“Who are you?”
She must have leaned forward. Her breath was warm in my ear, and she whispered her name. “Folana Fournaise.”
“Damn. I thought you’d been killed.”
“As you can see, reports of my demise have been exaggerated.” She’d run a syndicate of assassins in the early days of the cold war, had gone on to do freelance work for various agencies in Great Britain, France, and Germany, and finally was reported to have taken a bullet to the chest by someone from the KGB.
“Well, obviously. Would you mind if I turned around?”
“Slowly, if you please. I have been curious to meet you, Mr. Vincent.”
“And I you.” I turned and faced the woman who had gotten the drop on me. She was dressed in a severe black pantsuit. There was enough moonlight for me to see her clearly; she was beautiful. Althoug
