Focal Point - Chapter 12 & 13

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Focal Point
CHAPTERS 12 & 13
 
By Alyssa Plant
 

Michael Cohen's dream was to protect and serve as a police officer.... That job didn't satisfy him until one day, when people without names came to visit. He wanted to make a difference, but he didn't expect it to make a difference to him, too...


 
Chapter 12

I woke early on Sunday morning, the activities of the night before fresh on my mind: We had made love, and I had reached the most important decision in my life so far; although, I suspect I had never really made a decision, only an admission.

After experiencing even such a short time as a woman, I had woken up to who I really wanted to be… no… was. I knew some would say that I could never possibly be so sure after such a short period of time, but how does one know that one is awake? You just do. The barrier between consciousness and unconsciousness is invisible but definate, and I had crossed a very similar divide; Mike was not coming back after this operation.
Wriggling out from under Harriet’s arm, I slipped out of the bed, and quietly made my way towards the door. I was naked, and not in a way that I liked. I quietly grabbed my robe and the box containing my proxy femaleness, and slipped out into the silent hallway and into the bathroom.

I lifted my breasts from the box, and placed them on the counter while I applied a coating of glue to both them, and my chest. I lifted the breasts, one at a time, and carefully lined them up on my chest in the bathroom mirror. The act felt strange, and a sense of fraud clouded my mind for a moment. I ignored it, and finished affixing my bosom. Once I was reasonably sure I was all secure, I sat on the closed toilet seat lid, my hands cupping the breasts to my chest, to ensure the glue held. I giggled at the crazy image I must have presented. The dishevelled yawning girl sat on the toilet groping herself; if someone had told me a month ago that I would find myself in this situation, I would have had them committed.

Happy that my assets were accounted for, I turned on the shower, and allowed the water to caress my body. After I was finished, I dried myself and my hair as best as I could manage without waking Harriet, and slipped on my underwear. As I clasped my bra closed on the second attempt, I looked down at my sleeping lover. She lay in the covers; an angel at rest, her sleeping lips pouting ever so slightly. I sat on the edge of the bed and gently lay down facing her. I could feel her warm breath against my cheek. I wanted so badly to kiss her, to tell her how much I loved her, but I left her to her slumber. It was three hours later when she woke me.

“Hey,” Harriet smiled softly after waking me with a kiss. “Mike’s gone?” she asked quietly.

“Mike’s gone,” I confirmed.

“Thank you for last night.” She whispered. “It was hard for you.” She said knowing the truth. “You tried for me, don’t think I didn’t notice that.”

I frowned, “I just wanted you to be happy, to see if I could be what you wanted.”

“You are what I want, and what I need you silly woman.” She replied lovingly, kissing my forehead.

It was nearing mid morning, so we both dressed, and made our way through to the kitchen and breakfast. I had just finished making our toast and coffee when Pete surfaced.
“Mike-ette,” he muted wandering past me to the kettle rubbing his eyes. He did a double take, catching sight of Harriet at the table.

“Um, hello,” he said with a sheepish grin, brushing his hand through his hair.

“Don’t bother Pete,” I grinned. “She’s mine.”

“I thought you were mine?” Harriet asked coyly.

“Ok fine we share,” I shrugged, enjoying the mix of confusion, lust and that were visibly flying around Pete’s brain creating a wonderful collage of expressions.

Pete broke at that point. “Too early,” he groaned sinking into a kitchen chair. “You two are an item? With him like this?” he asked, looking at me with a mixture of admiration and curiosity. “You never ONCE score a bird in 5 years, yet you grow a pair of tits and suddenly you land a Hottie? That’s fucking unfair mate,” he grinned ruefully, shaking his head.

Harriet stuck out her hand to Pete. “Hottie at your service, but my friends call me Harriet.”

“Pete,” he mumbled shaking the proffered hand.

“Do you have a problem with lesbians?” Harriet asked coyly.

“I ah, god, no!” Pete spat, “Of course not, erm, what?”

“She’s just teasing you Pete,” I smiled glaring sidelong at Harriet, hoping she got the message. It was one thing to come out to myself, but I wasn’t ready for the party.

“Man this keeps getting stranger,” he chuckled, sipping his scalding black coffee.

Becky joined us after a short while, and Harriet visibly began to relax as she became more accepted amongst my friends. I think it meant a great deal to her that she fitted in. We spent the day around the flat, just enjoying one another’s presence. We nuzzled and kissed from time to time, and eventually Pete retreated to his room. My education in the male world told me just why he had vanished, and it caused all of us girls no end of amusement at the poor man’s expense. It seemed awkward to refer my myself outwardly as a girl, but it seemed to come so easily in my mind, far too easily.

Before long, Monday morning rolled around, and it was back into the breech once more. Harriet had left on Sunday evening, and I made my way alone to Vauxhall Cross on the tube. The number of times I had travelled on the underground was uncountable, but today things felt very different. I was comfortable finally. It was as if accepting who I was had removed my fear of being seen as a man in a dress… I was a woman in the grey skirt suit and knee length designer trench coat… just like so many others in this city, and I finally had my slot; although admittedly, on the crowded morning tube, that was more like a slit I was crushed into.
I waited for the obligatory Pod cue to progress and made my way down to the Middle East Controlerate. This week would contain tradecraft classes for me, all the things I needed to know about staying alive, condensed into one week… I was sceptical of the timeframe, but wiling to put in the hours.

I spent the next five days learning operational procedure, running through numerous key faces, profiles and the finer details of my legend. I immersed myself in Anastasia Zanov, and felt that I had almost begun to become that woman with the knowledge I held of her. I spent Wednesday familiarising myself with the equipment and weapons that I had been given to further deepen my cover. It felt reassuring to be in these final stages; Harriet understood that, but a lot of the others did not. I had been involved in minor undercover operations with the Met, and All the planning meant nothing in the lead up to an op, the final stages, feeling prepared and ready to go were when I felt most secure, the most confident. I just hoped that I could pull this off. Friday morning approached too quickly for my liking, and before I knew it, I was swiping into the Middle East Controlerate’s area in the dark recesses of Vauxhall Cross.

I slowly stepped into the controlerate, setting my wheeled suitcase down. I had dressed that morning as per Anastasia… I wore a pair of high heeled ankle boots with a wedge heel that I was reasonably secure in, a pair of tight fitted jeans, a white tee-shirt, and a black leather jacket that I had spotted one night on the way home from work. My blonde hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, and my Oakley sunglasses rested casually atop my head. Simple stud earrings, a thin watch and a woven gold bracelet were the only Items of jewellery I wore. Naturally, Jane and Harriet had wanted me to dress differently, but the more I learned about Anastasia, the more I realised their viewpoints fell short. She was a soldier, a gun for hire; she was not the sort to turn up to meet a client in a business suit, or a dress. My outfit was simple, functional, yet stylish; It was also by far the most subtle outfit.

“Hi Sharon.” Jane smiled approaching from one of the side offices. “Ready?”

I grinned nervously “I’m going either way aren’t I? But yeah, I think so… I just want to get it done now.”

Jane nodded. “Yeah, I think we all do. Come on, lets go for the brief.” She offered leading me back to John’s office.

“Welcome… Sharon.” John smiled. The entire team was present; this was the send off after all.

“Jane; is he… is she ready?”

Jane nodded. “Her understanding of procedure is good, she will have a team on her for as much as we can, so yes, I’d say she’s ready, Its not like she’s a raw recruit after all.”

“Quite.” John nodded, turning to me. “Sharon, are you ok with this?

“Yes s, Boss, I just want to do my job.” I nodded curtly, trying to blank out the pre game nerves.

“Daniel?” John prompted, do you have the items?” he asked the wiry haired Tech.

“Yes sir, its all here,” he nodded patting the tray on his lap.

John waited for a second before raising his eyebrows. “Are you going to give them to her?” he asked with a hint of annoyance.

“Oh, yes, sorry sir,” the man gushed, moving over to me with the tray. He proceeded to give me an audio receiver, and tracking device come microphone that doubled as a pendant beset with Anastasia’s birth stone.

“Do I get the laser watch?” I asked coyly as he finished fitting the pendant.

Daniel looked confused for a moment, “I ah, erm,” he began looking over at John, “I wasn’t asked to produce one,” he admitted with surprise.

“This isn’t bloody bond Sharon,” chided Toby. “Daniel, she’s pulling your leg you simpleton.”

“I know.” I admitted with a sheepish grin “I guess I had to get it out of my system.”

“We all did it at some point,” smirked Harriet.

“You more than others,” Toby groaned theatrically. “Regular fucking comedian.”

“You line them up for me Toby dear.” She grinned devilishly.

“Enough.” John said sharply. “This is not the playground, can you act like professionals?”

There were muttered apologies and the focus returned to me again.

“Now I must stress that this is not an intelligence gathering op, or target removal, you are to do exactly as Dujani expects from you till you are in position to take the shot, that is the only time you will deviate from what he expects, we cannot afford him to become suspicious.” He said looking at me with a most serious expression. “It is down to you to make sure this goes our way… we cannot visibly step up security and let him know we suspect something.”

I nodded. “Yes sir.” I replied curtly, we had passed the joking and planning, and it was game time. Everything from this point onwards was serious.

John pointed at the pendant around my neck, “You will be contacted by our Damascus team on arrival, but there will be no transmission after you are picked up by Dujani’s men, We can be sure they will be monitoring communications, so you will arrange an extract word, and the only time you will communicate with Damascus station, is when all hell breaks loose, are we clear?

“Perfectly sir.”

“Then I will see you when you get back Miss Cohen,” he smiled as he stood and offered me his hand. “Good luck.”

I shook the proffered hand and smiled nervously. “I hope it isn’t required sir.”

My flight was scheduled to leave in 5 hours from Heathrow, so I had some time to kill. After the goodbyes with the team, Harriet and I left Vauxhall Cross, The atmosphere was too tense for my liking; it made me nervous. It was near lunch time, so we drove to a small Pub just out of town for a quiet lunch, and a more personal goodbye.

I picked at my lasagne, as we sat quietly in the pub garden. I knew this would be hard for us, but that it had to come eventually. She was a Field Officer, and I suppose I was to… We would part, and return to each other, but this was the first time, and no matter how I rationalised things, It was going to be the hardest. Our romance was still blossoming. We had been an item scarcely two weeks, and I was going out of the country on her majesty’s service, I could die… It was a strange thought to have, sat eating lunch outside a quiet surrey pub with the one I loved, but it was real. I hadn’t thought about it so much in the past. I supposed that the times I had done it with the met were no comparison, I had backup, I was in England, in my turf… This was abroad, in their territory, alone. It sounds so selfish to think that the one thing that worried me the most was that I had something to lose now. I had always expected my parents would be devastated if I died, but this was different, a different love… I didn’t want to hurt Harriet by dying. I was surprised when I realised that this girl business had not factored once in my mental battle, the idea made me giggle aloud.

“What’s so funny?” Harriet asked softly, cocking her head to one side.

“Nothing really,” I shrugged. “I was just running through all the horrid things that could happen, and I realised that I didn’t Include the female part anymore.”

Harriet smiled. “It’s scary I know, I’ve been there,” she said squeezing my hand. “This is the worst bit, believe me, but you will come home, and you will come back to me.”

“I know,” I replied quietly, unable to meet her eyes. “The thought of losing you is…” I began, unable to find the words.

Harriet leant forwards across the table and kissed me gently on the lips. We sat for a moment, just kissing softly, holding hands till she broke the kiss. “You will come home,” she said softly yet firmly. “I wouldn’t let them send you if I didn’t think you were ready you know,” she smiled. “You can do this.”

I bit my lip and nodded. “I will.”

 

Chapter 13

As the airliner soared through the afternoon sky, I watched the clouds float past like leaves on water. I couldn’t help but think about my life up to now. It seemed so narcissistic to be flying along in first class, sipping my wine and wondering about who I really was. My departure from Harriet had been tearful, I’m sure we created quite a scene as we kissed goodbye in the bustling terminal. I didn’t care, and neither did she. I swore I would return to her, I didn’t intend to break that promise.

Who was I? It seemed an innocuous enough question, but I wasn’t sure I knew the answer. I knew right now who I was meant to be, but I was quite unsure who me was exactly.
It wasn’t a question of my gender; that much I had cleared in my head. I was a girl but I couldn’t describe myself as a woman yet, only that I was female. That was a part of me, but not the keystone of my life, a defining feature. I was Sharon Cohen, but who was she?
I had spent my life playing a role, being who I was expected to be; it wasn’t my life.
I knew what music I liked, what foods I loved, but it wasn’t enough. The realisation that I wasn’t as I had thought was akin to a form of amnesia: I had woken up and I didn’t really know who I was beyond the obvious. There was more depth to Anastasia Zanov, an imaginary character than my own personality. I loved Harriet, but I wasn’t sure the label of lesbian fitted me very well; it wasn’t something I held to my breast as a personal identification. There would be time to investigate myself once we returned. Right now, I had a job to do, and my job was to protect the country… That much I was sure of.

After several tense hours of in flight movies, and mediocre food, the plane began its decent into Damascus International Airport, Syria. We landed shortly after 6pm, local time. Once the plane was secured and the rigmarole taxiing about complete, I was allowed to alight with the other first class passengers and joined the International line at immigration. As the line grew shorter and I approached the desk, I felt a surge of adrenaline rush through me and I fingered my Russian passport nervously.
Finally, I reached the window, and handed my passport to the bored looking guard with a weak smile.

“What is the purpose of your visit?” he asked, flipping through my passport.

“Business,” I replied dismissively, turning the corner of my mouth upwards in a half grin.

“You have return ticket?” he asked holding the stamp above my passport.

I lifted the ticket from my bag and showed the guard. He nodded and stamped my passport. “Enjoy your stay in Syria Miss,” he smiled mechanically, waving me through.

I had expected more, but to him, I had just been another passenger on another day; I don’t know how I expected him to see through me, but I knew it wouldn’t be the last feeling like that on this mission.

Collecting my bag from the carousel, I walked slowly through to the arrivals area, and made for the exit to the airport. Our contact had told me that I would be met by one of Dujani’s men and escorted to his residence. I purposefully held back from exiting the airport.

I turned on my transmitter, and bit my lip. “I’ve landed.” I said quietly, to myself, hoping I didn’t appear to be a madwoman, after a moment, I was answered.

“Welcome to Syria Miss Cohen,” announced a voice in my ear. It was unnerving to hear it so loudly, but I maintained my calm. “What is the plan?” I asked the poster I was looking at.

“You leave the airport, and meet your contact,” the voice came, “He’s waiting by the coffee stand in the main terminal building, Our men have him flagged, he’s alone, so we are safe to talk here.”

“We?” I asked with surprise.

“Yes, we.” Came a voice from my opposite ear, I spun to face a businessman in his early 40s, briefcase in hand, grin on his lips. “The boys at home do keep producing more attractive Field Officers don’t they?” he grinned.

I grinned slightly, feeling playful, I looked him up and down obviously, “Pity the Damascus team has not got the update yet.” I replied coyly.

“Ouch,” he chuckled, “Not bad. Look, I’m Terry Anderson, I’m Damascus station chief, I just wanted to meet you before you go under. We have your back, and we can pull you out if the shit hits the proverbial.”

I nodded. “I’m glad, what’s the exit word?”

Terry grinned lecherously. “I think ‘sex kitten’ will do, don’t you?”

I groaned, “You guys don’t get out much do you?” I asked over my shoulder as I walked towards the arrivals door. “I hope I don’t have to use that, goodbye Terry.” I called, as I slipped through the door.
Clearing my mind of the humorous exchange, I fixed a mask of nonchalance on my face, and walked through the door into the bustling terminal.

I had made it past the arrivals area, and was beginning to wonder what I would do if the person was not here, or did not recognise me; I purposefully ignored the Coffee stand.

“Ms Zanov?”

I turned and looked up at an extremely large Syrian man He was around 6’4, and broad; the hired muscle sort.

“Yes,” I replied blankly.

“I am here to take you to meet a mutual friend.”

I nodded, and followed the man as he walked out towards the main exit. I drew level with him as we walked, “You have me at a disadvantage.” I offered innocently. “You know my name…” I added, hoping he took the hint.
“I am Hafiz,” he offered in a demure tone, “Mr Dujani has told me to see to your every need and then bring you to him.”

I glanced across at the man as we stepped out into the scorching sun and lowered my shades. “My every need?” I asked coyly.

“Ah, Ms Zanov, I am not…” he began, confusion evident on his bearded face.

My sly chuckle seemed to put him at ease.

I looked up at Hafiz and smiled. “My needs are to finish this job, shall we go directly?”

“Ms Zanov,” he replied, leading me over to a sleek black Mercedes. He opened the rear door for me and I slipped into the cool air conditioned interior. Hafiz lifted my case into the boot, and took his place behind the wheel. His size was not deceptive, as the car visibly sank as he took his seat.
Hafiz pilled out into the busy traffic and began to head into the city proper. We didn’t talk during the journey. I could see Hafiz occasionally watch me through the mirror as I pretended to ignore him.

“You would tell me if I had something on my face, no?” I asked after he looked for what must have been the hundredth time in the space of 10 minutes.

“No Ms Zanov, I mean of course. Sorry,” he muttered looking away.

“What is it?” I asked, now more curious than ever.

“Are you really the mercenary Mr Dujani has hired?” He asked, looking at me as we crawled through the traffic near the Damascus tower. “It is just… you do not look like a soldier,” he added sheepishly.

I narrowed my eyes, wondering if he was mocking me. “Yes I am,” I replied softly, with no emotion. “He has hired me to do a job, I am a professional, if you cannot accept that, maybe it is a good thing he called me after all.”

Hafiz chuckled. “I mean no disrespect. You just do not look like a soldier; you are a little woman…”

“And just what does that mean?” I asked feeling my anger rise. “I’m not upto the job because I don’t have a cock?” I asked in an accusing tone, immediately aware how ironic that question had been.
Hafiz Laughed openly. “Do not get angry little one. I do not think less of you, It is just… you are far more attractive than most females that I have come across in this line of work.”

“Oh,” I blushed, not really sure how to follow such a statement. “Thanks, I guess.”

“And I do not doubt your skill, I have heard of some of your previous work, you are quite the professional.”

I nodded, looking out the window. A funny thought struck me, why was the gopher sent to collect me privy to my employment history, fake or otherwise? I was positive that things were not as they appeared on the surface; I would need to watch things more closely.

We pulled in to a compound in the old quarter of the city. There was heavy security. The men were quite innocuous to the untrained eye; leaning against a wall smoking a cigarette, or reading in a chair, they appeared casual, but I could see the compound was under tight guard, just what was I walking into?

Hafiz left the car, and made his way around to open my door. As he did so, I felt the oppressive heat slap me in the face; this would be a long trip. I wanted to remove my jacket as the oppressive heat caused me to sweat more profusely, but I was very aware of my bare arms bellow, it was not done…. The thought reminded me of the scarf I had placed in my bag before leaving which I now removed and wrapped about my hair.

Hafiz retrieved my suitcase, and I followed him into the house where I was met by a middle-aged woman that introduced herself as Fatima.

“Mr Dujani is expecting you Ms Zanov, would you like to freshen up before meeting him? You must have had a long journey?”

I nodded and smiled, following Fatima up to a room she informed me, was mine.

“Is there anything you need?” she asked.

“No thank you,” I smiled, “Wait, excuse me?” I called as she turned closing the door.

“Yes child?”

“I ah, I am not sure about the social behaviour expected of me,” I asked, indicating the headscarf. “Is there anything I should know? I have never been to a Muslim country before.”

Fatima chuckled. “You are Mr Dujani’s guest, he would not ask you to do so when In his residence, although you should cover your body and hair when outside,” she smiled. “Please come down to the main hall in half an hour.”

I thanked her, and she left.

I sat down on the large bed in the room and took in my surroundings. The walls were white, and the furniture a soft mahogany. The linen curtains fluttering in the breeze from the open windows that looked out over the city. I pulled the scarf from my hair and let it fall to the bed beside me. I was in deep now; I was in the house of a known terrorist, alone, in a foreign country. I gritted my teeth as I felt myself begin to shake. “Pull yourself together.” I growled to myself out loud. I shook my head, clearing the thoughts that kept creeping in, and stood, pulling the jacket from my body. I began to strip before slipping gratefully under the cool jets of the shower in the ensuite bathroom.

Half an hour later, I descended the stairs of the house feeling refreshed. I wore sandals, beige loose linen trousers, and a simple white blouse. I felt clean and cool for the first time in this country. I had carefully applied just a little makeup to befit my professional image.

Fatima appeared from an archway as I reached the base of the stairs, “Ms Zanov.” She asked submissively. “I trust you are refreshed?”

“Thank you.” I smiled honestly. “I feel human again.”

Fatima’s lips twitched, before she turned, leading me through into a central open courtyard where several men were sat around a table, under the shade of the building.

I recognised Dujani immediately.

The man rose, clasping his hands together. “Miss Zanov, you are well?” he asked dramatically as he approached. I offered him my hand, which he theatrically kissed before turning towards the men at the table. “Gentlemen, this is Miss Anastasia Zanov, She is here to… streamline certain concerns.”

The 5 men stood, offering my various hands to shake before Dujani offered me a seat. “A drink my dear?” He asked politely. His accent was a curious mix; there was a hint of Midwestern US, and European accents coupled with his Syrian accent that I couldn’t understand, his appearance and behaviour was not in keeping with my brief: The rat I smelt earlier obviously had friends over for wine and cheese...

I nodded appreciatively, “Water would be fine.”

“Come now,” he smiled, “a glass of champagne with us?” he offered, indicating the men’s glasses.

“I thought it was not done to drink alcohol?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Dujani looked at me curiously. “This may be a Muslim country, but I like to believe this,” he said gesturing at the compound around us, “Is our little enclave of civilisation.”

It clicked… “You are not a Muslim?” I asked, with too much shock to escape suspicion.

“No.” he chuckled. “I am a Syrian Jew.”

I looked at the men around the table, I hadn’t noticed before, but every one of them was drinking alcohol… They were not Muslim… Things began to rattle around in my brain at light speed. “My mistake,” I smiled, accepting the glass that a waiter offered.

I think we should perhaps walk and talk?” Dujani announced, his eyes fixed on mine, in such a way to let me know that it was not an offer, but a command.

“Gentlemen,” he acknowledged, getting up from the table.

I excused myself, and walked over to Dujani, and followed him as we walked out of the courtyard and through an archway into the gardens of the residence.

“I believe we are on different wavelengths,” he announced more fact than question. “I wonder why that is.”

“I presumed incorrectly,” I stated flatly, “My apologies.”

“You got an offer of employment in this part of the world, from someone with my name, it is simple to presume my dear,” he smiled dismissively.

“Of course, you’re employers could have told you this, along with your legend as the mysterious but false Anastasia Zanov,” he added in an offhand manner, with no hint of emotion: My blood ran cold.

“Er, what are you saying? Of course my name is Anastasia Zanov.” I spat with as much indignation as I could muster. “And I work for myself thank you.”

He turned to me and chuckled. “Maintaining your cover is naturally your job. I would expect little else from you, allow me my musings?”

I nodded weakly.

“When you entered the car at the airport, my man Hafiz scanned you, of course, your equipment is state of the art, and does not emit a very visible signature. It is not traceable with commercial or… accessible equipment.” He added, raising his eyebrows.

It clicked; He was with some Intelligence service also, I had been found out by those in my own game.

“Your legend is deep, and comprehensive, but if such a woman existed, believe me, we would have her on our radar.” Dujani smiled conspiratorially. “I have had enough of smoke and mirrors, we expected an agent to attempt to infiltrate this cell, and we allowed it, yes. I do however, require some level of honesty from you my girl. While I abhor the methods of some of my contemporaries, they will help us discover the truth if you choose to remain silent.”

I felt truly sick as I slumped down on the edge of the ornamental fountain we were stood by. I had been discovered, he was toying with me, and I was dead. So much for my super spy career, my new ambition in life was a swift painless death.

“MI6.” I said quietly, looking at the floor. “Get it over with please, give me that much?” I asked, looking up at Dujani with a pleading expression. The fear was gone, I looked back at the ground and waited to die. As numb as I felt, and as scared as I was, the tears rolling down my cheeks were for Harriet, not me. I was going to let her down.


 
To Be Continued...

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Comments

Keep it coming

More, MORE, more please. This is great

MI6 say hello to Mosad.

RAMI

I think perhaps Dujani, a Syrian Jew, is Mosad. And, Sharon or Mike Cohen has found a landsman (a term for a fellow Jew - relating back to Eastern European Shetl). Perhaps once this is established Sharon will not be in as much danger as she perceives now.

Interesting turn of events that the cover is blown so quickly. I doubt that MI6 is so clueless to blow the case, so is this actually a setup. A way to get Sharon into a sityation that would otherwise be difficult.

But, if I'm wrong, then the game is up. However, I do not think the story will end so quickly.

RAMI

P.S. Belladona, I am glad that you decided to continue to post, and not stop, like you indicated you might do, because of the controversy at "Sister's Pet". Thanks for doing so.

RAMI

Well technically

she is not a Jew as her MOTHER is not a Jew, since Jewishness is a matrilineal thing.

Her mother is implied as being Christian since Cohen is a Jewish name and in that chapter her parent's marriage is mentioned as an interfaith one.

Finally, on a different topic, I can see now how Sharon does not have to have children since she is not an only child.

Kim

>> Sharon does not have to have children

Puddintane's picture

There is no religious requirement for *any* Jewish woman to marry *or* have children. That particular mitzvah is incumbent only upon men, so the issue is contingent only upon whether Sharon is a woman or not.

Puddin'

-

Cheers,

Puddin'

A tender heart is an asset to an editor: it helps us be ruthless in a tactful way.
--- The Chicago Manual of Style

loophole

The pill isn't always 100% effective, so Sharon might already have a kid on the way.

Sharon

Lovely, engrossing, precious, sweet can I say...more, more, more. I'm captivated a combination of a love story and a mystery with middle eastern twists and turns. I eagerly await a long, long series.
I loved it, I was thinking to my self today," when will Sharon be back........... Great. Mary.

Cliffhanger

Once again Alyssa you've excelled yourself and like all good serials you,ve left it on a cliffhanger .... I can,t belive you would end it here. So that makes me think much as Rami does that Dujani must be working for another intelligence organisation...maybe Mossad ...maybe someone else...
Like all good stories the plot just gets deeper and more interesting... I just can't wait to find out what happens next, And i really hope we don't have too wait too long... My nerves won't stand it

Hugs Kirri

Ya know

this only reminds me as to how much I absolutely HATE cliffhangers. I suspect there is a mole at MI6 and she was rumbled because of that. Question is, how is she going to get out of it.

Kim

Keep it going

A great place to stop. I like the story line twist. Makes it more interesting. Can't wait for the next installment.

hugs,
Trish-Ann

Hugs,
Trish Ann
~There is no reality, only perception~

1st rule

Never, never, ever, break cover. Make them prove it. I hope he is Mossad, for her sake, otherwise, she is very dead. Its all way too easy, so far. Got to be some tricks and turns somewhere. We haven't seen much of the actual plot yet.

edit. I suppose its always possible the team is CIA, they always seem to be involved in stuff up to their ears.

either way its not good than she was picked up and turned so quickly. If they do turn out to be allies, how do they explain her vanishing and popping back up and how does she get to the meet. It doesn't look good.

Eeek!

Well, that was a quick mission.
I hope our little sex kitten can get out of this one.

Cruel Punishment

Now that was just cruel ending it there.

~Lili

Write the story that you most desperately want to read.

“No.” he chuckled. “I am a Syrian Jew.”

NoraAdrienne's picture

If that is the truth, it will be interesting when Sharon gives her Hebrew name and adds "Ha Cohein"
Maybe something like Sharona Mirriam Bat Avraham Moshe ha Cohen

It should set off quite a nice set of fireworks. LOL... tzachak tzachak tzachak

Adina Nechama Bat Efraim Yosef of Ledino Descent

I don't think Sharon/Mike has thought that far ahead.

I doubt that Sharon/Mike would have thought that far ahead. S/he just made the Sharon from Mike change. If s/he does try to make a connection and s/he knows her Jewish name, s/he would more likely respond by introducing themself as Mordechai or Matisyahu or Mikhael BEN Avraham Moshe. And if Mike did not have a Jewish upbringing he might not know to add ha Cohen. And since, as Kimmie stated he according to halacha is not Jewish, he might not know anything about his Jewishness at all. If he did introduce himself with a male Jewish name things might get even more difficult.

Adina Nechama I hope you had a Happy Pesach.

Do you know Ladino? If so, it is important for you to teach it to your others (your children) since it is a language in danger of disappearing. And may you go from strength to strength.

For those who do not know, Ladino is a language that Jews from Spain, Portugal, Albania, Greece and Turkey, along with some Sephardi from Tunisia, Algeria and Morocco spoke. Ladino is to Spanish as Yiddish is to German. Ladino however is much more rare.

RAMI

RAMI

It depends on whose halacha...

Puddintane's picture

Amongst Reform Jews, the child of an interfaith marriage is halachically Jewish if the parents have unambiguously raised the child as Jewish, and if the child has participated in Jewish lifecycle events such as being bat or bar mitzvah.

It's essentially a very abbreviated "conversion," and has probably been the unacknowledged rule in the diaspora for thousands of years. According to genetic studies, almost all Ashkenazi (European) Jews are descended from racially "Jewish" ancestors, yet most of their maternal mitochondria are European. What this means is that much of the "Diaspora" was not accomplished "two by two," as in the Ark, but that Jewish men set off alone and found non-Jewish wives who may or may not have converted before (or after) bearing "Jewish" children.

This issue excited the interest of the Rabbis, and the general feeling was that one shouldn't enquire too deeply, as there was a strong possibility of exposing innocent parties to scandal and impaired halachic status, since whether or not a woman is halachicaly Jewish determines whether she is required to obtain a religious "get" (a divorce decree) before remarriage.

It's also entirely possible that he is Jewish because he converted to Judaism at some point, not entirely uncommon when a woman of "The Nations" marries a Jewish man.

Puddin'

-

Cheers,

Puddin'

A tender heart is an asset to an editor: it helps us be ruthless in a tactful way.
--- The Chicago Manual of Style

One argument why Jewishness follows the mother.

RAMI

One of the practical arguments why Jewishness followed the woman, was that, a child's mother is always known. While the father's identity can be unknown. Therefore, a child of a Jewish mother raised in a Jewish community could claim Jewishness. This became important, not as a question of the mother's morals or out of wedlock sexual activity, but as a result of rape. For ages immemorial, (still occcurs in places like Dafur) rape was an activity indulged in by armies and mobs.

During the crusades and later the pogroms, Jewish women were raped. Abortion, was either unavailable or frowned upon (Judaism while discouraging it, allows for abortion when the woman's life or health is in jeopardy, including severe mental health problems). By assuring that their children, would be recognized as Jewish, despite who the father might be, both the mother and child were protected by the child being accepted in the community and not ostracized.

While most Jews have dark hair, the occasional blond or red head shows up. It is surmised that this is as a result of Viking raids (and rapes) during the period of 850 ACE to 1150 ACE.

RAMI

RAMI

Of course the 'rape' argument was always a good way to hide...

Hope Eternal Reigns's picture

Hi RAMI,

Women have always had to be much sneakier about their promiscuity than men. During any war they could pick and choose whomever they found enticing, easily claiming afterward that it was a case of rape, whether or not it really was. I could easily see where the exotic difference of tall, blond, muscular invaders from a distant land, might be more attractive to some women than the cookie-cutter sameness of swarthy, compact, dark-haired local yokels.

On the other hand a man 'going out for a quickie' REALLY doesn't want to have the hassle of having his 'wild oats' 'come home to roost' to use a rather fractured mixed metaphor.

Women of the Jewish faith must have been very persuasive to trick their religious leaders into that whole 'if the mother is Jewish so is the child' thing, no matter what the characteristics of the child. That way 'stepping out' would not break up the family unit and the 'provider' they had actually chosen to be the 'head' of the household would continue to 'bring home the bacon', as it were or rather the kosher equivalent. Naturally this also allowed the Jewish men to completely disavow any children fathered on any women other than their wives.

Today paternity can be absolutely identified by DNA testing, making extra-marital sex much more chancy for all involved.

Just a few thoughts on the matter.

with love,

Hope

with love,

Hope

Once in a while I bare my soul, more often my soles bear me.

False cries of "Rape"

RAMI

Hope, your knowledge of history, and what happens to women during war, must be sorely lacking.

Is it truly your belief that a woman who just saw a Cossack, ride horseback into your small village (Shetel), use his Sabre to behead your husband, then tramples your two year old under the hooves of his horse, dismounts, flays your eight year old over a fire and then has sex with you, is not rape. It something she wants. This is what occurred during the Bohdan Chelminiski pogroms.

Do you truly believe that the real facts are as you describe them of her being attracted to this tall, blond, muscular invader from a distant land, and he might be more attractive to her then the cookie-cutter sameness of swarthy, compact, dark-haired local yokels.

Perhaps you have read too many romance novels, where a knight in shining armor falls for the lovely maiden, and she has sex with him behind her husband’s back. That’s not real life.

I am not sure where you live, but most likely it is in the U.S., the U.K. or Canada. You should thank what-ever deity you believe in, or your lucky stars, that you do not live in a place like Dafur or Somalia. Do you think that women in those countries have an attraction for men with machine guns having sex with you. Do you think having sex with a man with a knife at your throat while that is happening is something any woman would want.

RAMI

RAMI

>> too many romance novels...

Puddintane's picture

Actually, this doesn't happen all that often in women's romance novels. I've read quite a few (many thousands, over the years) and have never run across a single instance.

Where I *have* seen similar situations is in men's pornography, where it is a staple, along with the egomaniacal delusion that all women prefer being raped, and and the grandiose assumption that they inevitably "like" it despite their empty protestations to the contrary and apparent violent struggles to prevent it.

Puddin'

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Cheers,

Puddin'

A tender heart is an asset to an editor: it helps us be ruthless in a tactful way.
--- The Chicago Manual of Style

Porno or Romance Novels

RAMI

I have never read a romance novel, so I may be wrong about them. My point that Hope's contention about crying rape, is misguided, is still unchanged.

RAMI

RAMI

The traditional protagonist...

Puddintane's picture

...in women's romance novels is a plucky single woman, sometimes widowed or divorced, or at most with an on-again/off-gain relationship with a guy who drifts in and out of the picture, and that sort of "hook-up" relationship usually seen only in "edgy" women's adventure stories, not romance novels per se. She is attractive, but never a stunning beauty, and always has some flaw, because the reader is supposed to sympathise with her at least, and identify with her to some extent at least, or she won't finish the book.

A woman who is cheating on an innocent party in a long-term relationship is almost by definition not a terribly sympathetic character to most women, so these books (if any) don't get published.

It would be something like the hero of a men's adventure novel being a whimpering coward who is also stupid, clumsy, and ugly.

I agree with your criticism completely, if that weren't obvious, and only quibbled with the idea that one can come to this scandalous conclusion through reading women's romance novels.

Puddin'
-----------------
That love is all there is
is all we know of love.
-- Emily Dickinson

P.S. Here's a traditional short romance novel, if you want to see what they normally look like:

http://www.romantic4ever.com/romance-novel/index.html

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Cheers,

Puddin'

A tender heart is an asset to an editor: it helps us be ruthless in a tactful way.
--- The Chicago Manual of Style

The traditional justification...

Puddintane's picture

...is that Judaism is based in the home, and that women are better equipped to teach Jewish *values*, being more in touch with chesed, which are more important than mere Jewish knowledge, the teaching of which to boys was arguably assigned to men.

This general theme is played in many stories about learned Rabbis who are saved by the merit of their wives, because of their Chesed, and Israel itself was rescued from bondage because of the Chesed of Sarah.

On the other hand, for around two thousand years, Jewishness probably followed the father. And then the Jews fell under Roman law, which said that children belonged to the father, even in cases of rape as you say, and the law was changed gradually, finally becoming fixed around 200 CE, but there were other forces at work.

Some commentators push this back to Egypt, and say the law was changed at that time to accommodate Pharaoh's putative order to kill all the male Jews, but this fails to account for the fact that the Talmud records considerable confusion and differing opinions about the eternal question, "Who is a Jew?"

After the destruction of the Temple, the Rabbis searched for a guaranty for the salvation of Israel, and found it in Chesed in partnership with Torah, more-or-less dividing the two spheres between men (who studied Torah) and women (who practised Chesed). It was during this period that women who were "Overseers of Tzeddekah" received special privileges, for example, any Israelite woman who was an overseer of charity was permitted to marry into the Priesthood without her paternal ancestry undergoing scrutiny, and women in general were promised a greater reward than were men (b.Berakhot 17a) because of their Chesed.

Likewise, it was during this period that Gentile women were permitted to undergo conversion in their own right, and great Rabbis took their wives's or mother's names as surnames, Hillel, for example, was described as Hillel bar Ation, after his wife's family, and Rabbi Mari bar Rachel and Abba Shaul bar Miriam took the names of their mothers as surnames.

Puddin'

-

Cheers,

Puddin'

A tender heart is an asset to an editor: it helps us be ruthless in a tactful way.
--- The Chicago Manual of Style

Again, it depends on where you were...

Puddintane's picture

My own family was from Denmark and the Lowlands, and many (including me) are blonde with blue eyes. In civilised countries, after the Enlightenment, many gentiles, both men and women, converted to Judaism because it better reflected their deist or panentheist beliefs, or because they fell in love with Jews and weren't averse to converting.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/7711591@N04/842141710/

In Slavic regions, Eastern Europe, dark hair was the rule, although intermarriage took place even there, but in Brittany, elsewhere in France, the Lowlands, Western and Northern Germany, and Scandinavia, blonde hair was and is quite common, as the photo shows.

Puddin'

-

Cheers,

Puddin'

A tender heart is an asset to an editor: it helps us be ruthless in a tactful way.
--- The Chicago Manual of Style

wow....

This is going out of control....

HOW did rape come up?

Look, ill spell it out, Sharon is not Jewish... The name is merely her getting in touch with her roots... and a name her father wanted for a daughter...

Harriet is not pregnant, Sharon is not a father.

There is only so much speculation that can go on in these comments... i fear this one has gone out of control...

As for women 'using' rape as an 'excuse' Thats such a narrow minded male view.... its like saying 'she wore that short skirt, she wanted it!

Yes, some women have cried rape. Consider the stigma 'a quickie' has for a female in the western world? compared to a male?

Stud and slut.... not really very fair huh? As for during war time, most women would NOT fraternise with the enemy... SOME did, SOME do, but they are generally not so botherd about being seen as colaborators... women do get raped during war, its a horrid part... this topic has gone from speculations about my writing and its direction, to a VERY dangerous place.... I hope we can not throw such suggestions around in future...

Alyssa

A few lapses of plausibility

It was not clear how the contact man at the Coffee Stand would know her. Had she sent a picture? I would have been nice if she'd been made privy to the actual application process.

Still, I like your writing style and the story is entertaining. Thank you.

Gwendolyn

Everything the comments have said were interesting, but!

No one has yet grasped the fact that Sharon has not been made, they still think she is a girl!

If there had been a leak in MI6 they would know wouldn't they?

Great story Alyssa

LoL
Rita

Age is an issue of mind over matter.
If you don't mind, it doesn't matter!
(Mark Twain)

LoL
Rita

Focal Point - Chapter 12 & 13

Deep under cover, how does she survive now that her cover is blown?

    Stanman
May Your Light Forever Shine
    Stanman
May Your Light Forever Shine