Remember

  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 congr
egate 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 sa
id, 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.’