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Barbara Taylor Bradford
Remember

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Previously published in paperback by Grafton 1992

Reprinted three times

Special overseas edition 1992

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1991

REMEMBER. Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 1991. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

Barbara Taylor Bradford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

This is a work of fiction. The situations and scenes described, other than historical events, are all imaginary. With the exception of well-known historical figures, none of the characters portrayed is based on real people, but were created from the imagination of the author. Any similarity, therefore, to those living or dead is purely coincidental.

ISBN 0 586 07036 2

Ebook Edition © JUNE 2011 ISBN 9780007396238

Version: 2017-11-14

This book is for my husband Robert,

who fights the good fight, with my

love and admiration.

Remember me when I am gone away,

Gone far away into the silent land;

When you can no more hold me by the hand,

Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.

Remember me when no more day by day

You tell me of our future that you plann’d:

Only remember me; you understand

It will be late to counsel then or pray.

Yet if you should forget me for a while

And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

For if the darkness and corruption leave

A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

Better by far you should forget and smile

Than that you should remember and be sad.

Christina Rossetti

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Part One Comrades-in-Arms

One

Sleep eluded her.

Two

It was a balmy night, almost sultry.

Three

Cleeland Donovan sat on one of the ledges encircling the…

Four

The killing began just after ten o’clock on Saturday night.

Five

Nicky was in and out of Tiananmen for the next…

Part Two Lovers

Six

It was Cézanne country, Van Gogh country, so Clee had…

Seven

The scream shattered her nightmare.

Eight

Clee stood staring at the dozen or so transparencies arranged…

Nine

It was drawing close to dusk when Clee finally left…

Ten

‘What Guillaume told you is true, Mademoiselle Nicky,’ Amelia said,…

Eleven

‘Think of it, Nicky, I was only four years old…

Twelve

She floated towards him in the water.

Thirteen

‘Eh voilà, Mademoiselle! Your American picnic,’ Clee said, placing the…

Fourteen

Holding hands, they walked slowly down the Cours Mirabeau, the…

Fifteen

Clee paused in the doorway of the library and leaned…

Sixteen

The interior of the restaurant was equally as eye-catching as…

Seventeen

‘This is one of the best scripts you’ve ever written,…

Eighteen

After lunch at the Four Seasons, Nicky went shopping at…

Part Three Conspirators

Nineteen

The house where Anne Devereaux lived was old, very old:…

Twenty

Nicky had not been in this house for almost three…

Twenty-One

Nicky sat in the window seat in her room, staring…

Twenty-Two

An hour later, at about seven o’clock, having changed from…

Twenty-Three

‘Anne, I’d like to talk to you about something,’ Nicky…

Twenty-Four

Nicky went for a walk through the grounds of Pullenbrook…

Twenty-Five

On Monday night Nicky caught the last flight to Rome.

Twenty-Six

After she had hung up, Nicky sat staring at the…

Twenty-Seven

That afternoon Nicky flew from Rome to Athens.

Twenty-Eight

It only occurred to Nicky that she really was being…

Twenty-Nine

The news about Yoyo had lifted Nicky’s spirits; it had…

Thirty

Javier opened the door of the apartment with his own…

Part Four Enemies and Friends

Thirty-One

It was that time of the year when Parisians have…

Thirty-Two

Nicky felt her mood changing the minute she opened the…

Thirty-Three

‘After Mai die in Xiehe Hospital I take her body…

Thirty-Four

Anne Devereaux had been on Nicky’s mind ever since Madrid,…

Thirty-Five

Like Pullenbrook, Anne’s flat in Eaton Square was beautiful, and…

Thirty-Six

Charles and Nicky stood facing each other in the living…

Thirty-Seven

The two women sat on the old stone bench at…

Acknowledgement

Dangerous to Know

Her Own Rules

The Women in his Life

About the Author

Other Books by Barbara Taylor Bradford

About the Publisher

PART ONE

Comrades-in-Arms

A friend may well be reckoned

the masterpiece of Nature.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

ONE

Sleep eluded her.

She lay in the darkness, trying to empty her head of every thought, troubling or otherwise, but this seemed to be an impossibility. Bone-tired though she had been earlier, when she had stripped off her clothes and fallen into bed, she was now wide-awake. All of her senses were alerted; she strained to catch any untoward sounds from outside. At this moment, though, very little noise penetrated the walls of the plush hotel suite. It was curious, ominous, the silence outside.

That’s where I should be, she thought. Outside.

Certainly that was where she belonged, where her heart and mind were. Outside … with her crew: Jimmy Trainer, her cameraman, Luke Michaels, her sound engineer, and Arch Leverson, her producer. They usually hung together most of the time, like any good news team on foreign assignment.

It was rare for her not to be with them, but tonight, over an early dinner, she had been so weary, her eyelids dropping after several nights with little or no sleep, that Arch had insisted she grab a few hours in bed. He had promised to wake her in plenty of time for her to prepare for her nightly broadcast to the States. Common sense plus fatigue had prevailed; she had agreed, only to find herself unable to relax and drop off the moment she was between the cool sheets.

She was tense, expectant, and she knew the reason why. Her intelligence, judgement and instinct, combined with her experience as a war correspondent, were all telling her the same thing. It was going to happen tonight. The crackdown that had been in the wind for days would be tonight.

Involuntarily, she shivered at this foreknowledge, turned cold. Blessed with a prescience that was unusual, she knew better than to doubt herself, and she shivered again at the thought of bloodshed. Blood would be spilled if the People’s Army moved against the people.

Pushing herself up against the pillows, she switched on the bedside lamp, glanced at her watch. It was a few minutes before ten. Throwing back the covers decisively, she got out of bed and hurried across the floor to the window. Opening it wide, she stepped out onto the balcony, anxious to see what, if anything, was happening in the streets of Beijing.

Her suite was on the fourteenth floor of the Beijing Hotel, overlooking Changan Avenue, also known as the Avenue of Eternal Peace, which led into Tiananmen Square. Below her on this wide boulevard, illuminated by cluster lights shaded in green, people were moving along steadily in a continuous flow, like trout heading upstream. As they passed through the pools of light cast by the lamps, she saw that they were mostly wearing white shirts or tops; they moved so quietly, so silently, she found this to be quite amazing.

They were making for Tiananmen Square, that vast rectangle of stone dating back to 1651 in the early Qing Dynasty, built to hold a million people in its one-hundred-acre expanse. She had come to understand that it was the symbolic heart of political power in China, and over the centuries the square had been the site of some momentous events in the country’s turbulent history.

She sniffed the air. It was clear, held no hint of tear gas, or the smell of the yellow dust that perpetually blew in from the Gobi Desert and was normally all-pervasive in the congested capital. Perhaps the light wind was carrying both smells away from the hotel, or perhaps tear gas had not been used tonight. Glancing up and down the long avenue quickly, her eyes shifted back to the crowded pavement below her balcony and the people walking towards the square in such an orderly fashion. Everything appeared to be peaceful, and certainly the military were nowhere to be seen. At the moment.

The calm before the storm, she thought dismally, turned, and went back into the suite.

After switching on the rest of the lights in the bedroom, she hurried into the adjoining bathroom, where she splashed cold water on her face, patted it dry with a towel, and began to brush her hair in swift, even strokes.

The face surrounded by the soft blonde hair was somewhat wide with a strong jawline, but its individual features were classical, clean cut, well defined - high cheekbones, straight nose, pretty mouth, chin that was firm and resolute without being pugnacious. The eyes, set wide apart under arched blonde brows, were large and clear, their colour a light sea-blue that was almost but not quite turquoise. The features came together to create a face that was unusually attractive, lively with vivid intelligence and humour, highly photogenic. In her bare feet, as she was now, she stood five feet six inches tall; slender of frame yet surprisingly strong, she had long legs and possessed a willowy grace.

The young woman’s name was Nicole Wells, known as Nicky to the world at large. But her family, crew and closest friends affectionately called her Nick most of the time.

At thirty-six she was at the height of her profession, war correspondent for the American Television Network, headquartered in New York. Renowned as a brilliant investigative reporter as well as a chronicler of war, and respected for her spectacular coverage of world events, she had a reputation for being courageous and intrepid. On camera she was charismatic: she had become a genuine superstar in the media.

Nicky put down the brush, pulled her hair straight back into a pony tail and anchored it firmly, before reaching into her makeup kit for a lipstick. Once she had outlined her mouth in pink, she leaned closer, grimacing at herself. She looked washed out, pallid, without makeup, but she was in too much of a hurry to start applying it. Besides, she was certain she would not be on camera tonight. When martial law had been declared on 20 May, almost two weeks ago now, the Chinese government had turned off the satellite; furthermore, television cameras had been banned in the square. No more live-spot location shots without that satellite feed or Jimmy behind his camera. At least not in Tiananmen Square, and that’s where the story was - at the centre of the action. Once again, she would have to make do with a phoned-in report.

Swinging away from the mirror, Nicky returned to the bedroom, where she dressed rapidly in the clothes she had shed only a brief while ago: loose, beige cotton trousers, a blue cotton T-shirt, and a short-sleeved safari-style jacket which matched the pants. This was her standard uniform when she was abroad on assignment in the summer; she always packed three identical safari suits, plus a selection of T-shirts and man-tailored cotton shirts to add contrast colour to the suits, and for the benefit of the camera.

After she had slipped her feet into soft brown leather loafers, she went to the closet and took out her big shoulder bag, brought it back to the table. This was a commodious carryall made of some sort of sage-green waterproofed fabric; it contained what she laughingly referred to as ‘my entire life,’ and she rarely went anywhere without it when she was on foreign assignment. Now, as she always did before going out, she unlocked it, double-checked that her ‘life’ was indeed safely inside the bag. Passport, press credentials, plastic money, real money including US dollars, Hong Kong dollars, English pounds and the local yuan, door keys for her Manhattan apartment, world address book, a small cosmetic bag containing toothpaste, toothbrush, soap, makeup, eye drops, makeup mirror, hairspray, hair brush and a packet of tissues. All were neatly stashed in several separate compartments within the interior section of the bag; in the two large outside pockets were her cellular phone, tape recorder, notebook, pens, reading glasses, sun glasses and a packet of gauze surgical masks to protect against tear gas.

As long as she had the bag with her Nicky knew she could survive anywhere in the world without any other luggage and, just as importantly, do her job efficiently and effectively. But she did not need the bag with her tonight, only a few of its contents. These she now took out and locked the carryall. Her passport and press credentials, the cellular phone, reading glasses, notebook and pens, gauze masks, some of the US dollars and local yuan were the essential items, and she popped them into a much smaller shoulder bag made of brown leather.

Slinging the small bag over her shoulder, she pocketed the door key, picked up the carryall and returned it to the closet. She then left the suite, glancing at her watch as she did. It was just ten twenty.

Despite her sense of urgency, and her need to be outside in the square, Nicky nevertheless headed for the ATN suite a few doors away from her own, just in case Arch Leverson had returned to call New York. The time difference between China and the United States was exactly thirteen hours: it was nine twenty on Friday morning back home. This was about the time Arch generally checked in with Larry Anderson, the President of News at the ATN network.

The suite served as a makeshift newsroom-office for them, and when she got there it was her cameraman’s voice she heard faintly echoing at the other side of the door. She knocked lightly.

A second later the door was wrenched open and Jimmy flashed her a huge grin when he saw it was she. ‘Hi, honey,’ he exclaimed, then walked back towards the desk, adding over his shoulder, ‘I won’t be a minute … just finishing a call to the States.’

Closing the door behind her, Nicky followed him into the room, placed her bag on a chair, and stood with her hand on the chair back, waiting.

At fifty-two Jimmy Trainer was in his prime. He was of medium height, slim and spry, with greying dark hair, rosy cheeks in a merry face, and a twinkle in his pale-blue eyes. An ace cameraman who had won an endless number of awards, he loved his work and being part of Nick’s team; his job was his life, even though he had a wonderful wife, a happy marriage and two children. And, like Luke and Arch, he was totally devoted to Nicky Wells. To Jimmy she was a dream to work with, and he would have put his life on the line for her.

Jimmy picked up the phone, resumed his conversation, talking in a low, fast tone, bringing the call to his wife to an end. ‘Nicky just came in, Jo honey. I gotta go. Duty calls.’ After listening a moment or two longer, he finally said an affectionate goodbye to her and broke the connection. Turning to Nicky, he remarked, ‘This is the best damned phone system. Got to hand it to the Chinese, they certainly installed the most up-to-date equipment. Joanna sounded as if she was in the next room, instead of on Eighty-Third and Park, and she -’

‘It’s French,’ Nicky interrupted. ‘The phone system, I mean.’

‘Yep, I guess I knew that. Jo sends her love.’

Nicky smiled at him. ‘How is she?’

‘Sounds fine. But she’s watching the news on television, listening to the same news on the radio and worrying about the four of us. She seems to be handling it well, though, as she usually does.’ His brow furrowed. ‘But hey, kiddo, you’re supposed to be grabbing a few hours’ shut-eye, not hovering around here obviously anxious to start planning tonight’s newscast.’

‘I know, I know, but I couldn’t sleep. I have a premonition something … no, everything, is going to blow tonight. My gut instinct tells me there’s going to be a crackdown. Probably around midnight, or thereabouts.’

Catching the tension in her voice, noting her worried expression and the seriousness of her words, Jimmy looked at her alertly. After five and a half years of working with her in the trouble spots of the world, he trusted her intuition implicitly. Her judgement had rarely been flawed.

‘If you say so, Nick, and you know I’m with you all the way. But look, I gotta tell you this, it is pretty quiet out there. At least it was twenty minutes ago.’

Nicky focused her eyes on him, the look in them quizzical. ‘Nothing’s happening in the square?’

‘Not really. The kids in the tent encampment were starting to come out of their tents, mingling with each other and chatting, sort of sharing experiences, I suppose, as they appear to do every night.’ For a moment he was thoughtful, before he went on, ‘To tell you the truth, I was reminded of Woodstock tonight, without the drugs, of course. Or, if you prefer, one of those summer street festivals we have in New York. Everything was very relaxed, friendly, easygoing I’d say.’

‘It won’t be for much longer,’ Nicky announced with quiet vehemence, and sat down heavily in a chair. ‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, analysing, and I believe that Deng Xiaoping is at the end of his tether. He’s been provoked and frustrated by the students for some time, and I’m sure he’s about to make his move. It’ll be a bungled move, just as he and the government have bungled the whole Tiananmen Square affair ever since it began. He’ll have no compunction, you know. He’ll order the troops to move on the students.’ She sighed, finishing in a low, saddened voice, ‘There’s going to be a bloodbath, Jimmy.’

He stared at her. ‘Not that, Nick, surely not! Deng wouldn’t go so far. He wouldn’t dare. He’d hardly risk condemnation from the world and its leaders.’

She shook her head. ‘You’re wrong, James. He’ll do it all right. And I’ll tell you something else, I don’t think Deng gives a damn about the rest of the world, its leaders, or what they think of him.’

The magnitude of her words struck him forcibly, and Jimmy exclaimed, ‘Oh God! Those kids are so young, so idealistic!’ His voice rose as he rushed on, ‘And they’re so peaceful. All they want is to be listened to … they just want to be heard.’

‘That’s never going to happen,’ Nicky replied. ‘You know as well as I do what the students call Deng and his cohorts … the Gang of the Old, and they’re absolutely right. Deng is eighty-five and far, far too old to understand the way it is today. He’s completely out of touch with this generation, all he’s interested in is clinging to power. We know the students are not making unreasonable demands, and anyway, wanting freedom and democracy is a pretty normal thing, wouldn’t you say?’

Jimmy nodded. He took a deep breath. ‘Okay, so what do you want to do, Nick?’

‘I want to be out there, right in the middle of it when it happens. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? To report the news, to bring the news to the people, to tell the outside world the way it is in China on this Friday night, the second day of June, in the year 1989.’

‘We’ve still got one big problem, honey, we can’t film out there,’ Jimmy reminded her. ‘The minute we appear, the police will smash the cameras and the sound equipment. What’s more, we could get hauled in for questioning, like some of the other foreign correspondents have been. We could be detained, flung into jail -’

Jimmy broke off, glancing at the door as it opened to admit Arch.

Nicky’s producer did not seem surprised to see her as he entered the room. ‘And why might we be flung into jail?’ he asked, focusing his attention on the cameraman.

‘If we try to film in the square,’ Jimmy answered.

‘Only too true. Nothing’s changed since yesterday,’ Arch Leverson declared, and came to a standstill next to Nicky. He put a hand on her shoulder, squeezed it, gave her a warm smile, which she returned.

Always elegantly attired wherever he was, Arch was tall and thin, had a saturnine face, prematurely silver hair, and light-grey eyes behind steel-rimmed glasses. Forty-one years old and a veteran of the television news business, he had been lured away from another network by ATN three years ago. Quite aside from the hike in salary they offered, the most exciting inducement they dangled in front of him was Nicky Wells. The man who had produced her shows for several years had retired, and the job was open. There wasn’t a producer in the television news business who didn’t want to take over her newscasts, not to mention the documentaries she was famous for, and for which she had won several Emmys. His agent had negotiated a good contract for him and he had changed networks, had never once regretted doing so. He and Nicky had hit it off immediately; she was a real professional who had his utmost respect, not to mention his affection.

Nicky looked up at Arch, and said, ‘There’s going to be a crackdown … most probably tonight.’

Arch returned her quiet gaze with one equally steady, but he did not immediately respond. After a moment, he said slowly, ‘You’re not often wrong, Nicky, and I’m inclined to agree with you, military intervention is inevitable.’

‘According to Jimmy, it was peaceful in the square earlier this evening. Has the atmosphere changed?’ she asked Arch.

‘Not really. In fact, I’d go as far as to say it’s positively festive out there. Nevertheless, rumours are rife, mostly about troop movements seen in different parts of Beijing again. I just ran into one of the guys from CNN in the hotel lobby, and he told me he’d heard the same rumours.’

Arch moved across the room and sat down behind the desk, glanced from Nicky to Jimmy, looking considerably worried. ‘We’d better prepare ourselves. I think it’s going to be a rough weekend. Tough in every possible way.’

‘I’m sure of it,’ Nicky muttered.

Jimmy made no comment, nor did he react to the producer’s dire prediction. Instead he paced up and down the room, looking preoccupied, fingering his chin. Finally he stopped, addressed Arch. ‘Since we can’t manage any live-shot locations in the square, I’m going to have to film Nick doing her standups in another part of town, the way we did at the beginning of the week.’

‘I don’t think we dare risk that again,’ Arch exclaimed swiftly, shaking his head. ‘The city’s teeming with police, and we wouldn’t get two steps before we were in deep trouble.’

‘I was thinking of one of the districts on the edge of the city,’ Jimmy explained, ‘not anywhere remotely near Tiananmen. It’ll be quieter out there.’

Arch shook his head again. ‘No. It won’t be safe, Jimmy. It’s putting Nick at risk, and needlessly so. I’m not going to take that chance -’

‘Oh come on, Arch!’ Nicky cut in peremptorily. ‘I’m a war correspondent, remember. I’ve been in harm’s way for years. I think we ought to do what Jimmy suggests -’

‘But I don’t!’ Arch shot back, rather sharply for him. ‘I just told you, I’m not putting you at risk. I’m not going to put any of us at risk, for that matter. Not here in China for this story.’

‘Listen, Arch, I’m sick and tired of doing these phone narrations with my cellular from the square!’ Nicky exclaimed. ‘And I’m just as sure New York’s sick of running stills of me to go with the narrations. Please, Arch, let’s attempt to do at least one newscast live on camera tonight, no matter where we actually film it. I realize we can’t feed it to New York via the satellite, that it’ll have to be shipped, but even so the network would have it on time to run it Sunday or Monday.’ Turning to her cameraman, she asked, ‘There’s no problem getting the moving film out by courier, via Hong Kong and Tokyo, is there?’

‘The couriers are still operating,’ Jimmy assured her. ‘I suppose we could film you in your suite, even though you’ve been dead set against that, Nicky…’ Jimmy broke off, hurried over to the window. Pulling it open, he went out onto the balcony, stepped back inside, and stood gazing at the balcony from the room for a moment. He swung to Arch and said, ‘I think there’s a way to film Nick out there, with Changan and Tiananmen in the background. It’ll be a tight squeeze, but it’s worth a try.’

Arch sat up in the chair, looking suddenly more cheerful. ‘Sure, Jimmy, why not! We’ve talked about it before, but always dismissed it. Now we don’t have any choices left. In any case, out there on the balcony we’ll be able to convey a sense of on-the-spot reporting. I hope. Which is what we’re about, after all.’

‘I’ll start planning it,’ Jimmy said.

Nicky went to the open window and surveyed the balcony, then, turning, she said to Jimmy, ‘I’m sure it’ll work, and I’m all for it.’

Arch said, ‘Listen, Nick, I’m afraid you will have to do a phone narration for tonight’s newscast, we’ve just no alternative. We’ll do that first, then shoot out there, so that America can see you live, and in living colour, on Monday at the latest.’

‘Okay. In the meantime, if you don’t need me, I think I’ll go to the square for a while.’ Glancing over at Arch, she asked, ‘Where’s Clee? And Luke? At the Martyrs’ Monument?’

‘That’s where I left them.’

‘Then let’s make that our rendezvous, shall we? Right now I want to walk around, nose about a bit, get a proper sense of what’s really happening, talk to Yoyo and a few of the other students.’

‘Jimmy and I will join you in about an hour,’ Arch told her. ‘After I’ve called the network.’

‘See you later, guys.’ Nicky picked up her bag, shrugged it onto her shoulder and hurried out of the suite, her manner efficient and breezy.

Arch Leverson sat staring at the door for a few minutes after she had left, his thoughts focused on Nicole Wells.

Whenever she went off on her own in a hazardous zone he automatically wanted to caution her to be careful, but he had schooled himself to resist the temptation. He had learned his lesson long ago, having had his head bitten off far too often in the early days of their association. He frequently wished he did not feel so protective about her, but he did, and there was little he could do to change his feelings. In any case, Jimmy and Luke were in the same boat as he was, constantly worrying about her well-being. And she was forever scaring the hell out of the three of them with the chances she took.

There was no question in his mind about her courage. She was fearless. Danger did not bother her; she thumbed her nose at it, seemed to relish it. More than once it had struck him that she behaved as though her life was of little consequence to her. But he knew this was a far-fetched idea, therefore it was always easy for him to dismiss it at once, which he now did. Naturally Nicky cared about her life, even if she was sometimes mighty casual about her personal safety.

Reaching into his pocket, Arch pulled out a packet of cigarettes, took one and lit it. Of course it was the story that mattered, that’s what it was all about, what she was all about. The story came first, took precedence over everything else, and he understood why, being a newsman himself. Nicky Wells was like most other war correspondents, whatever their gender; she simply wanted to be at the centre of the action, where the excitement was. Both were potent aphrodisiacs, as he well knew. And once tasted, those particular aphrodisiacs were hard to forgo.

She’s a chip off the old block, he mused, thinking of her father as he drew on his cigarette. Andrew Wells had also been a renowned war correspondent in his earlier days. He continued to ply his trade, as a highly-respected columnist for the New York Times. Then there was her mother, who could hardly be overlooked: Elise Elliot Wells, Pulitzer Prize winner, former distinguished foreign correspondent, writer of important books.

Arch had often wondered what it must have been like, growing up with that formidable duo. Some childhood she must have had, being dragged around the world by two hot-shot journalists in search of headlines for their respective newspapers, who nonetheless had adored their only child, by all accounts. Still adored, in fact.

Once, in a confiding mood, she had told him that her father called her Nick because he had always wanted a son. That had explained a lot to him, and it had been a definitive clue to her personality, her devil-may-care attitude to danger. She wanted to be the brave ‘son’ whilst emulating daddy to the fullest, always seeking his approval.

Kind of a heavy load to dump on a kid, Arch thought, stubbing out his cigarette. Never once had he wished that his daughter Rachel had been a boy. He loved her exactly the way she was, didn’t want to change her one iota. And not only was she his pride and joy, she had been a great comfort to him after he and her mother had been divorced.

As for Nicky, well, she was certainly very different from most people, undoubtedly because she had been exposed to so much at such a tender age, quite aside from having an extraordinary couple for parents. Also, she was well travelled, well educated, intelligent, cool-headed, determined, and very ambitious. Some combination in a young woman. Awesome, he had decided long ago.

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.’