“It’s a ten-minute walk to the hospital. I’m afraid it’s going to rain.” Ms. Montreux looked up at the leaden sky. “Did you bring an umbrella?”
Shanti nodded. “It’s in my bag. I used to play in the streets during the monsoons.”
Connor could almost imagine that—little Shanti playing in the rain.
Ms. Montreux gave Connor a piece of paper. “The list you wanted.”
He tucked it into a pocket in his body armor. “Thanks.”
“This way,” Ms. Montreux said.
“Heads on a swivel.”
“Copy that.”
Shanti followedPauline and Noor along a maze of muddy paths that were lined with sandbags, passing countless shelters made of tarps and bamboo poles and heading uphill toward a large white building with a blue roof. “Is that the hospital?”
“Yes. It’s not far now.”
The witnesses and survivors she interviewed this week risked potential shame and retaliation by sharing their stories. To protect them, she and Pauline had arranged for the witnesses to be interviewed at the hospital under the pretext of seeing a doctor. If anyone asked who Shanti was, Pauline would say she was a trauma therapist. Shanti would record the interviews with a small camera and digital recorder and upload the files to The Hague when they got back to the hotel.
They reached the hospital just as the sky opened up and rain began to fall. Shanti dashed after Pauline, laughing as cold raindrops hit her skin.
Connor was right behind her. “Cruz, take the front entrance. Jones, take the back.”
“You got it.”
“Copy that.”
Shanti followed the two women inside the hospital and down the main hallway to a door marked PRIVATE, Connor behind her.
Pauline turned to Connor. “You’ll have to wait here, I’m afraid.”
“I’d like to check the room first.”
Pauline looked troubled by this but nodded.
Connor opened the door, stuck his head inside, then closed it again. “Is there any other way to enter this room?”
Pauline shook her head. “No.”
Connor gave Shanti a nod.
Shanti entered, followed by Noor. She found a young woman sitting on the floor, a veil covering her hair and the lower part of her face. She used the few words of Rohingya she’d learned. “Assolamu Aláikum. Añár nam Shanti.”
Peace be with you. My name is Shanti.
The woman watched through brown eyes that ought to have belonged to someone much older. She said something Shanti didn’t understand.
“She wants to know who that man was,” Noor said.
“He works for me. He is here to keep us safe and make sure no one disturbs us.”
Noor sat beside the woman and translated Shanti’s words.
The woman seemed to relax.
Shanti sat, too, and took out her files. “Your name is Sareema, right? Thank you for meeting with me.”