Holy Terror

Chapter One A piece of advice in case you ever find yourself on top of the dome of St. Peter's Basilica in Vatican City -- watch out for the cross at the very top of the spire. It is a hell of a lot sharper than you'd think. The roof tiles are pretty slippery, too, particularly the ones with the pigeon shit on them. On the other hand, the view is to die for. Especially if you're up there with a maniac who's waving a Beretta Model 12S 9mm submachine gun in your face. Yeah, I know what you're thinking: That Beretta's a great gun, but the frame tends to crack under the weight of too many hot rounds. The maniac would have been much better off with an H&K MP5; a lot less chance of a misfire. I would have pointed this out myself, but he didn't seem in the mood for constructive criticism. He had a shitass grin on his face, the sort that says, "Eat lead and die, Marcinko." The tips of my fingers started to sweat. They say the dome over St. Peter's is the biggest in the world, but at that moment it felt extremely small. When he swung the business end of the 12S toward me, it felt absolutely claustrophobic. My own weapon lay on the roof below, out of ammo. It looked like I had two options -- throw myself at him in the vain hope of somehow wrestling the gun from his paws before he managed to kill me, or... I couldn't think of an or, actually. But maybe I should explain how I came to be in such an exalted position in the first place. It's not every day that you get a private tour of the most famous rooftop in Christendom. And what got me out into the Roman sunshine wasn't your typical goatfuck...it was a trulyartisticone, the sort of thing that would have made Michelangelo proud. So let's go back to the beginning.... This particular adventure began with a fax that arrived at Rogue Manor on Christmas Eve a few months before. The sheet was blank except for a Web address in the middle of the page. It was a bit past 10 P.M., and Rogue Manor was empty except for yours truly. With nothing else to do but await the arrival of Ol' St. Nick, I turned on the computer and typed in the address, which mostly consisted of numbers and backslashes. I vaguely recall thinking I'd see a picture of Santa and one of his elves in a compromising position. Instead, I found myself looking at a page filled with type so small I had to hit the magnifier button three times. It turned out to be a turgid dissertation on the coming end of the "Crusader Epoch," the inevitable clash of "a great civilization with a decript [sic] one," and the unstoppable rise of the True People of the Book. Clement Moore, or whoever wrote "'Twas the Night Before Christmas," has nothing to worry about. We get tons of emails, faxes, and letters from whacko crazies at Rogue Manor, and this one probably would have faded into the hazy recesses of my mental round file except for the signature at the bottom of the Web page. The "communique of fervor" had been signed with the name "Saladin." In case obscure, failed world leaders doesn't happen to be your favoriteJeopardy!category, here's a quick info dump on Saladin: Also known as Salah al-Din and a half-dozen similar variations, Saladin was a twelfth-century Egyptian warrior who took Jerusalem from the crusaders. He built the wall that surrounds the old city and was the first pan-Arab to try to consolidate all Arab people under the green banner of Muhammad. He failed -- not for want of trying or low body count -- but has remained a source of inspiration ever since. Many an Arab leader has used him as a role model, reinterpreting history and the legend through his own distorted glasses. Nasser, Saddam Hussein, even the Shah of Iran viewed him as an inspiration. Osama bite-my-butt Laden didn't use the name, but it isn't hard to see parallels between his aims and Saladin's goal of a pan-Arab empire. Over the years I've had variousMarcinko, Richard is the author of 'Holy Terror ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780743422789 and ISBN 0743422783.