“I sent for you because I’ve spoken to a few of our foreign correspondents. They gave me some advice to pass on to you.”
This gruff bear of a man had taken the time and trouble to talk to some foreign correspondents so that he could help her! “I—I don’t know how to—”
“Then don’t,” he grunted. “You’re going into a shooting war. There’s no guarantee you can protect yourself a hundred percent, because bullets don’t give a damn who they kill. But when you’re in the middle of action, the adrenaline starts to flow. It can make you reckless, and you do stupid things you wouldn’t ordinarily do. You have to control that. Always play it safe. Don’t wander around the streets alone. No news story is worth your life. Another thing…”
The lecture had gone on for almost an hour. Finally, he said, “Well, that’s it. Take care of yourself. If you let anything happen to you, I’m going to be damned mad.”
Dana had leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
“Don’t ever do that again,” he snapped. He stood up. “It’s going to be rough over there, Dana. If you should change your mind when you get there and want to come home, just let me know, and I’ll arrange it.”
“I won’t change my mind,” Dana said confidently.
As it turned out, she was wrong.
The flight to Paris was uneventful. They landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport and the trio took an airport minibus to Croatia Airlines. There was a three-hour delay.
At ten o’clock that night, the Croatia Airlines plane landed at Butmir Airport in Sarajevo. The passengers were herded into a security building, where their passports were checked by uniformed guards and they were waved on. As Dana moved toward the exit, a short, unpleasant-looking man in civilian clothes stepped in front of her, blocking her way. “Passport.”
“I showed them my—”
“I am Colonel Gordan Divjak. Your passport.”
Dana handed her passport to him, along with her press credentials.
He flipped through it. “A journalist?” He looked at her sharply. “Whose side are you on?”
“I’m not on anyone’s side,” Dana said evenly.
“Just be careful what you report,” Colonel Divjak warned. “We do not treat espionage lightly.”
Welcome to Sarajevo.
A bulletproof Land Rover was at the airport to meet them. The driver was a swarthy-looking man in his early twenties. “I am Jovan Tolj, for your pleasure. I will be your driver in Sarajevo.”
Jovan drove fast, swerving around corners and racing through deserted streets as though they were being pursued.
“Excuse me,” Dana said nervously. “Is there any special hurry?”
“Yes, if you want to get there alive.”
“But—”
In the distance, Dana heard the sound of rumbling thunder, and it seemed to be coming closer.
What she was hearing was not thunder.
In the darkness, Dana could make out buildings with shattered fronts, apartments without roofs, stores without windows. Ahead, she could see the Holiday Inn, where they were staying. The front of the hotel was badly pockmarked, and a deep hole had been gouged in the driveway. The car sped past it.
“Wait! This is our hotel,” Dana cried. “Where are you going?”
“The front entrance is too dangerous.” Jovan said. He turned the corner and raced into an alley. “Everyone uses the back entrance.”
Dana’s mouth was suddenly dry. “Oh.”
The lobby of the Holiday Inn was filled with people milling about and chatting. An attractive young Frenchman approached Dana. “Ah, we have been expecting you. You are Dana Evans?”
“Yes.”
“Jean Paul Hubert, M6, Métropole Télévision.”
“I’m happy to meet you. This is Benn Albertson and Wally Newman.” The men shook hands.
“Welcome to what’s left of our rapidly disappearing city.”
Others were approaching the group to welcome them. One by one, they stepped up and introduced themselves.
“Steffan Mueller, Kabel Network.”
“Roderick Munn, BBC 2.”
“Marco Benelli, Italia I.”
“Akihiro Ishihara, TV Tokyo.”
“Juan Santos, Channel 6, Guadalajara.”
“Chun Qian, Shanghai Television.”
It seemed to Dana that every country in the world had a journalist there. The introductions seemed to go on forever. The last one was a burly Russian with a gleaming gold front tooth. “Nikolai Petrovich, Gorizont 22.”