Remember

Sadly her private life was a disaster, or so it seemed to him. There were no men around these days. At least, he had not heard her mention anyone special since the last relationship had gone bust in such an unfortunate way. Tragic really, when he thought about it, and it had certainly done Nicky in for a while. He wondered if she continued to be hurt, if she was still suffering because of the terrible way it had ended. It was hard for him to ascertain how she felt, because she never discussed her personal problems, and always kept up such a good front. Anyway, he did not dare pry. Nicky guarded her privacy fiercely. And so she should, Arch added to himself. What she does when she’s not working is none of my business. Except that I care so damned much about her welfare.

Nicky Wells was one of the most decent human beings he had ever met. She was fair, thoughtful, kind, extraordinarily loyal, and she had immense integrity. He wanted only the best for her, the very best. He wanted her to be happy. What the hell, he thought, who’s happy in this crazy world we live in today? He sighed and roused himself from these ruminations, reached for the telephone.

As he picked it up, Jimmy called out, ‘Arch, before you get involved with New York, could you come over here for a minute, please? I’d like you to stand in for Nicky.’

‘It’ll be my pleasure,’ Arch replied, putting the receiver down, pushing his chair back, and walking over to the window. ‘But what exactly do you have in mind?’

‘I’d like you to go outside on the balcony, so that I can get my camera angles set properly. It’ll save time later. Shooting from this angle, I can get some good close-ups of her,’ Jimmy explained. ‘And with my long-range lens, if I position myself here among these plants, I can pick up the end of Changan Avenue and Tiananmen Square. We’ll have to film when it’s fairly light, unless I can rig up some sort of lighting out there. But it’ll work, Arch, don’t worry.’

‘I’m not at all worried, James. Not when you’re behind the camera.’

TWO

It was a balmy night, almost sultry.

Nicky walked along Changan Avenue at a steady pace, dodging in and out between the other pedestrians who were heading in the same direction.

When she first arrived in Beijing, Clee had told her that the Chinese always made their way to the square in the evenings and at weekends, whether to demonstrate or celebrate, mark a memorable occasion or simply while away the time. He had gone on to explain that they went there to think, to mourn, to stroll, and that it was also a place for Sunday outings.

Lately it had become a place for protests.

Since April students from every province in China had been peacefully demonstrating for democracy and freedom. It had actually begun at a memorial in the square for Hu Yaobang, a liberal and enlightened member of the government. A special favourite of the young, he had died earlier that month, and they had come to mourn his passing and celebrate everything he had stood for. Unexpectedly, the memorial had turned into a kind of sit-in, and then the hunger strikes and non-violent demonstrations had started.

This had happened over six weeks ago, and the students were still occupying the square - hundreds of thousands of them. What’s more they were being fully supported by the citizens of Beijing, who brought them food and drinks, quilts and tents and umbrellas. And they sat with the students, commiserating and agreeing and airing their own grievances.

At exactly the same time these demonstrations were starting in Beijing in April, Nicky and her crew were in Israel, where they were doing a special on Mossad, the Israeli intelligence service. But by the end of the month, as they were finishing the special, Nicky had decided they must go to China. Mikhail Gorbachev was due to arrive in the Chinese capital in the middle of May for a state visit and, being fully aware of what the students were doing, Nicky smelled a story developing. A big story. She had phoned the President of News at the ATN network. ‘Listen, Larry, the students aren’t simply going to fold their tents and quietly steal away when Gorbachev comes to town,’ she had pointed out. ‘And it’s my belief real trouble is brewing over there.’

Larry Anderson had hesitated momentarily, and she had pushed harder. ‘Just think of it, Larry. Think of the scenario! How will the kids behave during Gorbachev’s visit? Will they continue to demonstrate? Will they embarrass the government? How will Gorbachev react to them? And just as importantly, how will the Chinese government react to the situation? And what will they do?’

These were only a few of the questions she had posed that morning on the phone from Tel Aviv, and she had obviously been persuasive. After talking to Arch, Larry had agreed they should go. He had immediately pulled them out of the Middle East, brought them back to New York for a week’s rest, then sent them jetting off to Mainland China with his blessing.

She and the crew had arrived on 9 May. Ostensibly they had come to cover the state visit of Mikhail Gorbachev, which was due to commence on 15 May. But they were really there because of the students - and Nicky’s anticipation of trouble.

By the time the Russian leader, his wife, and entourage had descended, Nicky, Arch, Jimmy, and Luke were well ensconced in the Beijing Hotel, along with over one thousand foreign correspondents from every country in the world.

Just as Nicky had suspected, Gorbachev received something of a hero’s welcome from the students, but there was a great deal of turmoil during his three-day visit, and the demonstrations continued unabated. As far as Nicky was concerned, the students had totally upstaged the summit meeting between the Russian and Chinese politicians, just as she had predicted they would. And she had made a point of focusing on the students and their predicament in her news reports.

At one point during Gorbachev’s stay, one million demonstrators had converged on Tiananmen, demanding democratic rights, freedom of speech and a government free of corruption and graft. The students had hunkered down in the square, determined to remain there despite the heat of a scorching sun, sudden, violent thunderstorms and heavy rain.

Arch had made sure that Jimmy got everything on film, and Nicky’s brilliant daily newscasts had been transmitted back to the States via the satellite. And for the short time that Gorbachev and the hordes of foreign reporters remained in Beijing, the government had turned a blind eye, assumed an air of tolerance about the students - and the foreign press as well.

But the authorities were quick to make their move two days after the Russians and much of the press had departed. They enforced martial law. Nicky and the crew had stayed on, as had several hundred other journalists. Something extraordinary was happening in China and the newsgatherers wanted to be there to do their job, to report unfolding events, history in the making.

Now, as she walked toward the square on this warm June night, Nicky’s mind raced. She knew the end was imminent. The children were going to die. Thousands of them. With this terrible thought her step faltered, but only for a moment. She recovered herself at once, and walked on as steadily as before, even though her heart suddenly felt like a lead weight in her chest.

As a chronicler of war, revolution, famine, flood and earthquake, she was a constant witness to death and destruction, pain and anguish … on every level, in many countries. And she never grew accustomed to it, was forever pained and sickened by these catastrophic events.

Over the years she had come to know the world as a most terrifying and horrendous place to live. Unfortunately, there was nowhere else to go.

What she saw and reported on bit like corrosive acid into her. Yet she had learned a rigid self-control, had found a way to conceal her true emotions, not only for that all-seeing eye of the television camera, but for her crew and friends as well. Not even Clee knew her real feelings about such things, and he was the one person to whom she was the closest these days.

Nicky’s pace quickened as her thoughts settled on Clee. He was in Tiananmen, and she needed to talk to him, to get his input. His instincts were excellent, and he had an emotional, visceral and intuitive response to events, just as she herself did. Moreover, she trusted his judgement. She always had, ever since they had first met in Lebanon, when they were both covering the long-running war there. They had been introduced on 3 June, the day after Premier Rashid Karami was assassinated, when a bomb had exploded in his helicopter. That was in 1987. Tomorrow she would have known Clee for exactly two years.

It was Arch Leverson who had made the introduction. Clee was an old friend of his, and they had accidentally bumped into each other in the lobby of the Commodore in West Beirut, the hotel favoured by the foreign press corps. Arch and Clee had made a date for drinks in the hotel bar that evening, and Arch had insisted on dragging her along.

Cleeland Donovan’s fame had preceded him well in advance of this chance meeting, since he was something of a celebrity and a legend in his own time. He was considered to be the greatest war photographer and photojournalist since Robert Capa, and like Capa he had a reputation for being very courageous and daring. It was a well-known fact that Clee Donovan always flung himself into the middle of the action on a battlefield in order to get the most powerful images on film, his bravery and daring only serving to add to his legend. An expatriate American living in Paris, he had founded Image, his own photo news agency, at the age of twenty-five, and had seemingly never looked back. His pictures appeared in every leading magazine and newspaper in the world, he had published several books of his work, all of which had been best sellers, and he was the recipient of many awards for his photojournalism. Also, according to Arch, he was glamorous, worldly, loaded with sex appeal and highly attractive to women.

A faint smile touched Nicky’s mouth as she remembered the night they had met. As she had changed into a fresh safari suit in her room at the Commodore, she had added up every single thing she had ever heard about Clee Donovan, and instantly she had known what to expect. Obviously he was going to be insufferable - a man who was more than likely far too handsome for his own good, extremely conceited, full of himself and certainly egocentric.

She had been wrong. He was none of these things.

When he had walked into the bar of the Commodore, glanced around and headed in their direction, she had believed he was someone else. She had at first surmised he was another friend of Arch’s, who had also been invited to join them.

Clee did not have the glamorous movie-star looks she had expected him to have, although he was quite good looking in a clean cut, all-American way. He had a nice face, that was the best way of describing it, and it was one that was open and honest. His hair was dark, his eyes brown, their expression gentle, and his sensitive mouth was quick to smile. He was about five feet ten inches in height, but appeared to be taller since his body was lean and athletic.

A pleasant, ordinary sort of guy, despite all that fame, all that success, she had decided, as he had seated himself at the table, ordered a drink and begun to chat amiably to them. Within twenty minutes or so she had changed her mind. Ordinary was certainly the wrong word to apply to Clee. He was highly intelligent, amusing, and blessed with a natural charm that was irresistible. It quickly became apparent to her that he was well informed and he had held them spellbound with his stories, fully living up to his reputation.

That evening she had believed him to be her age, maybe even a bit younger, but later Arch told her Clee was three years older than she was. This had surprised her, since he was so boyish in appearance.

The other thing Nicky had discovered at their first meeting was that he was a man with little or no conceit, contrary to what she had previously believed. He was sure of himself, but it was a self-assurance about his work, and it sprang from his ability and talent as a photojournalist. Eventually she had come to understand that his work was his lifeblood.

In any case, that night in Beirut they had taken a great liking to each other, and their friendship had grown over the weeks and months that followed. Frequently, they found themselves in the same trouble spots, covering the same stories. When they did they always joined forces.

Sometimes they went in different directions, and were on opposite sides of the world, but they always managed to stay in touch by phone, and through their respective offices.

A strong fraternal feeling had developed between them, and she had come to think of Clee as the brother she had never had; certainly he was her very good friend, her comrade-in-arms.

THREE

Cleeland Donovan sat on one of the ledges encircling the Monument to the People’s Heroes, also known as the Martyrs’ Monument, staring at the Goddess of Democracy.

This thirty-three-foot statue had been erected in the middle of the square by the students so that it was facing down a giant portrait of Mao Zedong which hung above Tiananmen Gate. The defiant white statue, composed of plaster and styrofoam, had been made by the students and faculty of the Central Academy of Fine Arts, who had then brought it to the square in a somewhat ceremonious fashion.

It reminded Clee of the Statue of Liberty. It was not so much the face that was familiar, but rather the posture, plus the toga-like robe draped around the body, with the raised arms holding high a torch of freedom. Clee found the statue ugly, but that did not matter. It was the symbolism that counted.

He had been present in Tiananmen when the students had erected the goddess and unveiled it three days ago. They had sung the ‘Internationale’ amidst much cheering, and shouts of ‘Long live democracy!’ had rung out across the square; the ceremony had been emotional, had touched him deeply.

Clee had managed to shoot several rolls of film surreptitiously, even though cameras were forbidden in the square; three of his had already been smashed by the police. Fortunately, he had several in reserve, including the Nikon F4 which was strapped to his shoulder underneath the loose cotton jacket he was wearing.

The night the statue had been brought to the square the weather had changed in the early hours. There had been strong winds and rain, but, remarkably, the goddess was undamaged the following morning; there wasn’t even a scratch on her. How long she would remain so was another matter.

Clee knew the goddess had irritated and outraged the government more than anything else the students had done, and government officials had denounced it as a ‘humiliation’ in such a historically important and solemn place as Tiananmen Square.

On the other hand, it had been the shot in the arm the kids had needed, and just seeing the statue in such a strategic spot had really lifted their flagging spirits. To protect the goddess they had erected tents around her base, and groups of students were always present, always ready to defend her.

But the government will tear it down, Clee thought, and sighed heavily at this prospect.

Luke Michaels, seated next to Clee, looked at him swiftly. ‘Something wrong?’

‘I was just wondering how long that’s going to be standing there?’ he murmured softly, gesturing to the statue.

‘I dunno.’ Luke shrugged, ran a hand through his dark-red hair, turned his earnest, freckled face to Clee. ‘Forever, perhaps?’

‘You’ve got to be kidding!’ Clee laughed hollowly. ‘I give it a couple of days, that’s all, before it’s totally destroyed. I can guarantee you this, Luke, it definitely won’t be standing there a week from today.’

‘Yeah, I guess you’re right, it’s a thorn in Deng’s side. Correction, it’s a thorn in all of their sides. The Gang of the Old can’t stand the sight of it, and they consider the making of it an act of pure defiance. It was wishful thinking on my part, hoping the statue would stand forever as a sort of tribute to the kids.’

‘Nobody around here is going to pay them a tribute, except for us - the press. And our tribute is to keep telling the world about them and their struggle, whatever it takes to do that on our part.’

Luke nodded, made no comment. He shifted his position slightly, leaned back against the stone, closed his eyes. It was photojournalists like Clee and correspondents like Nicky who often risked their lives to bring the truth to the public, and he found the two of them inspiring. They were his heroes. He especially admired Nicky Wells. She was what his mother called a real trouper. He thought she was pretty neat. He wasn’t married yet, or seriously dating anybody special, but when the time came for him to settle down, he hoped he would find a woman like Nicky. There was something warm and reassuring about her, and she didn’t put men down.

He had been part of Nicky’s crew for just over a year, and he had seen a lot, learned a lot, working with her and the guys. He was twenty-seven and had been in the television business for only five years, and he knew he was green in some respects. But Nicky had been helpful and very nice to him right from the beginning, had treated him like a seasoned veteran. She was a stickler about punctuality and many other things as well, and a perfectionist, and sometimes she could blow her stack. But she was a real pro, and he’d do just about anything for her. He wished she could find a good guy. There were times when she looked sad, and her eyes held a strange, distant expression as if she were remembering something awful or painful. And there was some sort of mystery in her past. It was about a man she’d been going with before he had joined her team. Arch and Jimmy were pretty close-mouthed about it, though, and he didn’t like to ask too many questions. Still, it was a shame she was alone. What a waste of a lovely woman -

‘Luke! Luke!’

The sound engineer opened his eyes, sat up with a jolt on hearing his name being called. He looked down. At the base of the monument people were milling about, as they usually were, since this spot was command headquarters for the student movement. The foreign press corps tended to congregate in the area and there was always a great deal of activity.

Luke spotted his buddy Tony Marsden immediately. Tony was beckoning to him.

Luke waved back, and stood up. ‘I’ll go and see what Tony wants,’ he said to Clee. ‘Maybe he knows something we don’t, has some new information. I won’t be long.’

‘Take your time, Luke, I ain’t going nowhere.’ Not for a day or two at least, Clee added under his breath. He knew he would be leaving China soon, though. The end was in sight. He sat gazing down into the square, his elbows on his knees, his head propped in his hands. His face settled into morose lines; he felt sad for the kids - so idealistic, so innocent, so very brave. When he had first come to Beijing almost six weeks ago they had been full of excitement. And hope. They had spoken stirring words about liberty and democracy, and had sung their songs, played their guitars. Their guitars were still tonight. Soon their voices would be still. He shuddered slightly and goose flesh sprang up on his skin. He hated to think of their fate. He realized they were in grave danger, although he had not voiced this to Nicky or anyone else. He did not have to; they all knew that time was running out for the students.

Suddenly, Clee saw Nicky walking through the square towards the monument. Like Changan Avenue, Tiananmen was extremely well illuminated with numerous tall street lamps, each one topped with branches of lights, about nine altogether and shaded in white opaque glass. The square was so bright it was almost like daylight and everyone was visible; it was even possible to read a book quite comfortably.

A smile touched his eyes at the sight of Nicky, and he clambered down off the ledge and dodged through the crowd, hurrying forward to meet her.

Nicky spotted him and waved.

He raised his hand in greeting, and a moment later he was drawing to a standstill in front of her, smiling broadly. ‘I knew you’d be out here before long,’ he said.

She nodded. ‘I had to be here, Clee. My instinct tells me the situation is about to blow.’

‘Wide open,’ he confirmed, then took her arm, guided her away from the monument. ‘Do you mind if we walk around for a bit? I need to stretch my legs, I’ve been sitting on that ledge for about an hour.’

‘No, of course I don’t mind, that’s what I’d like to do, and perhaps we’ll see Yoyo. He’s usually with Chai Ling and some of the other student leaders. He might know something new.’

‘And he’s constantly in touch with the Flying Tigers. I’ve noticed several of them whizzing around on their bikes in the last hour,’ Clee remarked, referring to a motorcycle brigade of young entrepreneurs who had also been dubbed ‘Paul Reveres’ by the American press. They roared all over Beijing, carrying messages, monitoring troop movements and the actions of the police, and in general acting as look-outs for the students.

‘Yoyo’s probably in the tent encampment. Shall we head over there?’ she suggested.

‘You got it.’

‘Where’s Luke? Arch said he was with you.’

‘He was, but he just went off with that guy from the BBC, Tony Marsden. They’re somewhere around. Do you need him?’

‘No, I just wondered, that’s all. And talking of the BBC, have you seen Kate Adie this evening?’

‘She’s probably somewhere in the crowd. There are a helluva lot of foreign press out tonight - trouble in the wind.’

Nicky looked at him swiftly. ‘I think the crackdown’s almost upon us, don’t you?’

‘Yes. The students and the government have reached an impasse, something’s got to give. It’ll have to be the students, I’m afraid, and we’re going to see a lot of force thrown against them.’

Nicky shivered despite the warmth of the evening. ‘That’s an awful prospect, but I have to agree. Where’s your camera?’

‘Strapped to my shoulder under my jacket. My buddies from Magnum and the Associated Press are doing exactly the same thing. As are most of the photographers. It’s the only way to fly.’

‘Clee …’

‘Yes, Nick?’ He glanced at her questioningly.

‘It’s going to get very dangerous out here … real soon.’

‘I’m damned sure of it. And before you say it, yes, I’ll be careful.’ A faint smile played around his mouth. ‘As careful as you are.’

‘I don’t take unnecessary chances, even though Arch seems to think I do. I try to minimize the odds against me.’

‘That’s another thing we have in common,’ Clee said.

‘What’s the other?’

‘We both have nerves of steel.’

‘I suppose we do,’ she agreed, laughing. ‘We have to have in this business. Just as we have to have a sixth sense for danger.’

Clee nodded but did not say anything else, and they walked on in companionable silence for a few minutes. As they came to the tent encampment, Nicky turned to him. ‘You know this place has really taken on a life of its own, what with the tents and the buses. It’s like a small town, and -’

‘A shanty town,’ Clee cut in.

‘You’re right, and I hope to God it doesn’t smell tonight.’

‘I’m sure it won’t, they’ve probably removed the garbage by now. In any case, there’s a nice breeze blowing up.’

‘The other day when I came looking for Yoyo it was very … malodorous. That’s the only word for it. The stench was disgusting, awful, rotting food, unwashed bodies, heaven knows what else, and I felt nauseous the entire time I was in here.’

Nicky sniffed as they entered the encampment and walked past several buses where some of the students lived. The air was fresh, and the area looked as if it had been recently swept and cleaned up. It was perfectly clean; there was no trash in sight.

Nicky was constantly surprised when she saw the neat lines of olive-green tents, waterproof and commodious, which had been sent from Hong Kong. They were very orderly, arranged in horizontal patterns with almost military precision, and lettered signs hung over each group, the signs identifying where the different contingents had come from. There were delegations of students from almost every university in every province of China.

Weeks ago she had discovered that most of the students slept during the day, mainly because the action was at night. Now the majority of the tents were empty, although a few late stragglers were only just emerging, getting ready for the rest of the evening and the early hours of the morning which lay ahead.

Vendors hung around on the pavement, selling sodas, bottled water, ices, popsicles, and other small snacks.

Clee glanced at her. ‘Would you like a popsicle?’

She made a face, shook her head.

The young Chinese student, Chin Young Yu, nicknamed Yoyo, was standing with a young woman in the centre of the encampment near his own tent. They both wore blue jeans and white cotton shirts. She was attractive and looked to be about the same age as Yoyo, who was twenty-two. Nicky wondered if this was his girlfriend, whom he had mentioned to her and who had been visiting relatives in Shanghai for the past few weeks. He was deep in conversation with the girl, but when he saw them he broke off and waved enthusiastically. Turning to her, he said something, and then hurried over to greet them.

Yoyo was an art student, and Nicky had met him quite by accident in Tiananmen Square when she had first arrived in Beijing. She had been trying to speak to some of the students that day, actually seeking someone who understood English. Yoyo had approached her with a smile, and told her, in fairly understandable English, that he would be happy to help her if he could. He had been useful in all sorts of ways; he had passed on information, introduced her to other student leaders, such as Chai Ling and Wuer Kaixi, and kept her abreast of developments amongst the students and the leaders of the movement. He was bright, friendly, and she had grown quite fond of him, as had the crew, and Clee. They worried about Yoyo, and what would happen to him, especially when all this was over.

‘Nicky!’ Yoyo cried, coming towards her, smiling widely, his hand outstretched.

‘Hello, Yoyo,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘Clee and I were looking for you.’

‘Good evening, Clee,’ Yoyo said.

‘Hi, Yoyo! What’s going on?’ Clee asked as he took the student’s hand.

Yoyo’s expression changed, and he looked grim as he confided quietly, ‘Bad things coming. Army drop canisters of tear gas from helicopters. On square. Tonight. You see. You have masks? Also, troops coming.’

‘Tonight? The troops are coming tonight?’ Nicky probed.

Yoyo nodded. ‘I hear troops hidden in buildings near square. They come. Very sure. Bad things happen. You tell world, yes?’

‘We’ll certainly keep telling the world, Yoyo,’ Nicky assured him. ‘But do you believe the People’s Liberation Army will open fire on the people?’

‘Oh yes. Yes.’ He nodded emphatically. ‘Some students say no, not possible. The People’s Liberation Army our army, they say. Won’t kill us. They foolish. Army very disciplined. Army follows orders. I know this.’

Nicky stared at him, her clear, intelligent eyes riveted on his face. ‘You should leave the square. Now. While it’s still possible, still safe.’

‘That wise, yes,’ Yoyo agreed. ‘But not everyone go, Nicky. Hard get everyone go. Blood spilled tonight.’

Nicky shivered involuntarily and looked pointedly at Clee.

Clee said, ‘What about Chai Ling and some of the other leaders? Can’t they get the students to leave?’

Yoyo shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’

‘Where are they?’ Clee asked.

‘Don’t see tonight. You like water? Soda?’

‘No thanks,’ Clee answered.

Nicky shook her head, smiling at Yoyo.

The young Chinese was thoughtful, then he remarked, ‘Movement lost spirit after martial law declared. Students very depressed. True, they should leave. They won’t. End will be bad thing.’

‘Come with us,’ Nicky said urgently. ‘Come with us to the Martyrs’ Monument, find one of the bullhorns you’ve been using, and relay a message to the students. They’ll listen to you, you’re one of their leaders. Ask them to leave, beg them, if necessary. And you must leave with them. If you and the other students get out of Tiananmen while there’s still time, you’ll save your lives. Please, Yoyo, do this. It will be an act of bravery if you lead the students away from the square. It will be a good thing to do.’

She reached out impulsively, took hold of his arm, stared deeply into his eyes. ‘Please, Yoyo, don’t stay here. You could be killed.’

Her words appeared to reach him. ‘I come monument. Soon. Bring Mai, my girlfriend. Go, Nicky. I come soon. I promise.’

‘We’ll be waiting for you. Don’t be too long, Yoyo. There’s not much time left.’

Nicky and Clee returned to the Martyrs’ Monument.

They found Luke waiting for them, and Nicky told him what had transpired with Yoyo, repeating what the student leader had said to them about the troops coming that night or in the early hours of the morning.

‘Oh Jesus!’ Luke exclaimed. ‘Those kids don’t stand a chance if that happens.’

‘They’re sitting ducks,’ Nicky pointed out. ‘They’re centred in a relatively small area, in relation to the overall size of the square, which is three-quarters empty right now. If the army comes in from the other side, it’ll have a clear run straight across the square.’