He swaggered to the far end of the line. He aimed the flashlight into the face of the first man, took him by the chin and swung his head to the side, to see him in profile. He said a word and the man backed out from the line, then turned and walked quickly toward the barrio, then ran.

     The next in line. The next. Next. Blinking in the light, standing for examination, running away when they were released. He went down the line and examined each one and sent each one away.

     When he finished the last one he said, “Hijo de puta.”

     He came over to me. He put his belly up against me and peered at me with a dire scowl that might have been comical at another time and place.

     The rifleman who had taken me said a few words. His officer said, “So you're not an enemy of the people. The people must be happy to hear that.”

     “I'm an American,” I said. “Look, my passport.”

     He let me take it out of my pocket. I gave it to him, and he put it under a flashlight.

     “See, and a safe-conduct pass from the general, and a note from Luis Correon.”

     He examined it all. The papers seemed to fascinate him.

     “You're looking for someone,” I said.

     “Remy Ortiz. NPA. Kumander Rocky.”

     “In Lanao?”

     “That is the report.”

     “Well, you can see, I'm not quite him.”

     One of the riflemen knotted a length of hemp from around his waist. He stepped behind me, grabbed my right arm and pinned it back. Another rifleman grabbed the left, and they tied the rope around my wrists.

     “My passport, I'm an American,” I said.