Shields went on. “In the early eighties, the government of Myanmar rewrote its citizenship laws and specifically excluded the Rohingya. There have been repeated attempts to drive them out, acts of ethnic cleansing. Two years ago, a Rohingya militia attacked a police station, setting off this latest wave of brutality. Over the past few years, Naing’s men have torched Rohingya villages, killing the men and children and raping and killing the women. The number of refugees in Bangladesh is now around a million. The UN calls the Rohingya the ‘most persecuted minority in the world.’”
Jones glared at the screen. “Why hasn’t anyone gone after this fucker?”
Tower took over. “Ms. Lahiri is going after him—legally speaking—and it’s our job to keep her safe. Two British journalists were recently abducted from one of the camps and taken across the border into Myanmar, where they were accused of spying and thrown in jail. They’d been asking questions about Naing in the camps.”
Everyone at the table understood. This operation wasn’t just about making sure Ms. Lahiri wasn’t mugged. It was about protecting her life from a man who would risk almost anything to stop her from doing her job.
“Shields, I need an intel report by noon. O’Neal, you’ll be in command of this operation. You are wheels up at sixteen-hundred hours for The Hague. Shields, Segal, Isaksen—you head straight to Bangladesh with a geek team to set things up. Everyone be sure to check with Doc about vaccines and malaria meds.”
Connor’s spirits lifted. “All right, guys. Take some aspirin. Coffee up. Get your heads back in the game.”
He was relieved to be heading out again.
Being home, pretending to fit in—it was too damned much work.