries him to continue to spy on him. In Riyadh, she rarely leaves the house, communicating with her Mossad handlers through e-mail. She struggles with isolation and growing suspicions of Ali’s sinister brother. But Ali is kind to her. In this oppressive and alien world, he is the only friend she can turn to. She begins to fall in love with him for real, and she no longer enjoys betraying his trust. But it’s too late to stop. She discovers a terrorist plot to steal nuclear weapons from Israel but is unable to warn her contacts through the usual channels. If she does nothing, thousands of people would die. If she warns the Israelis, she will be exposed as a Zionist spy and sentenced to death.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateJan 21, 2011
ISBN9781458098276
The Miracle
Author

Katerina Kramova

I was born in St. Petersburg and am a third-generation Russian writer in exile, after my mother and grandmother. I am the first in my family to write in English. I am the author of two novels, The Miracle and Revenge in Sulamar. Both have been translated into Russian and published by Retro Publishing in St. Petersburg.

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    The Miracle - Katerina Kramova

    Part 1: New York

    Chapter 1

    I dreamed of being a spy since I was a child. I fell in love with James Bond when I came to America and saw all the movies. But to think that my fantasies would come true when I was still in college? I’d have never believed it myself. And yet, thanks to Ali Chalabi, I managed to get recruited by the Mossad when I was a junior at Columbia.

    Ali sat next to me in Western Civilization. He was handsome in a slightly exotic Middle Eastern way with a prominent nose, skin of tawny bronze, heavy-lidded almond eyes and full, sensuous lips. I used to watch him out of the corner of my eye, but that was simply because I liked his looks. I did not suspect him of anything and had no idea that he was about to become my entry ticket to the world of espionage. When we finally spoke after class, Ali turned out to have a British accent, which only made him more intriguing.

    I went to a boarding school in Hampshire, he explained when I’d remarked on it. But I am originally from Saudi Arabia. And your accent? Let me guess, Swedish?

    I am a tall blue-eyed blonde, and people often think my accent is Swedish or Norwegian. I told Ali that it was Russian. If he was disappointed that I wasn’t some Scandinavian sex bomb, he gave no sign. A week later, he invited me to a basketball game. I surprised myself by saying yes.

    If we beat Princeton, we'll make the playoffs for the first time in three years, I told my best friend Amy Ling on the phone that evening. I had learned this fact only minutes before by reading The Columbia Spectator. My aversion to sports was well known to all my friends, including the fact that I had never even been a ball game. I wasn’t even sure what playoffs actually were, but if you were going to change your mind, you might as well be brazen about it.

    Sure, who is he? Amy laughed.

    There was no way to put it off any longer, so I told her about Ali.

    Does he know you are Jewish? Amy asked.

    I assume he does. I told him I was Russian. And it's mostly Jews who are allowed to emigrate from Russia. Everybody knows that, right?

    I don’t think so. You should have told him you're Jewish.

    I will when I have a chance. This is a basketball game we are talking about, remember? Not a meeting of the United Nations.

    I hope you are right, Amy said. But she sounded worried. Amy and I agreed to meet for lunch the next day. By the time I got off the phone, I was a little uneasy myself. Was I going to this game under false pretenses? But if so, what could I do about it now?

    Ali and I had seats in the front row. Here I was at the first basketball game of my life, taking in the lion mascot and the tiger mascot, the cheerleaders and the band. It all looked rather exotic to me. And it was more fun than I could have imagined. I got caught up in the game and soon found myself stomping my feet and cheering the home team. But quite early into the game, we had nothing to cheer about. Princeton was leading, and their lead was growing bigger by the minute. After a while, it was no longer the question of our winning or losing, but of how badly we were going to be humiliated.

    The game ended with Princeton winning 63 - 40, which even I understood to be a pathetic score for the home team. All the same, there was going to be an after-game party, and we decided to stick around for a while.

    Burning down the House blasted from the speakers. The song fit the mood of the crowd after our miserable loss.

    A pimply kid with a pony-tail clapped Ali on the shoulder.

    The game sucked, man, Ali said to him without a trace of the British accent. They exchanged a few more words, about debugging something in C plus plus.

    What kind of grade is a C plus plus? I asked Ali when the kid had left.

    It's the name of a computer language, he laughed. The latest scream of fashion.

    I understood no more about computer jargon than I did about sports, but it seemed to be all around me. Here it was 1990 and sometimes I thought I was the only student at Columbia to survive without a computer.

    Ali brought us beers. I was relieved that he'd gotten one for himself. I knew that Muslims are not supposed to drink alcohol, and I thought that it was just as well that he was not devout.

    So what do you think about the situation in the Middle East? I asked trying to sound casual.

    So the Jews murdered a few more Arabs in Jerusalem, at one of the Islam's holiest shrines. Business as usual, isn't it?

    That's not how it was, I snapped. Besides, the Arabs started it. As usual.

    Here Ali launched into a long tirade about how the Zionists filled American media with lies and propaganda, how the Jewish lobby controlled the American Congress and how the U.S. gave the Jews the weapons to kill Arab children.

    My heart began to pound. I’d met other Arab students before, and had even discussed Middle Eastern politics with them, but I’d never heard anything quite so vicious. But the Arabs I knew were mostly Lebanese girls, and they were all Christian. Maybe that was the difference. Their opinion about the Middle East was that everybody there was crazy, and those who weren't should get out and live in the U.S.

    Ali seemed crazy enough, but he was here in the U.S. all the same. Israel just wants to be left alone, I said when he made a short pause in his ravings. Don't you at least admit that it has the right to exist?

    Certainly not in Palestine. They should have put it somewhere else, like in Australia.

    Why not the moon?

    An excellent idea! The Jews have defiled our holy shrines for long enough. But they won't have that pleasure for much longer.

    What about our holy shrines in Jerusalem? What about the Western Wall?

    Ours? Ali was staring at me through narrowed eyes.

    There was a short pause.

    Yes, I said quietly. Ours. Mine.

    This wasn't how I had meant to tell him. But now it was too late.

    I had been brought up in Russia, assimilated and without religion. I had never even been to Israel or felt the urge to pray at the Western Wall. But at this moment, I knew in my heart that it was mine.

    Build yourselves another wall, Ali said. You can all go and wail there. Some day we'll give you plenty to wail about.

    Burning down the House had stopped a second before, and Ali's words rang clearly in the momentary silence. Other people have heard him, and what was worse, they were people I knew.

    A Russian Jewish couple, Boris and Vera, were staring at us with identical shocked expressions. Boris was a graduate student in physics, and he had lived in Israel before coming to study in the U.S. I suddenly remembered that Boris had served in the Israeli Army and had been wounded in action in Lebanon. He was the last person in the world I wanted to witness this scene.

    Enraged and humiliated, I threw my drink into Ali’s sneering face. For a moment, he stood motionless, his face wet, his crisp clothes dripping with beer. Then he scowled and took a step towards me. He got no further. Boris planted himself in front of him. He was almost a head shorter than Ali, a compact wiry man in horn-rimmed glasses. He had once been interested in me, but I hadn’t encouraged it.

    Leave her alone, asshole, Boris said to Ali through clenched teeth. Ali said nothing but gave Boris a hard push. Instead of falling, Boris shifted his weight in a quick turn towards his opponent and elbowed Ali in the ribs. Ali staggered back, then rushed at Boris with a series of punches. Boris dodged them, but one punch connected. The glasses flew off his face and landed somewhere in the corner. There was a sound of breaking glass. Boris blinked rapidly. His nose was bleeding. Ali punched him in the stomach, and Boris bent over with a gasp, his face turning purple.

    I felt the pain of this blow as if I'd been hit myself. I couldn't stand to see Boris beaten like this. I scanned the surroundings for a suitable weapon. On a side table near me was a big metal tray piled with empty beer and soft-drink cans. I grabbed it, scattering the cans all around, and hit Ali on the back of the head with it. It didn't seem to do him much damage, but the noise it made on impact was deafening. Ali looked dazed.

    There was laughter all around and sounds of encouragement. I realized to my dismay that we now had a sizable audience. My cheeks burned with embarrassment. I raised the tray and hit Ali again. He whirled to face me and yanked the tray from my hands. Meanwhile, Boris recovered his breath and delivered a roundhouse punch to Ali's jaw.

    At that moment, two men from Campus Security pushed their way through the crowd.

    All right, boys, let's cool it, one of them said. As if on cue, they got behind Ali and Boris and pinned their arms behind their backs. The crowd booed. The security men looked searchingly at the crowd of students. One of them met my eyes. I ducked into the crowd and ran.

    The next day, I had lunch with Amy. We bought sandwiches and went to sit on library steps. The sun was out and spring was in the air. The day was uncommonly warm for early March, and the steps were so crowded with students that we barely found room to sit. I told Amy about my disastrous date with Ali.

    I should never have broken my own rule and gone to a ball game, I concluded.

    Maybe you shouldn’t have gone out with a guy you hardly know, Amy said.

    That too, I agreed.

    But Ali and I had been sitting together in class for two months. And it’s not as if we haven’t talked. In fact, Ali and I had gone to eat dinner in West End on 114th and Broadway before the game. I liked West End because of its excellent hamburgers even though it was too noisy for any real conversation. Still, we had walked the two blocks to West End and back and we had talked along the way. I had told Ali that I had come to New York from Leningrad three years before. And Ali had told me that he had trained as a pilot on an American Air Force Base in Mississippi before coming to New York to major in computer science at Columbia. But none of that had prepared me for the confrontation.

    Wait till you hear the rest of it, I said to Amy. When I got to the part about how I hit Ali with a tray, Amy doubled over with laughter.

    This isn't funny, I protested. It’s embarrassing. I'll never live this down!

    I can't believe you actually hit him, Amy said through tears of laughter. You, always so serious, so reserved. I wish I'd been there to see it!

    You are making it worse, I said, but in spite of myself, I, too, began to laugh. Can you imagine what Vera and Boris are going to tell all those other Russians? There’ll be no end of gossip.

    Why, the Russians will be proud of you! They'll say you struck a blow for Israel.

    Yes, that I did, I said laughing as hard as Amy. Two blows for Israel. They didn't do any harm, but they sure were loud.

    Chapter 2

    My section of Western Civilization met on Tuesdays and Thursdays from nine to ten thirty in the morning. On Tuesday following the game, I almost skipped the class for fear of confronting Ali, but, in the end, I did go. This time, Ali sat in the opposite corner from me, and we managed to avoid each other. I was relieved and maybe a tiny bit disappointed. If truth be told, Ali had been the most interesting thing to happen to me in the whole year.

    On Tuesday night, I was again feeling restless and decided to go to the gym. My room was in Furnald Hall which made it convenient to exercise even late at night. Furnald was the only residence hall with its own gym in the basement. It even had a sauna. It was eleven thirty, and I expected the gym to be empty at this time of night. But the second I opened the door I was hit by a blast of music so loud it almost knocked me off my feet. A boom box in the middle of the floor was blaring She Drives Me Crazy, by Fine Young Cannibals, a song I never liked. I winced at the noise. The gym was crammed with free weights, Universal machines and exercise bikes. The room was small, but looked bigger than it was because it was lined with mirrors.

    Two men were using the gym. One of them was a regular, though I'd never spoken to him. He was so intent on his bench presses that he didn't even glance at me. The other one did. It was Ali. He sauntered over to me, lowering the volume on the stereo along the way. He looked me over slowly, undressing me with his eyes. All at once, I became very conscious of my clothes. I wore black tights and a black and white leotard. I became aware how it showed off every curve of my body, how high it was cut on the thigh, how bare my arms and shoulders were. I fervently wished I had worn a shapeless sweat suit I used for running in cold weather. But the gym was always well-heated. It seemed especially hot now.

    Well, well! Look who is here! The defender of the faith, Ali said in an imitation southern drawl. I ignored him completely and got on an exercise bike. I began pedaling with furious concentration, and Ali went back to lifting weights. But he didn't stop staring at me. It was hard to avoid him, because every time I looked up, I met his eyes in the mirror.

    After a while, the other guy finished and left. Ali and I were alone. I left the bike and started the shoulder press on the machine. I was so keyed up that I could lift more weight than usual. The adrenaline rush had to be worked off, and I went at it with abandon. Ali, on the other hand, gave up all pretense of exercising and just sat there on a bench staring at me. Finally, I could stand it no longer. Marching up to him, I planted myself before him with my hands on my hips. Are you quite through ogling me? I demanded.

    He gave me a slow, insolent smile. Not yet, he said. It's as good as any exercise. It gets my heart rate up. He paused and added with a smirk, "And not just my heart rate. What are we going to do about that?'

    It took me a moment to understand him, then I felt myself blush to the roots of my hair. You are the most vulgar, offensive and disgusting pig I've seen in my entire life, I said, my voice shaking a little.

    That's enough now, Ali said quietly. There had been a sudden change in his manner. His eyes became cold. You don't have to suffer my presence. No one is keeping you here. I advise you to leave. There's only so much abuse I am prepared to take.

    For the first time, I felt a slight prickling of fear, but I was not going to be put off so easily. You don't intimidate me in the least, I announced. I am not taking orders from you. And it's you who ought to leave. You've got no right to be here in the first place. You don't live in Furnald.

    Anyone who lives on campus can use this gym. All the same, I am going to surprise you. I am going to leave, and I will do it without touching you, however much of a disappointment this may be to you. He stood up and turned to go.

    Of all the arrogant, self-deluded nonsense… I said to his retreating back. He slammed the door behind him. I shrugged and went back to my exercise, but my heart was no longer in it. I’d already lifted more weight than normal and my muscles felt leaden with fatigue. I knew that tomorrow I'd be in pain. Fortunately, the sauna was in the next room. The dry heat does wonders for muscle soreness.

    On Tuesdays and Thursdays the sauna was reserved for women only; Mondays and Wednesdays were for men, and the rest of the time was co-ed, when people were supposed to wear bathing suits. Not everyone did, from what I'd heard. I didn't know at first hand if the gossip was true, never having been in the sauna on a co-ed day. On women's days, though, we definitely didn't bother with bathing suits.

    In the sauna, I took off my sweaty clothes and stretched out on a bench, soaking up the heat. I must have dozed off for a bit, because I was brought awake by the smooth familiar voice, There is no getting away from you, is there? Ali stood leaning against the door, watching me with a lazy smile.

    I sat up with a start and tried to cover my nakedness. My heart was beating violently.

    I've always wanted to rip the clothes off you, he said with a smile. Too bad I don't get to do that now.

    He peeled off his T-shirt and shorts. He glistened with sweat and muscles bulged on his arms and chest. And he was getting an erection right before my eyes.

    I stood up. I’m leaving.

    Not yet, he said, stepping between me and the door. First, I'll give you what you've been asking for.

    I tried to get past him but he pushed me against the wall, pressing his body hard against mine. We were both slippery with sweat and I tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but he held me firmly. It was hot, almost too hot to breathe and I felt weak and dizzy.

    He pushed me down on the bench and lay on top of me, pinning my hands above my head with one hand. He stroked my breasts with the other hand saying, Very nice. Large, but firm, just the way I like them.

    Get off me, I gasped. I struggled under him trying to throw him off, but he was too heavy and it only inflamed him more. He pushed my legs apart and plunged into me and then there was only the burning heat, all-consuming, outside and within.

    Afterwards, he pulled me up and sat next to me on the bench. I covered my face with my hands. I was shaking despite the heat.

    He touched my shoulder. We should go. We've been here long enough.

    Leave me, I sobbed.

    I am sorry. I didn’t mean to… But I can’t leave you sitting here. It's too hot.

    Just go. I can't bear to look at you.

    Then don't, he said with a sigh. Put on your clothes and let's get out.

    Reluctantly, I opened my eyes. We got dressed, and I followed him out. I felt dazed by the bright lights outside. I stumbled and would have fallen, but he took my arm and steadied me. Don't touch me, I said, pulling back.

    He let me go and picked up his boom box. We walked to the elevator and waited. I couldn't stop shaking. Ali looked at me in alarm.

    Shall I come up with you? he asked when the elevator came.

    Just go away! I felt my voice rising out of control.

    All right, all right, he said quickly, and as the elevator door closed between us, he walked away, shoulders hunched, down the basement corridor connecting the dorms.

    Back in my room, I stared in the mirror for a long time, searching my face for a sign of damage, a secret brand of shame. I took a long shower, scrubbing my skin raw, but couldn't get rid of the sense of defilement. Finally, I went to bed. I felt tired and numb, but sleep eluded me. My head filled with fantasies of revenge, and as night dragged on towards morning, they became progressively more elaborate, more violent, more gruesome. But I knew that they were just that -- fantasies. I didn’t even dare to go to the police.

    In the morning, I felt even worse. I stayed in bed until noon, something I had never done before. I unplugged the phone and missed all my classes, another first. When I finally dragged myself out of bed, I was afraid to leave the room. I couldn't bring myself to see or talk to anyone. In the evening, I finally got hungry enough for a dash to the vending machine, but it was a major effort. I still couldn't think of anything but what had happened to me. I replayed the events of the previous night over and over in my mind, sometimes the way they actually happened, sometimes the way they should have. In some versions I imagined running away from Ali, in others, I fought him off with a knee to the groin and fingers in his eyes, leaving him crumpled on the floor. Why hadn't I done any of those things? Had it all been my fault?

    The next day, I made myself leave the dorm and go to classes, but I still skipped Western Civilization. I actually made it to the building, then turned back. I couldn't bear the thought of facing Ali. It is he who ought to be ashamed, I told myself. But it was no use. He had probably forgotten all about it, while I suffered in silence.

    Somehow, I got through the weekend, making excuses to avoid my friends. I told no one about what had happened, not even Amy, though I had never had secrets from her before. On Monday, I tried to resume my normal routine and went to check my mail. Among the usual junk in my mailbox, there were two things that caught my attention. One was a fund-raising letter from something called the Council for Jewish Settlements. They were asking for money to help settle the new wave of Russian immigrants on the West Bank. Too bad I couldn’t help them.

    The second piece of mail was a booklet from the Women's Center.

    Date Rape Is Violence, Not Difference of Opinion, it proclaimed in angry red letters on black background. I had seen that booklet before, my eyes sliding over it without a flicker of interest. Now I found myself reading it with riveting attention. By the time I had finished, I recovered a little strength and courage. I knew what I had to do.

    That evening I finally told Amy about the rape. I said that it had happened almost a week before and I had been too upset to talk about it. But now I was ready and I was going to the police.

    A week is a long time, Amy said gently. You think they’ll believe you?

    They have to! I am so angry, I can't study, I can't sleep, I can't think of anything else.

    Maybe counseling would help?

    I don't want counseling. I want justice. I want to put the creep in jail.

    Amy shook her head. Some fancy lawyer will get him off. Assuming they’ll even prosecute. You’ll just get more grief.

    I got this booklet in the mail. It says that if a woman goes on a date and goes to the guy's apartment, and she gets so drunk she doesn't know what's going on, and he has sex with her, than it's rape because she hasn't given her consent.

    That may be the law, Amy said. But that’s not what actually happens. Most cases like these are never even reported.

    "Well, I wasn't on a date, I wasn't drunk, and I didn't go to his place. He was where he wasn't supposed to be and I tried to fight him off. If that booklet is

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