“I’m fine. Our bureau took me to a doctor in Paris.”
The apartment was on Calvert Street, an attractively furnished place with one bedroom, living room, kitchen, bath, and small study.
“Will this do?” Matt asked.
“This is perfect. Thank you, Matt.”
“I’ve had the refrigerator stocked for you. You’ll probably want to go shopping for clothes tomorrow, after you get some rest. Charge everything to the paper.”
“Thanks, Matt. Thank you for everything.”
“You’re going to be debriefed later. I’ll set it up for you.”
She was on a bridge, listening to the gunfire and watching bloated bodies float by, and she woke up, sobbing. It had been so real. It was a dream, but it was happening. At that moment, innocent victims—men, women, and children—were being senselessly and brutally slaughtered. She thought of Professor Staka’s words. “This war in Bosnia and Herzegovina is beyond understanding.” What was incredible to her was that the rest of the world didn’t seem to care. She was afraid to go back to sleep, afraid of the nightmares that filled her brain. She got up and walked over to the window and looked out at the city. It was quiet—no guns, no people running down the street, screaming. It seemed unnatural. She wondered how Kemal was, and whether she would ever see him again. He’s probably forgotten me by now.
Dana spent part of the morning shopping for clothes. Wherever she went, people stopped to stare at her. She heard whispers: “That’s Dana Evans!” The sales clerks all recognized her. She was famous. She hated it.
Dana had had no breakfast and no lunch. She was hungry, but she was unable to eat. She was too tense. It was as though she were waiting for some disaster to strike. When she walked down the street, she avoided the eyes of strangers. She was suspicious of everyone. She kept listening for the sound of gunfire. I can’t go on like this, Dana thought.
At noon, she walked into Matt Baker’s office.
“What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be on vacation.”
“I need to go back to work, Matt.”
He looked at her and thought about the young girl who had come to him a few years earlier. “I’m here for a job. Of course, I already have a job here. It’s more like a transfer, isn’t it?…I can start right away….” And she had more than fulfilled her promise. If I ever had a daughter…
“Your boss wants to meet you,” Matt told Dana.
They headed for Leslie Stewart’s office.
The two women stood there appraising each other. “Welcome back, Dana.”
“Thank you.”
“Sit down.” Dana and Matt took chairs opposite Leslie’s desk.
“I want to thank you for getting me out of there,” Dana said.
“It must have been hell. I’m sorry.” Leslie looked at Matt. “What are we going to do with her now, Matt?”
He looked at Dana. “We’re about to reassign our White House correspondent. Would you like the job?” It was one of the most prestigious television assignments in the country.
Dana’s face lit up. “Yes. I would.”
Leslie nodded. “You’ve got it.”
Dana rose. “Well—thank you, again.”
“Good luck.”
Dana and Matt left the office. “Let’s get you settled,” Matt said. He walked her over to the television building, where the whole staff was waiting to greet her. It took Dana fifteen minutes to work her way through the crowd of well-wishers.
“Meet your new White House correspondent,” Matt said to Philip Cole.
“That’s great. I’ll show you to your office.”
“Have you had lunch yet?” Matt asked Dana.
“No, I—”
“Why don’t we get a bite to eat?”
The executive dining room was on the fifth floor, a spacious, airy room with two dozen tables. Matt led Dana to a table in the corner, and they sat down.
“Miss Stewart seemed very nice,” Dana said.
Matt started to say something. “Yeah. Let’s order.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t had lunch?”
“No.”
“Did you have breakfast?”
“No.”
“Dana—when did you eat last?”
She shook her head. “I don’t remember. It’s not important.”
“Wrong. I can’t have our new White House correspondent starving herself to death.”
The waiter came over to the table. “Are you ready to order, Mr. Baker?”