The miscreants had used thermite, for heaven’s sake. They’d made no attempt even to give the impression of a natural fire. His sources here in the village told him of visitors who’d arrived in a vehicle that fit the description of the very vehicle for which he’d been alerted to be on the lookout. By all accounts, the occupants of that vehicle were American military, and the presence of thermite certainly seemed to back that up.A second source told him of larger cooperation among the villagers. The sort of cooperation that was always disturbing, if only for its ability to spin out of control. Once you allowed peasants to feel powerful, the first casualty was respect for authority. And once people stopped fearing authority, violence was inevitable.So here he was, in the unlikeliest of places—a tiny country church—having to mete out discipline to the unlikeliest of people. “Father, be reasonable,” Palma said. “The questions I ask are simple to answer. It needn’t be this difficult.”Father Perón stood naked at the altar, his hands folded across his privates.
