He was to prove his worth when he personally transported the explosives to his Hezballah comrades, which they then used to bomb the U.S. embassy annex in East Beirut.

Now he was in Paris to round up a three-man suicide squad from among the malcontent Arabs in the Goute D'Or. These volunteers had no idea they were completely dispensable; and, anyway, the money put up by Hussein's Libyan contacts was more than they could refuse. The American Secretary of State was due to arrive next week for top-level talks in Paris. The lithe Iranian relished the idea of striking another blow against the hated imperialist warmongers. He walked down the entrance tunnel. The air was stale with garlic and Gauloises. A train was approaching. Hussein squeezed his way through the safety gate just in time. There were only two other people in the carriage. Hussein remained standing close to the door and exited at the next stop. Hussein waited till the very last moment before stepping out onto the platform. The olive-skinned assassin was taking every precaution. He turned back toward the exit and almost bumped into the one other passenger to get off from the car behind.

He was big for a Frenchman, the Iranian thought, taking in the stained raincoat and greasy beret. Must be drunk, Hussein deduced, as the odor of cheap wine wafted to his nostrils.

The tipsy traveler lurched across the deserted platform. He said something but it was too slurred for Hussein to catch his meaning. One feeble hand wavered uncertainly toward the Iranian killer. Hussein lifted his arms to push the fellow away. He was not giving anything to an alcoholic panhandler.

But the man's right hand suddenly snaked forward with piston force. It caught Hussein completely unaware. He had no chance to ward off the lightning thrust of cold steel held in an iron grip. Five and a half inches of Vorpal blade slid between his ribs. Hussein could only gasp as the man clasped him in a final, fatal embrace.