by Pamela Clare
Shanti wanted to tell him that she couldn’t go back. She had four witness interviews today, four interviews she could not miss, but he already knew that. She had agreed to abide by his decisions, and she would honor that agreement. But she didn’t have to like it. She let out a relieved breath when Connor told her they could go ahead with the day as planned.
“Jones, Cruz, you’re with me. The rest of you stay with the vehicles and be ready to join us or to leave at a moment’s notice.”
“You got it.”
Shanti turned to Isaksen. “What do you do all day while we’re at the hospital?”
“Keep watch. Crack some jokes.” He grinned, his Danish soft.
“That sounds awfully dull.”
“You’ve never served in the military, have you?” Malik chuckled. “Most of the time, it’s ‘hurry up and wait.’ We do a lot of waiting.”
All of them laughed, except Connor.
He was all business. “Let’s move.”
Shanti pulled her headscarf over her hair, and they started off for the hospital, making their way along muddy paths, Connor ahead of her, Malik beside her, Dylan behind. She heard the crowd before she saw it—a murmur of voices mixed with shouts and raw wails of grief.
Her stomach knotted.
After all, they’d been through, these people didn’t deserve this heartbreak.
As they drew close to the hospital, Connor stopped, making way for men who carried the dead and wounded on stretchers.
“One o’clock,” Malik said.
“I see him,” Connor said.
Shanti imagined standing in a clock and looked toward the one to see a man in a maroon T-shirt and gray lungi—a kind of sarong. He was staring straight at her, acting as if he wanted to talk to her. “He might be one of my appointments.”
She would be speaking to a couple of male survivors today and might need Connor or one of the other men to be in the room with her so as not to violate Rohingya cultural norms.
“If he is, he can wait to talk with you until …” Connor’s words trailed off.
Two men carried the body of a little boy on a blanket. The child couldn’t have been more than five years old, his yellow shirt muddy and torn. Resting on his lifeless chest was some kind of homemade toy—a little bamboo car.
Connor watched as they passed. “No.”
It was only a whisper, but Shanti heard it.
She walked up beside Connor, saw recognition and shock on his face. “Connor?”
Did he somehow know this little boy?
A muscle clenched in Connor’s jaw. “I spoke with him yesterday. He showed me his little car. I wanted to…”
Shanti waited for him to finish, but he said nothing more, obviously hit personally by the child’s senseless death. “It’s awful when children die.”
“Let’s get you inside.”
As she entered the hospital, Shanti saw the man in the gray lungi watching her.
Connor took his turn standing out front amid the wails and weeping of those who’d lost loved ones in the mudslide. He’d sent Cruz to watch the back entrance, while Jones stood watch outside the interview room—part of Connor’s attempt to put a professional distance between himself and Shanti. He also wanted to keep an eye on the guy who’d been watching her.
The man had noticed Connor and walked a short distance away, where he now stood, glancing over at Connor every now and then.
No, dude, that’s not suspicious at all.
Connor drew out his cell phone, pretended he was looking at something on the screen while trying to snap a shot of the man’s face.
Turn your head this way. A little more. Got it.
He sent the image to Shields. “Cobra, Team One. We’ve got a fighting-age male, maybe five-foot-four, wearing a maroon shirt and a gray sarong hanging out in front of the hospital. He had eyes on the asset when we arrived and moved off when I positioned myself at the entrance. I just sent you a shot. How copy?”
“Team One, this is Cobra. Good copy. We’ll run it through the database.”
Another body was brought in—an old man. His relatives walked beside the makeshift gurney, the women looking too worn down by grief to weep for him.
What a damned mess it all was.
His thoughts turned to the little boy. He’d been far too young to die.
About the same age as the boy in Syria.
Fuck.
Connor couldn’t think about that. He had a job to do, and it didn’t involve dwelling on shit he couldn’t change.
The morning wore on, the clouds growing thicker and darker overhead.
They took turns making trips to the latrine. Connor dug into his pack for something to eat but ended up giving his trail mix and an energy bar to a couple of skinny kids. They needed the nutrition more than he did.
It was early afternoon when Jones’ voice came over Connor’s earpiece. “Her next appointment hasn’t shown up, and she needs to hit the head.”
“Copy that.” Connor and Cruz met Jones at the back door and escorted Shanti to the bank of latrines set aside for hospital staff.
Shanti gave the three of them an awkward smile. “An armed escort to pee. I feel embarrassed.”
Jones grinned. “You wouldn’t last in the military, ma’am. Sometimes you just have to drop trou and squat down right next to…”
Jones caught Connor’s expression and coughed, his oversharing at an end.
Shanti did her business while the three of them kept watch.
“There’s our buddy.” Cruz gave a nod toward the guy in the maroon shirt, who stood about twenty feet away. “He’s trying mighty hard to act like he’s not watching what’s going on over here.”
Connor hadn’t yet heard back from Shields. “He was standing out front until we came back here. Anyone think that’s a coincidence?”
“Hell, no,” Jones said. “Want me to pull him aside and start asking questions?”
“Just keep an eye on him.”
He shot them furtive glances, as if he knew they were talking about him.
Shanti stepped out of the latrine, washed her hands at a public sink. “I wonder what happened to my one o’clock. Maybe Pauline—”
The guy in the maroon shirt made a run for Shanti.
Jones thrust her behind him, covering her.
Connor dropped the suspect in a single move, pressed a knee to his lower back and a hand to the back of his neck. “Cuff him!”
The man cried out, struggled, pleading with them in a language Connor didn’t understand. Cruz pulled a plastic zip-tie restraint from his belt and bound the bastard’s wrists together.
Connor stood, dragged the man to his feet. “Search him.”
Cruz patted him down. “There’s nothing on him but this cell phone.”
“You take! You take!” The man motioned for Shanti to take his phone.
Connor got into the man’s face. “She doesn’t want your phone.”
“Take!” The man looked straight at Shanti. “Jafor Ahammed! Friend.”
“Put the phone back in his pocket—if he has a pocket—and call camp security.”
“Wait!” Shanti stepped closer. “Jafor Ahammed? Tuáñr nam ki?”
Connor had no idea what she was saying, but the suspect quit struggling.
He replied in his own language.
“He’s trying to tell me something about Jafor Ahammed, my one o’clock appointment. I need Noor.”
“You want me to bring him inside?”
A delicate eyebrow arched. “Unless you think you can’t handle him…”
Jones chuckled. “I think we’ve just been insulted.”
“Did you hear what she just said?” Cruz said, a big stupid grin on his face. “We can handle this skinny dude.”
“Fine.” Holding tightly to the suspect, Connor followed her back inside.
“He says he is Rafique Halad,” Noor said. “He is a friend of Jafor Ahammed.”
“Please thank Mr. Halad for coming
to talk with me about his friend. Does he know where Mr. Ahammed is?” Shanti hoped Ahammed wasn’t backing out.
But Rafique was speaking at the same time, words pouring out of him, an urgent and frightened expression on his face.
Noor held up her hands for silence, then spoke to Rafique again. “He says Jafor has gone missing and that the phone belongs to him.”
“Missing?”
Shanti listened as Noor translated Rafique’s story a little at a time.
“He lives in a shelter near Mr. Ahammed. The two came from a village near Maungdaw. They had to flee when the soldiers came. Rafique ran, but Jafor stayed and tried to save his wife and children.”
Noor described a night of terror that began with a hail of bullets and ended with Jafor playing dead among the mutilated and burned bodies of neighbors and family.
“Jafor told Rafique one of the soldiers had dropped his phone, so Jafor took it.”
Shanti’s pulse skipped. “One of Naing’s soldiers?”
Numerous survivors had described soldiers filming the violence. If Shanti could get her hands on that footage…
Noor nodded. “Yes, one of Naing’s soldiers. He dropped the phone. Jafor saw it, and before they could bury the bodies, he climbed out of the pit, grabbed the phone, and ran for the mountains. It was dark, and they did not see him.”
“This is the phone?” Shanti took it from him.
“He says that Jafor asked him to hide the phone somewhere because he was afraid men would come to take him away just like they took the British reporters.”
“What?” Shanti stared at Rafique. “Jafor Ahammed spoke with the British journalists? Does Rafique know who abducted them? Did he see what happened?”
What was going on here?
Shanti listened while Noor and Rafique went back and forth, wishing she could speak the language herself.
Connor leaned down, spoke in a quiet voice. “Shanti, this isn’t safe.”
“He doesn’t have any weapons.”
“It’s not him I’m worried about.”
Finally, Noor turned to her. “He says Jafor told the British gentlemen about the phone. They asked the UN manager for help cracking the password, but she didn’t know how. Two days later, the British men disappeared. Jafor asked Rafique to hide the phone because he feared those men would come for him, too. Rafique put it in a plastic bag and buried it under a rock near some latrines. Now Jafor is missing, and Rafique is afraid those same men will come after him. That’s why he wants you to take it. He knew Jafor was going to meet with you.”
Connor took the phone and turned to Noor, his expression grave. “Translate for me. Did this phone belong to one of the soldiers who attacked their village, and does it have video footage of the attack?”
Noor translated the question and Rafique’s answer. “He says yes.”
“Cobra, Team One, we’re making our exfil now. Segal, Isaksen, request additional escort. Have the helicopter on standby. How copy?”
Connor’s reaction sent Shanti’s adrenaline soaring. “What? What’s going on?”
“Cruz, pack her gear. Jones, make sure the hallway’s clear.”
“Roger that.”
“What about my last appointment?”
“Reschedule it. Naing’s men are looking for this phone. It’s not hard to trace a cell phone if you have the tech.”
That didn’t make sense. “The phone isn’t even turned on.”
“It doesn’t have to be on for them to locate it.” Connor didn’t explain further but turned to Noor once more. “You and Rafique should come with us. We can give you a safe place to stay while we sort through this. I’d like to ask Rafique a few more questions in a place where no one can hurt him.”
Noor shook her head. “We can’t go with you. Rohingya people must have permission to leave the camps.”
Connor looked to Shanti as if to confirm this.
“It’s true. I’ll call Pauline.”
Pauline answered on the first ring. Shanti told her that they had reason to believe Noor and Rafique were in danger, but she did not mention the cell phone.
Pauline told Shanti that only the Bangladesh government could grant permission for Noor and Rafique to go with them. “It could take weeks.”
Shanti shared that news with Connor.
He shook his head. “Doesn’t it figure? The best thing we can do is get that phone far away from here. If they’re tracing it, they’ll know it’s gone and hopefully leave Rafique alone. Noor, can you tell him to stay away from his shelter and wherever he hid the phone? You shouldn’t tell anyone about this, or it might put you in danger, too.”
Noor’s face was pale, but she nodded. “I understand.”
Shanti hugged her. “I’ll get in touch through Pauline. Thank you for your help. Please thank Rafique for his courage. I hope we haven’t put you in any danger.”
“The danger was here before you came. Go with God, Shanti.”
“Segal and Isaksen are here. Noor, you and Rafique should go out the back door. If you see anything unusual, report it to camp security. We’ll exit through the front entrance. Let’s move!”
8
Connor kept his mind focused on their surroundings, Shields giving them regular updates about what she saw in the drone feed. Shanti sat in the middle of the back seat, talking with Pauline. From the sound of things, Pauline wasn’t responding the way she had hoped.
“So, you’re telling me that no one looks for people who just disappear? I understand that the camp is large and that the job must be overwhelming, but Naing’s men shouldn’t be able to walk in and abduct people.”
Connor didn’t know how to tell Shanti this, but he’d bet cold, hard cash that Mr. Ahammed was already dead. Once Naing’s men realized he no longer had the phone, he would have been worthless to them, a liability that needed to be eliminated.
“Also, one of the witnesses I spoke with today told me that human traffickers walk through the camp asking pregnant women to give them their babies. Apparently, she was raped by a soldier and became pregnant and freely gave her newborn to these criminals because her family had shunned her.”
Shanti sounded surprised, proof that, despite her job and her family’s history, she didn’t understand how deeply fucked up this world was. Wherever there was chaos, slavers and traffickers showed up, looking for human property.
“But there has to be something the UN can do to shut the traffickers down and help end the stigma these women face. No, Pauline, but I … Yes. Okay. Thanks.”
Connor glanced over his shoulder to see anger and frustration on Shanti’s face. “I take it that didn’t go well.”
“She knows about the traffickers. She says there’s really nothing the UN can do about it. Can you believe that? They’re the freaking UN.”
Connor could believe it, but he didn’t say so. “There are almost five hundred thousand people in Kutupalong. The UN’s resources are stretched pretty thin.”
“She says they don’t have the personnel to protect Rafique or Noor or the witnesses and that only relatives can file a missing person’s report with the Bangladesh Police for Mr. Ahammed. She said people go missing all the time.”
Her concern for the others touched Connor, given that she was more likely to be a target now than any of them. “You might want to think about your own safety.”
But his words didn’t seem to register.
A moment later, she was speaking with her boss, bringing him up to speed. “I don’t know what’s on the phone yet. The battery is dead. I’ll look when I get back to the hotel. We need to do something to protect the witnesses and my interpreter. Is there any way to bring them to The Hague and place them under protection?”
She spent the rest of the drive sounding very much like an attorney, discussing organizational bylaws, international agreements, legal precedents, and obstacles to bringing Noor and the others to the Netherlands.
Connor had to give Shanti credit. She didn’t give up.
They reached the hotel without incident, he, Cruz, Jones, Segal, and Isaksen surrounding Shanti as they walked her to the elevators.
She let out a relieved breath when the doors closed and the elevator began to move, her gaze meeting Connor’s. “Do you think they’ll be safe?”
“I don’t know, but you’ve done everything you can for them.”
He could see in her eyes that she didn’t think it was enough.
Shanti watched while Elizabeth plugged the smartphone into a charger, relieved when the start-up screen came on. Mr. Ahammed had most likely died to pass on this phone and the information on it. No one had told her this, but she wasn’t naïve. She had to make sure his suffering hadn’t been for nothing.
“We’ve got a heartbeat,” Elizabeth said.
“Will you be able to crack the password?”
“This is a cheap Android knockoff, so that shouldn’t be too hard. The Sayeret Maktal can crack even the latest iOS, so I’ll get Segal in here.”
Shanti watched while Lev and the guys everyone called “the geek team” worked together to hack into the phone. It didn’t take long, Elizabeth, Lev, and the others trading high-fives and fist bumps.
“Now, let’s see what secrets we can find. You say your witness took this from a Tatmadaw soldier?”
“Yes. He showed it to the British journalists, who asked Pauline for help cracking the password. Now, he’s missing, abducted like the journalists.”
Elizabeth connected a data cable to the phone and plugged it into Shanti’s computer, causing her photo application to open. “We’ve got lots of content.”
There were hundreds of images, some showing a pretty Burmese woman and a little girl at home, in a park, in front of a spectacular golden pagoda. An elephant. A lounging Buddha. The same little girl smiling as she fed monkeys at the Yangon Zoo. The smiling faces of soldiers. Dozens of pics of noodles in bowls.
“I’ve never understood why people take pictures of their food,” Elizabeth said. “Who sits around scrolling through photo albums of past meals?”
Connor entered, drew up a chair. “What have you found?”
