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hands in Operation Solomon. It’s like a marriage of convenience—no real love involved but it works for everyone concerned. Anyway, they didn’t let me dig here.”
    “You went in without government approval?” Holliday said. “That’s not like you.”
    “Well, I didn’t actually ‘dig,’” the archaeologist replied. “It was more like . . . uh, poking around.”
    “Now, there’s a scientific term.” Peggy snorted.
    As they approached the island Peggy started taking pictures from the bow with her Nikon digital.
    “The big island on your right is Tana Kirkos; the little one on the left, which is where we’re going, is Daset T’qit, which literally means just that in Amharic: small island.” He pointed to the bigger of the two. “Tana Kirkos was supposedly the resting place of the Ark of the Covenant for a time,” he added.
    “No more arks, please,” said Holliday. He’d had more than enough of them with the late Sister Meg and her viperous mother.
    “Any poisonous snakes or insects?” Peggy asked.
    “Dozens,” said Rafi, “which is why you’re wearing long trousers tucked into high boots. Everything from spitting cobras to green mambas, scorpions, centipedes and the occasional Nile crocodile. There’re a few dangerous plants, so don’t eat any berries or anything.”
    “For the love of Pete, Rafi, why do you always tell me this stuff when it’s too late to back out?” Peggy complained.
    “So you won’t back out,” explained Rafi, smiling broadly.
    They came up on the small island and Rafi backed off on the throttle. They slowed, slipping through the dark, placid waters. The island was completely covered by dense foliage rising right up from the edge of the water. There were shrubs, vines, trees and just plain jungle. The only sign of civilization was the cut-stone ruins of some sort of dock and what appeared to be a watchtower behind it.
    “Looks like the set for an Indiana Jones movie,” said Peggy. “I’m expecting to see Harrison Ford waving his hat and cracking his whip any second now.”
    “Nobody’s lived on Daset T’qit in a very long time, if ever,” said Rafi as he cut the tiny motor and drifted toward the dock.
    “Why did you choose this place?” Holliday said.
    “I didn’t,” said Rafi, using the tiller to guide the old boat between the stone arms of the dock. Holliday could see worn steps carved into the stone that went right down into the water. “I was doing research on the Ethiopian Beta Jews and their original settlements at Tana Kirkos, the bigger island. I just casually asked about Daset T’qit in passing, and one of my translators got really spooked, went white as a sheet. He told me the place was taboo and that its nickname was Maqabr Aswad Muslim—the Tomb of the Black Muslim.”
    “This gets us back to Ragnar Skull Splitter and his Arab friend, doesn’t it?” Holliday asked.
    “That’s right,” said Rafi. “Abdul al-Rahman.”
    “But I thought you said this was Roche-Guillaume’s tomb,” said Holliday.
    “It is.” Rafi grinned. Peggy looped the rope in the bow around a rock peg that looked as though it had been there for a thousand years. She stepped out of the boat onto the steps and trotted up to the top of the dock. Holliday and Rafi followed her up to the narrow stone pier at the head of the stairway.
    “It’s beautiful!” Peggy said. “It’s like one of the paintings by that French guy . . . the customs clerk. . . .”
    “Rousseau,” said Holliday. She was right; the solid mass of foliage in front of them was as detailed and exotic as one of the famous artist’s strange and wonderful jungle scenes. There was every shade of green, from forest shadow to vivid lime, celadon and emerald, pinks and reds and bright yellows. Smooth leaves and serrated, big and small, vines that curled up and around larger trees and huge gnarled roots dragging up from the rich black earth like the groping fingers of buried giants. The only thing