Remember
‘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.