It had been six months since Dana's Land Rover had been blown up. She escaped with nothing worse than a concussion, a cracked rib, a broken wrist, and painful bruises. Jovan suffered a fractured leg and scrapes and bruises. Matt Baker had telephoned Dana that night and ordered her to return to Washington, but the incident had made Dana more determined than ever to stay.

"These people are desperate," Dana told him. "I can't just walk away from this. If you order me home, then I quit."

"Are you blackmailing me?"

"Yes."

"That's what I thought," Matt snapped. "I don't let anyone blackmail me. Do you understand?"

Dana waited.

"What about a leave of absence?" he asked.

"I don't need a leave of absence." She could hear his sigh over the phone.

"All right. Stay there. But, Dana - "

"Yes?"

"Promise me that you'll be careful."

From outside the hotel, Dana could hear the sound of machine-gun fire. "Right."

The city had been under heavy attack all night. Dana had been unable to sleep. Each explosion of a mortar landing meant another building destroyed, another family homeless, or worse, dead.

Early in the morning, Dana and her crew were out on the street, ready to shoot. Benn Albertson waited for the thunder of a mortar to fade away, then nodded to Dana. "Ten seconds."

"Ready," Dana said.

Benn pointed a finger, and Dana turned away from the ruins behind her and faced the television camera.

"This is a city that is slowly disappearing from the face of the earth. With its electricity cut off, its eyes have been put out... Its television and radio stations have been shut down, and it has no ears. ...All public transportation has come to a halt, so it has lost its legs..."

The camera panned to show a deserted, bombed-out playground, with the rusty skeletons of swings and slides.

"In another life, children played here, and the sound of their laughter filled the air."

Mortar fire could be heard again in the near distance. An air raid alarm suddenly sounded. The people walking the streets behind Dana continued as though they had heard nothing.

"The sound you're hearing is another air raid alarm. It's the signal for people to run and hide. But the citizens of Sarajevo have found that there is no place to hide, so they walk on in their own silence. Those who can, flee the country, and give up their apartments and all their possessions. Too many who stay, die. It's a cruel choice. There are rumors of peace. Too many rumors, too little peace. Will it come? And when? Will the children come out of their cellars and use this playground again one day? Nobody knows. They can only hope. This is Dana Evans reporting from Sarajevo for WTE."

The red light on the camera blinked off. "Let's get out of here," Benn said.

Andy Casarez, the new cameraman, hurriedly started to pack up his gear.

A young boy was standing on the sidewalk, watching Dana. He was a street urchin, dressed in filthy, ragged clothes and torn shoes. Intense brown eyes flashed out of a face streaked with dirt. His right arm was missing.

Dana watched the boy studying her. Dana smiled. "Hello."

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 - "

"Do not interrupt me. I warned you at the airport. We are not playing games. We are at war. Anyone involved in espionage will be executed." His words were all the more chilling because they were spoken softly.

He got to his feet. "This is your last warning."

Dana watched him leave. I'm not going to let him frighten me, she thought defiantly.

She was frightened.

A care package arrived from Matt Baker. It was an enormous box filled with candy, granola bars, canned foods, and a dozen other nonperishable items. Dana took it into the lobby to share it with the other reporters. They were delighted.

"Now, that's what I call a boss," Satomi Asaka said.

"How do I get a job with the Washington Tribune?" Juan Santos joked.

Kemal was waiting in the alley again. The frayed, thin jacket he had on looked as though it was about to fall apart.

"Good morning, Kemal."

He stood there, silent, watching her from under half-closed lids.

"I'm going shopping. Would you like to go with me?"

No answer.

"Let me put it another way," Dana said, exasperated. She opened the back door of the vehicle. "Get in the car. Now!"

The boy stood there a moment, shocked, then slowly moved toward the car.

Dana and Jovan watched him climb into the backseat.

Dana said to Jovan, "Can you find a department store or clothing shop that's open?"

"I know one."

"Let's go there."

They rode in silence for the first few minutes.

"Do you have a mother or father, Kemal?"

He shook his head.

"Where do you live?"

He shrugged.

Dana felt him move closer to her as though to absorb the warmth of her body.

The clothing store was in the Bascarsija, the old market of Sarajevo. The front had been bombed out, but the store was open. Dana took Kemal's left hand and led him into the store.

A clerk said, "Can I help you?"

"Yes. I want to buy a jacket for a friend of mine." She looked at Kemal. "He's about his size."

"This way, please."

In the boy's section there was a rack of jackets. Dana turned to Kemal. "Which one do you like?"

Kemal stood there, saying nothing.

Dana said to the clerk, "We'll take the brown one." She looked at Kemal's trousers. "And I think we need a pair of trousers and some new shoes."

When they left the store half an hour later, Kemal was dressed in his new outfit. He slid into the backseat of the car without a word.

"Don't you know how to say thank you?" Jovan demanded angrily.

Kemal burst into tears. Dana put her arms around him. "It's all right," she said. "It's all right."

What kind of a world does this to children?

When they returned to the hotel, Dana watched Kemal turn and walk away without a word.

"Where does someone like that live?" Dana asked Jovan.

"On the streets, madam. There are hundreds of orphans in Sarajevo like him. They have no homes, no families..."

"How do they survive?"

He shrugged. "I do not know."

The next day, when Dana walked out of the hotel, Kemal was waiting for her, dressed in his new outfit. He had washed his face.

The big news at the luncheon table was the peace treaty and whether it would work. Dana decided to go back to visit Professor Mladic Staka and ask what he thought about it.

He looked even more frail than the last time she had seen him.

"I am happy to see you, Miss Evans. I hear you are doing wonderful broadcasts, but - " He shrugged. "Unfortunately, I have no electricity for my television set. What can I do for you?"

"I wanted to get your opinion of the new peace treaty, Professor."

He leaned back in his chair and said thoughtfully, "It is interesting to me that in Dayton, Ohio, they made a decision about what is going to happen to the future of Sarajevo."

"They've agreed to a troika, a three-person presidency, composed of a Muslim, a Croat, and a Serb. Do you think it can work, Professor?"

"Only if you believe in miracles." He frowned. "There will be eighteen national legislative bodies and another hundred and nine different local governments. It is a Tower of political Babel. It is what you Americans call a 'shotgun marriage.' None of them wants to give up their autonomy. They insist on having their own flags, their own license plates, their own currency." He shook his head. "It is a morning peace. Beware of the night."

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?"

"Yes, sir."

The Russian hurried back into the dining room. "There is another package," he said. "Someone is going to pick it up. Why don't we follow him and tell Miss Evans our opinion of reporters who think they're too good for everyone else?"

There was a chorus of approval.

When Kemal arrived to pick up the package, Nikolai said to him, "Are you taking that to Miss Evans?"

Kemal nodded.

"She asked to see us. We'll go along with you."

Kemal looked at him a moment, then shrugged.

"We'll take you in one of our cars," Nikolai Petrovich said. "You tell us where to go."

Ten minutes later, a caravan of cars was making its way along deserted side streets. On the outskirts of the city, Kemal pointed to an old bombed-out farmhouse. The cars came to a stop.

"You go ahead and bring her the package," Nikolai said. "We're going to surprise her."

They watched Kemal walk into the farmhouse. They waited a moment, then moved toward the farmhouse and burst in through the front door. They stopped, in shock. The room was filled with children of all ages, sizes, and colors. Most of them were crippled. A dozen army cots had been set up along the walls. Dana was parceling out the contents of the care package to the children when the door flew open. She looked up in astonishment as the group charged in.

"What - what are you doing here?"

Roderick Munn looked around, embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Dana. We made a - a mistake. We thought - "

Dana turned to face the group. "I see. They're orphans. They have nowhere to go and no one to take care of them. Most of them were in a hospital when it was bombed. If the police find them, they'll be put in what passes for an orphanage, and they'll die there. If they stay here, they'll die. I've been trying to figure out a way to get them out of the country, but so far, nothing has worked." She looked at the group pleadingly. "Do you have any ideas?"

Roderick Munn said slowly, "I think I have. There's a Red Cross plane leaving for Paris tonight. The pilot is a friend of mine."

Dana asked hopefully, "Would you talk to him?"

Munn nodded. "Yes."

Nikolai Petrovich said, "Wait! We can't get involved in anything like that They'll throw us all out of the country."

"You don't have to be involved," Munn told him. "We'll handle it."

"I'm against it," Nikolai said stubbornly. "It will place us all in danger."

"What about the children?" Dana asked. "We're talking about their lives."

Late in the afternoon, Roderick Munn came to see Dana. "I talked to my friend. He said he would be happy to take the children to Paris, where they'll be safe. He has two boys of his own."

Dana was thrilled. "That's wonderful. Thank you so much."

Munn looked at her. "It is we who should thank you."

At eight o'clock that evening, a van with the Red Cross insignia on its sides pulled up in front of the farmhouse. The driver blinked the lights, and under the cover of darkness, Dana and the children hurried into the van.

Fifteen minutes later, it was rolling toward Butmir Airport. The airport had been temporarily closed except to the Red Cross planes that delivered supplies and took away the seriously wounded. The drive was the longest ride of Dana's life. It seemed to take forever. When she saw the lights of the airport ahead, she said to the children, "We're almost there." Kemal was squeezing her hand.

"You'll be fine," Dana assured him. "All of you will be taken care of." And she thought, I'm going to miss you.

At the airport, a guard waved the van through, and it drove up to a waiting cargo plane with the Red Cross markings painted on the fuselage. The pilot was standing next to the plane.

He hurried up to Dana. "For God's sake, you're late! Get them aboard, fast. We were due to take off twenty minutes ago."

Dana herded the children up the ramp into the plane. Kemal was the last.

He turned to Dana, his lips trembling. "Will I see you again?"

"You bet you will," Dana said. She hugged him and held him close for a moment, saying a silent prayer. "Get aboard now."

Moments later, the door closed. There was a roar of the engines, and the plane began to taxi down the runway.

Dana and Munn stood there, watching. At the end of the runway, the plane soared into the air and speared into the eastern sky, banking north toward Paris.

"That was a wonderful thing you did," the driver said. "I want you to know - "

A car screeched to a stop behind them, and they turned. Colonel Gordan Divjak jumped out of the car and glared up at the sky where the plane was disappearing. At his side was Nikolai Petrovich, the Russian journalist.

Colonel Divjak turned to Dana. "You are under arrest. I warned you that the punishment for espionage is death."

Dana took a deep breath. "Colonel, if you're going to put me on trial for espionage - "

He looked into Dana's eyes and said softly, "Who said anything about a trial?"

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