The Final Cut

She was debating the wisdom of trying to kick one where it counted and dive off the cliff herself when she heard a man’s voice.

“Kitsune? Kitsune? Where are you? The boat is leaving. Come, my dear, where are you? We really must go.”

She saw a tall beautifully dressed stranger wearing a panama hat come around the building and stare at the four men surrounding her. He paused, then said, “What’s this, then, lads?” His Italian was impeccable, and he spoke in the Neapolitan dialect. But he wasn’t Italian, she thought, he was too fair, too tall, despite his jacket draped casually over his shoulder, hooked on a finger, like all the European men’s. Maybe he was American. Or British. His pale skin was slightly sunburned, and despite the shock of too-long white hair covered by a straw fedora, she made him in his early forties. Old enough to be a father, but this man didn’t look like anyone’s beloved daddy.

The four men stood stock-still, wondering what to do.

The man turned to her with an avuncular smile and said in charming English, “Kitsune, what have you done, my dear? Didn’t I tell you to join us for lunch at Palazzo Petrucci? You shouldn’t be out wandering the piazzas by yourself.”

She shook her head, unsure of his game, cursing herself for her stupidity. To get caught over an insignificant trifle, she was disgusted with herself. She’d been thinking about ru

The stranger began speaking again, directly to the foursome. Bless the gods, within moments, they were all laughing like old friends. She saw money pass among the men, a larger amount to the owner.

The stranger turned to her. “Come with me, you naughty girl.” He took her arm and led her away. What should she do? Fight? Run? Come along quietly?

No, better to wait. One man, this was much better odds. When they were a block away, she began to struggle, and he stopped abruptly. He turned to her, his smile gone. “Listen to me, you silly girl. You owe me your life. You must trust me.”

“I owe you nothing. I would have jumped and swum back to the ship. No problem.”

He’d stared at her, his thumb cutting into the soft flesh under her biceps. And he laughed. “Sorry, my dear, but you would have landed in a heap of rocks.” He snapped his fingers. “Then there’d be no more Kitsune.”

“Maybe so, but I won’t go with you. You’ll rape me like those men wanted to.”

He looked sad for a moment, then shrugged and knocked her on the head with his fist. She was out cold, then she was floating, rocking. She slowly awoke. She was on a small sailboat, baking in the afternoon sun.

Now she knew what he was. He was a slaver and he was going to sell her to some sheik. She rolled to her feet and dove off the side of the boat into the Bay of Naples.

The man was above-decks, drinking an espresso and reading. He heard her go in, dashed to the side of the boat, and called after her, “It’s more than a mile back to shore. I’m not going to hurt you. Swim back. I have a business proposition for you. See the white villa up there? It’s my home. We’ll go up and eat. If you don’t like my idea, you may leave. I want nothing from you but an hour of your time. You have my word.”

There was humor in his voice, and the fact was, she wasn’t the best swimmer. She looked up at the house he’d pointed to—a huge sprawling monolith, all white stucco, four stories, set into the cliff. She assumed this was Capri, seventeen nautical miles west of Naples.

She swam back and climbed the ladder. She sat her dripping self on the deck and stared at him.

He threw her a towel.

She said, “No sex.”

He touched his chest as if wounded. “Certainly not. I am an honorable man. I could be your father.”

Father? Yeah, right. “Then what do you want?”

He smiled. “Lunch. Are you hungry?”

She nodded. She was still young enough to be bribed with the offer of food, particularly after her very busy morning.

“Good. My name is Mulvaney.”

He closed the book, and she saw the title. She didn’t realize the significance until much, much later. He was reading Invisible Man.

44

It was an unlikely friendship, but every mentor needed a protégée, every master needed an apprentice, every Svengali needed an acolyte, so Mulvaney told her.

She stayed the hour on his veranda, listening to him talk while they ate olives and bread and cheese and drank wine. He gave her a glass of limoncello when they were finished, and by then she was hooked, and maybe a little drunk.

Mulvaney was rich, and bored. He was also best known for his alliance with some French nationals involved in a failed attempt to assassinate François Mitterrand, and so was in a kind of pseudo-retirement on Capri until the hubbub died down. Being known, being recognized, was anathema to his purposes. This was his home base, the place he brought no one. No one but Kitsune.

He told her he needed a partner, and a female of her tender years, with a lovely face and figure, would be perfect for what he had in mind—namely, to distract the guards of a Russian industrialist while he went into the man’s crude computer and moved his files onto a computer disk, then made his escape.

Was she interested? He’d asked her in fluent Russian. She said yes, in fluent Russian. When his eyes flew open in shock, she casually told him languages came easily to her. He clapped his hands together and laughed.

“I had a feeling about you. Standing there, spitting like an angry cat, caught in the act, the ring in your hand—you did manage to keep it, didn’t you?”

She fished the ring from her pocket and set it on the table.

He nodded, and she caught the tone of respect when he said, “Very good, Kitsune. You kept your priorities straight.” The smile on his face made her feel warm and happy. It had been a very long time since anyone approved of anything about her. Her parents had been shocked when she’d stolen a watch at the tender age of nine. Ah, well, they were gone, had been for three years now. And she’d been off on her adventures, she liked to call them.

At the end of the meal and drink, they made a bargain. She’d help him with the Russian job, and if they were successful, she would stay on, learn what he could teach, and he would send her out as his replacement until it was safe for him to return to France.

Her role was to steal what she was hired to steal, do it cleanly, present the prize to the client, and return to him. And if she must, to kill. Whatever she had to do to complete the job.

In return, he would keep her safe and pay her handsomely.

She asked him why he called her Kitsune. He’d said simply, “Because you are as quick as a little fox, filled with cu

He took Kitsune’s natural talents and honed her into a weapon more lethal than a bullet, or a knife. She had the touch. A gift. She had the best hands in the business, and no bourgeois morals to ever sway her opinions or her actions. She could disappear at will, switch languages from one word to the next, change looks to add or subtract a decade. She could blend in anywhere. She had no conscience, no qualms. A job was a job, and she was the very best. She took great pride in her skills. She always basked in his approval when she returned, flushed with triumph and money ready for distribution to private accounts.