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 long 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 wasa lotof homeless people—not just homeless, but stateless.