There was no reply. Dana shrugged and turned to Benn.
“Let’s go.”
A few minutes later, they were on their way back to the Holiday Inn.
The Holiday Inn was filled with newspaper, radio, and television reporters, and they formed a disparate family. They were rivals, but because of the dangerous circumstances they found themselves in, they were always ready to help one another. They covered breaking stories together:
There was a riot in Montenegro…
There was a bombing in Vukovar…
A hospital had been shelled in Petrovo Selo…
Jean Paul Hubert was gone. He had been given another assignment, and Dana missed him terribly.
As Dana was leaving the hotel one morning, the little boy she had seen on the street was standing in the alley.
Jovan opened the door of the replacement Land Rover for Dana. “Good morning, madam.”
“Good morning.” The boy stood there, staring at Dana. She walked over to him. “Good morning.”
There was no reply. Dana said to Jovan, “How do you say ‘good morning’ in Slovene?”
The little boy answered, “Dobro jutro.”
Dana turned to him. “So you understand English.”
“Maybe.”
“What’s your name?”
“Kemal.”
“How old are you, Kemal?”
He turned and walked away.
“He’s frightened of strangers,” Jovan said.
Dana looked after the boy. “I don’t blame him. So am I.”
Four hours later, when the Land Rover returned to the alley in back of the Holiday Inn, Kemal was waiting near the entrance.
As Dana got out of the car, Kemal said, “Twelve.”
“What?” Then Dana remembered. “Oh.” He was small for his age. She looked at his empty right shirtsleeve and started to ask him a question, then stopped herself. “Where do you live, Kemal? Can we take you home?” She watched him turn and walk away.
Jovan said, “He has no manners.”
Dana said quietly, “Maybe he lost them when he lost his arm.”
That evening in the hotel dining room, the reporters were talking about the new rumors of an imminent peace. “The UN has finally gotten involved,” Gabriella Orsi declared.
“It’s about time.”
“If you ask me, it’s too late.”
“It’s never too late,” Dana said quietly.
The following morning, two news stories came over the wires. The first one was about a peace agreement brokered by the United States and the United Nations. The second story was that Oslobodjenje, Sarajevo’s newspaper, had been bombed out of existence.
“Our Washington bureaus are covering the peace agreement,” Dana told Benn. “Let’s do a story on Oslobodjenje.”
Dana was standing in front of the demolished building that had once housed Oslobodjenje. The camera’s red light was on.
“People die here every day,” Dana said into the lens, “and buildings are destroyed. But this building was murdered. It housed the only free newspaper in Sarajevo, Oslobodjenje. It was a newspaper that dared to tell the truth. When it was bombed out of its headquarters, it was moved into the basement, to keep the presses alive. When there were no more newsstands to sell the papers from, its reporters went out on the streets to peddle them themselves. They were selling more than newspapers. They were selling freedom. With the death of Oslobodjenje, another piece of freedom has died here.”
In his office, Matt Baker was watching the news broadcast. “Dammit, she’s good!” He turned to his assistant. “I want her to have her own satellite truck. Move on it.”
“Yes, sir.”
When Dana returned to her room, there was a visitor waiting for her. Colonel Gordan Divjak was lounging in a chair when Dana walked in.
She stopped, startled. “They didn’t tell me I had a visitor.”
“This is not a social visit.” His beady black eyes focused on her. “I watched your broadcast about Oslobodjenje.”
Dana studied him warily. “Yes?”
“You were permitted to come into our country to report, not to make judgments.”
“I didn’t make any—”
“Do not interrupt me. Your idea of freedom is not necessarily our idea of freedom. Do you understand me?”
“No. I’m afraid I—”
“Then let me explain it to you, Miss Evans. You are a guest in my country. Perhaps you are a spy for your government.”
“I am not a—”