by Pamela Clare
“Ms. Lahiri, let’s get you settled.” He glanced at the others. “Staff briefing in thirty. Shields, I want an update on the drone problem.”
He followed Shanti into her suite. The others had secured this floor yesterday, so there was no need to clear the rooms.
She turned on the light, set her handbag on a table just inside the door, not reacting to the luxurious surroundings. He knew she came from money, so maybe the polished wood floors, king-sized bed, leather sofas, large flat-screen TV, bar, and other amenities didn’t impress her.
Connor had seen suites like this before. He’d served on details for dozens of traveling dignitaries—diplomats, senators, ministers of various governments—but he’d never stayed in anything this fancy. His paycheck from Cobra was good, but it wasn’t that good.
“Are you hungry?”
“No, thanks.” She stepped out of her heels, a look of relief on her face as she wiggled her toes. “I’d just like to take a shower and change my clothes.”
“Your luggage is in the elevator.” Connor figured he ought to review the basics. “When you need to order food, you let us know what you want, and we’ll order it for you. We’ll meet room service at the elevator and bring the food to your door. Don’t go down to the restaurants or the bar. If you need a glass of wine, we’ll get that, too.”
“Got it.” She crossed her arms over her chest as if she were cold—or anxious.
He found himself wanting to reassure her but kept his distance. He didn’t need a repeat of this afternoon. He’d only meant to keep her from falling, but something had passed between them the moment he’d touched her.
Sexual attraction.
Yeah, well, he needed to put a lid on that if he wanted to keep his job.
“The elevator is set up so that only those with keycards for this floor can get here. The doors to the stairways are locked from the inside. We’ve got our own surveillance in the hallway.” He pointed to the open door that led to his room. “I’ll be right in there if you need anything. Just call or knock. You’re safe here, Shanti.”
“Oh, it’s not that.” She gave a little shake of her head, looking less like a high-powered attorney and more like an uncertain young woman. “This is the first time I’ve been the point person for the Office of the Prosecutor. I can’t screw it up. It’s too important. So many lives lost. So much brutality.”
Connor could empathize. He knew what it was like to shoulder a big burden at a young age. His first op had been a hostage rescue. He told her what he’d said to himself that day long ago. “If they trust you to carry this, you must have what it takes. Once you get your boots on the ground and get into the action, you’ll be fine.”
She doesn’t wear boots, idiot.
Shanti smiled, nodded.
Then Shields’ voice came over Connor’s earpiece, telling him their bags were sitting outside the door.
“Our bags are here.” He brought in her luggage first and then shouldered his duffel. “You’re welcome to join us in the briefing if you want. We’ll be running through tomorrow’s itinerary—the foreign minister’s visit and so on.”
“I’d like that. Thanks.”
“See you in the room at the end of the hall in twenty-five minutes.” He left her to do her thing, closing the door to his adjoining room on the way out, sorting his gear, and taking a quick shower to revive himself. Twelve hours on an airplane was never fun.
He found the others milling around in the makeshift operations room, shooting the shit, and hitting the coffee hard. “Let’s get started. I believe Ms. Lahiri is going to…”
Connor’s words trailed off when she stepped into the room, the sight of her like a fist to his solar plexus.
Holy … shit!
He couldn’t stop himself from staring.
Gone was that stiff skirt suit. In its place, she wore a silk sari in hot pink and gold, her blouse a matching pink, her midriff bare, a long fall of pink and gold cloth spilling over one shoulder. Something about the sari accentuated her narrow waist and the sweet feminine flare of her hips, her dark, damp hair hanging down her back.
Good God, she was beautiful.
“Sorry I’m late.”
Segal and Isaksen, the only members of the team that hadn’t yet met Shanti, stood and introduced themselves while Connor tried to find his tongue.
“Lev Segal, Israeli Defense Force.”
“Thor Isaksen, Denmark’s Sirius Patrol.”
Get it together, dumbass!
“We were… uh … just starting.”
Shanti ate breakfast the next morning in her bathrobe, savoring the fluffy poori bread and the spice of the potato curry. She’d ordered scrambled eggs as well, something her grandparents, who had been strict vegetarians, would never have made for her. But it was the steaming cha that made her moan—hot milk tea with cloves, cardamom, ginger, and sugar.
No one made tea like Bengalis.
The taste filled her head, bringing back memories of meals on the veranda of her grandparents’ house, sheltered from the dust and noise of Dhaka and surrounded by the sweet scent of jasmine vines. Those visits had seemed happy and magical, her grandparents and their servants spoiling her and her brother, Taj, rotten. She hadn’t known until much later that her grandmother had opposed the marriage and couldn’t stand her mother.
While she finished her breakfast, Shanti checked her email. An email from her parents asking her how she was doing. A few emails from Bram. Junk mail. She replied to her parents, telling them only that she was really busy with work this week. Then she took her malaria pill, showered, and dressed, taking care with her makeup, hair, and clothing, choosing a long-sleeved blouse that covered her belly and a more conservative sari in dark blue and gold.
The Minister of Foreign Affairs would be here in an hour for a private meeting. It was just a formality, a courtesy call, the government’s way of welcoming a representative of the ICC to their country. Still, there were butterflies in her stomach as she buzzed Connor to ask him to have someone order tea and remove her breakfast tray.
He knocked before entering, the sight of him making her pulse skip. He wore a tailored suit, but he was different from the men she worked with at the ICC. Some of them were handsome, and some wore three-thousand-dollar suits. But Connor was bigger, more muscular, and he radiated a confidence they lacked, a sense of physical power, an air of danger.
His gaze moved over her. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate the traditional dress.”
“He might not like the fact that I’m not wearing a veil.” Except for when she was in the camps, she refused to cover her hair. The majority of Bangladeshis, including Dr. Khan, might be Muslim, but she’d grown up in a secular Hindu home.
Connor picked up her breakfast tray, carried it to the door, and handed it to someone outside before walking over to her once more. “I’d prefer to stay in the room with you. I’m sure he’ll have an entourage. We don’t know who they are, so we haven’t been able to vet them.”
She was about to tell Connor that she was sure she’d be safe. The Minister for Foreign Affairs and his staff weren’t going to murder her in her hotel room. But some part of her liked the idea of Connor staying with her. No, it wasn’t the fact that she found him attractive. It wasn’t that at all.
“That’s fine.”
“If you get the chance, ask him if he can help cut through the red tape around the drone issue. I’d feel a lot better with eyes in the sky.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
Connor paused as if listening to something. “He’s on his way up. The tea, too.”
Shanti went to stand by the sofa and adjusted the pleats of her sari, heavy silk rustling as she moved, blue and gold cloth spilling over her right shoulder. She clasped her hands together, drew a deep breath, and let all emotion fade from her face.
The face is the index of the mind.
It was an old proverb her father had taught her when she was growing up. She had used it to remain compo
sed through law school, in the courtroom, and at the ICC. It didn’t matter how nervous she felt. What mattered was giving the perception that she was in control of herself—and the situation.
“Hey, you’ve got this.” Connor gave her a reassuring smile. “He knows your father, and he went to Harvard just like you did.”
Shanti hadn’t known this. “Thank you. I was focused on the case and didn’t have time to prepare for this meeting, so that’s really helpful.”
Connor spoke into his microphone. “Good copy. We’re ready.”
One of the other Cobra operators—Malik Jones—opened the door to her suite. He was also wearing a suit.
Three men stepped inside—two she didn’t recognize followed by Dr. Amir Sadik Khan, an MP and the Minister of Foreign Affairs.
She waited for them to cross the wide room. “Welcome, gentlemen. I am Shanti Lahiri, special prosecutor with the International Criminal Court.”
Women didn’t ordinarily shake hands with men here, but she’d come as a representative of an international organization.
She held out her hand, and Dr. Khan took it. “Doctor Khan, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I understand you knew my father. Won’t you please sit down and enjoy some cha?”
“Welcome to Bangladesh—or should I say, ‘Welcome home’?” Dr. Khan wasn’t a tall man, and he clearly loved to eat, his face round and beardless, his dark hair white at the temples. He smiled, switched to Bangla. “Do you speak our language?”
She answered in English, aware of Connor, who stood silently at some distance behind her. “I know only a few words. My parents spoke English at home.”
It was bad manners to go directly to talking about business, so Shanti made polite conversation about the weather, about Dr. Khan’s time at Harvard, about his relationship with her father, while Connor and the other two men stood in the background.
“I remember hearing that he had married an American student against his parents’ wishes.” His tone left no doubt that he thought her father had done the wrong thing. “In Bangladesh, we are raised to respect our elders.”
Shanti smiled. “My grandparents on both sides objected to the marriage, but my parents are happy and still very much in love. As my mother says, their happiness together is the best revenge.”
“I never met your mother. After you were born, your father left his country and moved to the United States.”
“There were pogroms against Hindus that year, as I’m sure you remember. Innocent Hindus were beaten and raped and had their homes and shops burned down. After what happened to my father’s siblings during the genocide, my father left his homeland to keep us safe.”
Dr. Khan’s gaze dropped to the coffee table. “Those were awful times.”
Shanti moved on to business. “Thank you for allowing me to enter the country as a representative of the International Criminal Court. My work here must move forward if we are to help the Rohingya people find justice.”
“We support the ICC, of course,” Dr. Khan said. “But this is a sensitive issue for us. Myanmar is our neighbor. Bangladesh cannot take in all of the Rohingya who have fled here, and so we must negotiate a solution with Myanmar for their repatriation. We cannot do this if our relations with Yangon deteriorate because we assist in your prosecution of one of their military leaders. I regret that we cannot provide you with a military escort.”
This discussion had already taken place through diplomatic channels, so nothing he said surprised Shanti.
“I understand the delicate position in which Bangladesh finds itself, and I have no desire to make your job more difficult than it already is. As you see, the organization has provided me with security. I’ll be quite safe.”
Dr. Khan looked straight into her eyes. “Inshallah.”
God willing.
Connor watched while Shanti talked with Dr. Khan, who was clearly nervous about her mission. She handled the pressure well. She sat there, spine straight, chin up, looking more like a princess than a prosecutor.
“I was hoping you could help me with one thing,” she said at last.
Here it goes.
“Please, ask for anything. I will do all I can.”
“My security team would like to deploy a small observational drone to watch over my location in the camps. They haven’t gotten their permit approved yet. I wondered if you might be able to intervene and speed things up.”
Khan set his teacup down. “I’m sure you understand that these things take time. The government is very concerned about violations of our airspace, and the regulations are stringent. This is not my department, but I will try.”
That wasn’t the answer Connor had wanted.
“Thank you. I’m grateful.”
Khan stood. “It has been a delight to make your acquaintance. Please pass along my regards the next time you see your father.”
Shanti stood, too. “I will. Thank you.”
When Khan had gone, Shanti turned to Connor. “I’m sorry. I tried.”
“I appreciate the effort. We’ll make it work either way.” He glanced at his watch. “We leave for the airport after lunch.”
Two hours later, Connor, Shanti, Cruz, and Jones were in the armored Land Rover, air conditioner blasting, on their way to the airport, where the UN project manager, Pauline Montreux, had flown down in a helicopter to take Shanti on an aerial tour of the camps. None of the camps were more than five klicks from the Myanmar border, but they’d be in the air today and not on the ground.
Shanti had changed out of her princess clothes and put on a pair of jeans and a blouse, her hair tied back in a ponytail, sunglasses shading her amber eyes. “I’ve never flown in a helicopter before.”
“No?” For some reason, that made Connor smile. He’d been in more helicopters than he could remember and walked away from his share of crashes, too. “You’re going to love it.”
Provided it stayed in the air, of course.
Shields had asked about the pilot and had learned that he’d served with India’s Air Force for twenty-five years and had been flying missions for the UN for the past five years here in Cox’s Bazar.
They found the helicopter ready for take-off when they arrived at the airport, Ms. Montreux waiting for them.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Lahiri!” she shouted over the noise of the rotors, her French accent strong.
“Thank you for being willing to show me around!” Shanti shouted back, shaking the other woman’s hand.
Alert for anyone who might be lurking outside the airport’s perimeter fence, Connor escorted Shanti through the heat and humidity to the helo, Cruz and Jones flanking them. He helped her on board, climbed in to sit beside her, then buckled his safety strap and put on his earphones, motioning to her to do the same.
He spoke into the mic. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
The helicopter began to lift, nosing into the prevailing wind, carrying them south. As it gained altitude, the airport and hotels fell away below them, the sand of Cox’s Bazar stretching on forever, the deep blue water of the Bay of Bengal unfurling in white waves along the shore.
Shanti smiled the moment she saw it. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Have you been here before?” Ms. Montreux asked, not pronouncing her “h” sounds.
“No. I was born in Dhaka, but I grew up in Ithaca, New York.”
Connor listened to the women’s conversation as they got to know each other, his gaze on Shanti. She was different somehow, more relaxed, her face no longer the icy, calm mask he’d seen at their first meeting or with Dr. Khan this morning.
“How long have you been in Bangladesh?” she asked.
“I became the UNHRC project manager nine months ago.”
“It must be a big job.”
“Yes, but very rewarding.”
Ms. Montreux told Shanti about some of the UN’s recent advancements here—getting people IDs, vaccinating children, setting up more schools. It wasn’t l
ong before the Kutupalong-Balukhali camp complex came into view.
“Holy shit,” Cruz muttered under his breath.
“Look at that,” Jones said. “How many people live here?”
A sea of small huts made of bamboo poles and tarps crowded together on the hillsides below, bamboo towers placed at intervals, rutted dirt roads connecting the huts to bigger, more permanent bamboo structures—perhaps medical facilities, schools, or food distribution points. People on the ground looked up at them—men, women, children—shielding their eyes against the bright sun.
Some of the kids waved. Ms. Montreux and Shanti waved back.
“The main camp at Kutupalong is home to about twenty-five thousand refugees, but the rush of new arrivals over the past two years left people settling outside the camp,” Ms. Montreux answered. “The Kutupalong-Balukhali expansion site is home to more than five hundred thousand people. There are now more than a million refugees spread out between all of the Rohingya camps.”
Jesus.
That was a lot of homeless people—not just homeless, but stateless.
Connor had learned that Bangladesh had also passed legislation denying the Rohingya people citizenship. No one wanted them.
More than a million people with nowhere to go.
That’s gotta suck.
“Is sanitation a big problem?” Shanti asked.
“You might think that, but the camps are very clean. We have a very active WASH sector—that’s water, sanitation, and hygiene. They take care of any problems that might arise. The residents of the camp do many of these jobs themselves, just like any community.”
Ms. Montreux told Shanti that their most worrisome threats were infectious diseases and violence from Bengali gangs and human traffickers.
“There aren’t enough water stations, so many young girls are sent to nearby villages for water, only to be raped or kidnapped and sold into the sex trade. People are sometimes robbed and beaten by roving gangs.”
“What a nightmare.” Shanti shook her head. “These people have suffered so much already, and now they’re trapped in a place that doesn’t want them, waiting to have a future, waiting for a place to call home.”