“How many reporters are here?” Dana asked Jean Paul.
“Over two hundred and fifty. We don’t see many wars as colorful as this one. Is this your first?”
He made it sound as though it were some kind of tennis match. “Yes.”
Jean Paul said, “If I can be of any help, please let me know.”
“Thank you.” She hesitated. “Who is Colonel Gordan Divjak?”
“You don’t want to know. We all think he is with the Serbian equivalent of the Gestapo, but we’re not sure. I would suggest you stay out of his way.”
“I’ll remember.”
Later, as Dana got into her bed, there was a sudden loud explosion from across the street, and then another, and the room began to shake. It was terrifying, and at the same time exhilarating. It seemed unreal, something out of a movie. Dana lay awake all night, listening to the sounds of the terrible killing machines and watching the flashes of light reflected in the grimy hotel windows.
In the morning, Dana got dressed—jeans, boots, flak jacket. She felt self-conscious, and yet: “Always play it safe… No news story is worth your life.”
Dana, Benn, and Wally were in the lobby restaurant, talking about their families.
“ I forgot to tell you the good news,” Wally said. “I’m going to have a grandson next month.”
“That’s great!” And Dana thought: Will I ever have a child and a grandchild? Que serd sera.
“I have an idea,” Benn said. “Let’s do a general story first on what’s happening here and how the people’s lives have been affected. I’ll go with Wally and scout locations. Why don’t you get us some satellite time, Dana?”
“Fine.”
Jovan Tolj was in the alley, in the Land Rover. “Dobro jutro. Good morning.”
“Good morning, Jovan. I want to go to the place where they rent satellite time.”
As they drove, Dana was able to get a clear look at Sarajevo for the first time. It seemed to her that there was not a building that had been untouched. The sound of gunfire was continuous.
“Don’t they ever stop?” Dana asked.
“They will stop when they run out of ammunition,” Jovan said bitterly. “And they will never run out of ammunition.”
The streets were deserted, except for a few pedestrians, and all the cafés were closed. Pavements were pockmarked with shell craters. They passed the Oslobodjenje building.
“That is our newspaper,” Jovan said proudly. “The Serbs keep trying to destroy it, but they cannot.”
A few minutes later, they reached the satellite offices. “I will wait for you,” Jovan said.
Behind a desk in the lobby, there was a receptionist who appeared to be in his eighties.
“Do you speak English?” Dana asked.
He looked at her wearily. “I speak nine languages, madam. What do you wish?”
“I’m with WTE. I want to book some satellite time and arrange—”
“Third floor.”
The sign on the door read: YUGOSLAVIA SATELLITE DIVISION. The reception room was filled with men seated on wooden benches lined against the walls.
Dana introduced herself to the young woman at the reception desk. “I’m Dana Evans, with WTE. I want to book some satellite time.”
“Take a seat, please, and wait your turn.”
Dana looked around the room. “Are all these people here to book satellite time?”
The woman looked up at her and said, “Of course.”
Almost two hours later, Dana was ushered into the office of the manager, a short, squat man with a cigar in his mouth; he looked like the old cliché prototype of a Hollywood producer.
He had a heavy accent. “How can I help you?”
“I’m Dana Evans, with WTE. I’d like to rent one of your trucks and book the satellite for half an hour. Six o’clock in Washington would be a good time. And I’ll want that same time every day indefinitely.” She looked at his expression. “Any problem?”
“One. There are no satellite trucks available. They have all been booked. I will give you a call if someone cancels.”
Dana looked at him in dismay. “No—? But I need some satellite time,” she said. “I’m—”
“So does everybody else, madam. Except for those who have their own trucks, of course.”