Dana Evans had gone beyond being a mere reporter and was becoming an international legend. What came through in her television broadcasts was an intelligent human being filled with passion. And because Dana cared, her viewers cared, and shared her feelings.
Matt Baker began getting calls from other news outlets saying that they wanted to syndicate Dana Evans’s broadcasts. He was delighted for her. She went over there to do good, he thought, and she’s going to wind up doing well.
With her own new satellite truck, Dana was busier than ever. She was no longer at the mercy of the Yugoslav satellite company. She and Benn decided what stories they wanted to do, and Dana would write them and broadcast them. Some of the stories were broadcast live, and others were taped. Dana and Benn and Andy would go out on the streets and photograph whatever background was needed, then Dana would tape her commentary in an editing room and send it back on the line to Washington.
At lunchtime, in the hotel dining room, large platters of sandwiches were placed in the center of the table. Journalists were busily helping themselves. Roderick Munn, from the BBC, walked into the room with an AP clipping in his hand.
“Listen to this, everybody.” He read the clipping aloud. “‘Dana Evans, a foreign correspondent for WTE, is now being syndicated by a dozen news stations. Miss Evans has been nominated for the coveted Peabody Award…’” The story went on from there.
“Aren’t we lucky to be associated with somebody so famous?” one of the reporters said sarcastically.
At that moment, Dana walked into the dining room.”
“Hi, everybody. I don’t have time for lunch today. I’m going to take some sandwiches with me.” She scooped up several sandwiches and covered them with paper napkins. “See you later.” They watched in silence as she left.
When Dana got outside, Kemal was there, waiting.
“Good afternoon, Kemal.”
No response.
“Get into the car.”
Kemal slid into the backseat. Dana handed him a sandwich and sat there, watching him silently wolf it down. She handed him another sandwich, and he started to eat it.
“Slowly,” Dana said.
“Where to?” Jovan asked.
Dana turned to Kemal. “Where to?” He looked at her uncomprehendingly. “We’re taking you home, Kemal. Where do you live?”
He shook his head.
“I need to know. Where do you live?”
Twenty minutes later, the car stopped in front of a large vacant lot near the banks of the Miljacka. Dozens of big cardboard boxes were scattered around, and the lot was littered with debris of all kinds.
Dana got out of the car and turned to Kemal. “Is this where you live?”
He reluctantly nodded.
“And other boys live here, too?”
He nodded again.
“I want to do a story about this, Kemal.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“The police will come and take us away. Don’t.”
Dana studied him a moment. “All right. I promise.”
The next morning, Dana moved out of her room at the Holiday Inn. When she did not appear at breakfast, Gabriella Orsi from the Altre Station in Italy asked, “Where’s Dana?”
Roderick Munn replied, “She’s gone. She’s rented a farmhouse to live in. She said she wanted to be by herself.”
Nikolai Petrovich, the Russian from Gorizont 22, said, “We would all like to be by ourselves. So we are not good enough for her?”
There was a general feeling of disapproval.
The following afternoon, another large care package arrived for Dana.
Nikolai Petrovich said, “Since she is not here, we might as well enjoy it, eh?”
The hotel clerk said, “I’m sorry. Miss Evans is having it picked up.”
A few minutes later, Kemal arrived. The reporters watched him take the package and leave.
“She doesn’t even share with us anymore,” Juan Santos grumbled. “I think her publicity has gone to her head.”
During the next week, Dana filed her stories, but she did not appear at the hotel again. The resentment against her was growing.
Dana and her ego were becoming the main topic of conversation. A few days later, when another huge care package was delivered to the hotel, Nikolai Petrovich went to the hotel clerk. “Is Miss Evans having this package picked up?”