Книга - Remember

Remember
Barbara Taylor Bradford


A woman, an obsession, an unforgettable bestseller.Television war correspondent Nicky Wells is a media superstar. Courageous, beautiful and renowned for her hard-hitting reports from the world’s most dangerous trouble spots, her life is shattered when she loses the only man she ever truly loved – a dashing English aristocrat, Charles Devereaux.Nicky seeks solace in her work and friendship with photographer Cleeland Donovan and, after a romantic interlude in Provence, begins to think she may fall in love again. But she is forced to remember Charles when confronted with disturbing evidence that he led a secret double life…Packed with passion, intrigue and suspense, Remember is an unforgettable story of a charismatic and sophisticated woman at the height of her professional career.









Barbara Taylor Bradford

Remember










Copyright


Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF



www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://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 (#u45ab4b87-d2ef-52ee-995a-601d95db3ec3)

Title Page (#u4c8b74fd-bb46-5d92-b9fd-a81f9abf4cbe)

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.’

‘That’s right,’ Luke muttered, sounding troubled.

‘Let’s hope Yoyo can persuade the students to leave before that happens,’ Clee said, wanting to be positive.

Nicky was silent, her expression anxious, but within seconds she brightened. ‘Here he is now, thank goodness. Perhaps we can get him up on the monument with a bullhorn at once. He can at least warn the kids.’

Yoyo and his girlfriend Mai joined them. They were holding hands, and Yoyo said, ‘This my friend, Mai. Her English not very excellent. Sorry.’

‘No need to apologize,’ Nicky replied with genuine warmth. She looked at Mai, and was startled by her. When she had seen the girl a little earlier, she had not realized how lovely Mai was. Her features were beautiful, and her black, almond-shaped eyes were enormous in her sweet, innocent young face. She had long glossy black hair, was a small and slender creature, and everything about her was delicate, almost dainty. Nicky thought she was enchanting, like a little doll.

Thrusting out her hand, Nicky said with a welcoming smile, ‘I’m pleased to know you, Mai.’

The girl smiled back, although rather shyly, showing perfect white teeth. She took Nicky’s hand in hers, and Nicky was surprised at the firmness of her hold; her grip was surprisingly strong. ‘Hi,’ she said softly.

Next, Mai shook hands with Clee and Luke, who murmured their greetings and smiled, obviously appreciating the girl’s inherent loveliness as much as Nicky.

Nicky swung her eyes to Yoyo. ‘Did you find a bullhorn?’

‘Not necessary. I don’t speak. Chai Ling speak. Later.’

‘You’ve seen her?’ Nicky asked, her voice suddenly sharp.

‘Yes, near goddess. Chai Ling will take bullhorn, tell students to go home. She promise.’

‘Let’s hope she keeps that promise,’ Clee murmured. ‘In the meantime, let’s take the weight off our feet.’

The five of them found places on the ledges that ran around the base and lower part of the monument, and sat down to wait for Arch and Jimmy. And hopefully Chai Ling, the respected leader of the student movement, commander-in-chief of the Tiananmen demonstrators, and a graduate student in psychology at Beijing Normal University.



It was almost one o’clock in the morning of 3 June when Arch and Jimmy finally appeared. They came running into the square at a rapid jog. As they drew to a stop in front of the small group clustered together on the monument, Nicky immediately noticed their troubled expressions.

‘What is it?’ she cried, glancing at Arch and then at Jimmy, a blonde brow raised speculatively. She sat forward tensely.

Between short gasps, trying to catch his breath, Arch blurted out, ‘The troops are coming down Changan Avenue from the east. We just saw them as we were heading towards the square and -’

Jimmy interjected, ‘They’re being stopped by the people.’

‘What do you mean?’ Nicky cried, looking puzzled.

‘The citizens of Beijing have formed a blockade … with their bodies. A human blockade. To stop the army getting to the students in the square. They’re keeping the army out of the square,’ Jimmy explained.

‘I’ll be damned,’ Luke said.

Clee did not wait to hear another word, and neither did Nicky. They wanted to see everything for themselves, as always the observers, the reporters.

Simultaneously they both jumped off the ledge where they were sitting together and began to run towards Tiananmen Gate which led into Changan Avenue. They were closely followed by Yoyo, who was clutching Mai’s hand, and behind them came Luke, sprinting forward at such a speed he soon caught up with Clee and Nicky. Arch and Jimmy took a few seconds to catch their breath, and then they also took off at a fast pace, making for the entrance onto the avenue.

Nicky and Clee were the first to reach the crowds of people flooding Changan. And almost instantly they were separated from each other by the swirling masses.

She had never seen anything like this in her life. It was formidable. What Jimmy had said was true. The citizens were blocking the army, preventing the soldiers from moving forward, literally holding them back with their bodies. They truly were a human shield. She saw that they were actually pushing the soldiers back. And what an army it was. Kids, she thought in astonishment, as she stared at the troops. They were just kids; they looked even younger than the students.

Nicky lost no time. Without considering her own safety, she moved closer to the crowds, needing to be nearer the action. Within seconds she was surrounded by people, caught in the middle of them against her own volition, and swept forward by the force and movement of their bodies. There was a lot of pushing and shoving. Several times she swayed, almost went down. At one moment, as people pressed into her from behind, she reached out, desperately clutched at a man’s arm. He swung around angrily, then quickly helped her to regain her balance. Almost immediately, and unexpectedly, a young woman grabbed at her jacket, as the crowd surged forward yet again, carrying everyone closer to the troops. Nicky almost fell because the Chinese woman was clinging to her with such tenacity, but somehow she stayed upright, and they bolstered each other, gave each other physical support. The mass of people swept on and on, and Nicky thought she would stumble or be knocked over, or that she would be trampled. She was conscious of people jostling her, pressing into her from all sides. And so hemmed in was she that she had trouble keeping her balance, staying on her feet.

Exactly at the precise moment she experienced her first flicker of panic, wondered if she was going to be crushed to death, she felt a hand grasp her elbow roughly. Half turning her head, looking over her shoulder, she saw Arch standing immediately behind her.

‘Thanks,’ she gasped with relief, then shouted above the noise, ‘The troops seem to be unarmed.’

‘They also look frightened to death.’

‘Bewildered.’

There was a great deal more pushing and shoving and jostling, as well as angry shouting on the part of the Beijingers before they surged onward en masse. They were like a huge tidal wave of immense force and power, as they propelled Nicky and Arch along with them.

Immediately ahead were the young soldiers, none of whom looked to be a day older than eighteen. They were being mauled and bruised and scratched as the people pushed at them, ranted at them. Nicky began to realize that the inflamed citizens of the capital were lecturing the soldiers, scolding them as if they were their children. Most of the troops were milling around in total confusion, and many of them had broken down and were starting to cry.

Clinging to Arch tightly, Nicky exclaimed, ‘These kids don’t know what the hell this is all about!’

‘I’m convinced of it,’ Arch answered, putting his arm around her waist, grabbing her to him, determined to keep her safe in this melee.

Unexpectedly, she saw Jimmy pushing his way closer to them.

How he had found them in the crowds Nicky would never know. He had sprung up as if from nowhere, and swiftly he took hold of her arm. ‘Come on, we’re getting out of this mob!’ he cried.

By using great force and being ruthlessly aggressive, Jimmy and Arch managed to push Nicky and themselves through the seething mass of people until they were finally staggering out onto the extreme edge of Changan Avenue. They were sweating and panting, and the three of them stood huddled together under the trees at the side of the wide boulevard, breathing sighs of relief as they straightened their clothes.

Arch said, ‘By the looks of those kids, we weren’t in danger of being shot at, but we were in danger of being trampled to death by that mob.’

‘Our best bet is to stand here and watch what’s happening from the sidelines,’ Nicky announced.

Arch and Jimmy were startled by her words.

Jimmy said, ‘Hey, that’s a new one for you, kiddo! When have you ever been on the sidelines?’ Not waiting for an answer, he rushed on, ‘But you’re right, it is safer here. Being in the middle of that lot was like being in the centre of … a stampede. And what an army it is … just look at ’em. They’re burdened down with camp gear, canteens and knapsacks, yet they don’t have any weapons.’ He shook his head wonderingly.

‘I told you they weren’t armed, Arch,’ Nicky said.

Clee hurried to join them a few minutes later. His hair was rumpled, his jacket ripped, but otherwise he looked totally unscathed. His Nikon was slung around his neck and there was a triumphant glint in his dark eyes. ‘I got some great shots,’ he told them.

‘Isn’t that a bit dangerous, showing your camera, Clee?’ Jimmy asked, eyeing the Nikon nervously. ‘It’s liable to get pulled off your neck and smashed.’

‘Not by this bunch, James,’ Clee shot back confidently. ‘They’re on my side, on our side. They want their pictures taken … they’re chanting the usual thing … tell the world, tell the world.’

‘But the riot police -’ Arch began and abruptly stopped. ‘I guess there are no police around.’

‘It’s doubtful,’ Clee responded. ‘At this moment, anyhow.’

‘Maybe I should go and get our cameras, try something live with Nicky,’ Jimmy suggested, looking at Arch. ‘We might just get away with it.’

‘No,’ Arch said.

‘I’ll do a phone narration, and we can film on the balcony later, Jimmy, as we planned,’ Nicky soothed, knowing it was hopeless to argue with Arch when he was in this overly-cautious mood. She had frequently been in the line of fire on battlefields and he hadn’t batted an eyelash or said anything about danger. But ever since they had been in Beijing he had been mouthing words of warning constantly, and she couldn’t help wondering why. She would ask him later. Now was not the time. She glanced around, her eyes seeking Luke. He was nowhere to be seen; neither were Yoyo and little Mai. They had been swallowed up by that mass of swaying, shouting people.

But eventually, much to her relief, Luke hove in view, and Yoyo and Mai were with him. She was limping, had obviously hurt her leg or her foot, and Yoyo was helping her.

‘Has Mai been injured?’ Nicky cried in concern, running to them.

‘Not serious,’ Yoyo said. ‘Man stand on Mai’s foot. She okay.’

Nicky put her arm around the Chinese girl’s shoulders in a rather motherly fashion, and the four of them walked over to the spot where the others were gathered.

Luke said to Nicky, ‘It’s surprising the rest of us weren’t hurt. You are okay, aren’t you, Nicky?’

‘I’m fine, thanks, Luke. And presumably you are?’

‘Not a scratch.’

They sat down under the trees on the side of Changan Avenue, wanting to collect themselves and cool off. In spite of the breeze, the air was warm, almost heavy, and both Nicky and Clee took their jackets off. Arch passed around a packet of cigarettes but everyone declined, except for Yoyo. Mai sat next to him, examining her foot, and said something to him in Chinese. He smiled, nodded, quickly turned to Nicky. ‘Mai say foot not broken. Bruised.’

Nicky nodded. ‘Good.’ She leaned forward to Yoyo with enormous urgency. ‘Did you find anything out? Where are those troops from? And what’s happening?’

Yoyo puffed on his cigarette for a second, and then he told her, ‘Troops from far away. From outside Beijing. They march many hours. They told go on manoeuvres. They told go stop troublemakers. They no understand. They afraid. They young boys. People lecture them. Tell them don’t hurt students. Soldiers don’t know this Beijing. Don’t know where this is. They no fight, Nicky. They too scared.’

‘Thank God for that, but what an anticlimax!’ Nicky exclaimed.

‘Where are the helicopters?’ Clee asked, looking up at the night sky, then at Yoyo.

‘No come now,’ Yoyo said, sounding as though he knew what he was talking about. ‘No tear gas.’

There was a small silence.

It was Nicky who broke it. The People’s Liberation Army came to Beijing to quell the student demonstrators, and were conquered by the citizens. Not a single shot was fired.’

And several hours later that was how she began her nightly newscast to the United States.



Saturday dawned bright and sunny.

The young soldiers, still bewildered and now very dispirited, finally retreated down Changan Avenue in the middle of the morning.

The Beijingers went home and stayed there, or continued on to their places of work. The students went to sleep in their tents and buses, and a certain air of calmness descended over Changan Avenue and Tiananmen Square. There was a semblance of order and normality.

Nicky was convinced the tranquillity was phony and that the situation had been contained for only a short while - a dozen or so hours at the most. The way she saw it, the Chinese government would take a hard line because they would perceive the army’s retreat as a humiliation. They would automatically blame the students, even though it had been the ordinary citizens who had stood up to the troops, and prevented them from entering the square. And they would act accordingly, with great force and violence.

After snatching a few hours’ sleep, once her broadcast was finished, she had been in and out of the square all day. Instinctively, she knew that the atmosphere of calmness was underscored by tension and fear, and she voiced this thought to Clee.

They sat having a snack in the Western Dining Room of the Beijing Hotel on Saturday afternoon. Leaning across the table, she added, ‘The crackdown’s still coming. I’m just off by a few hours, that’s all.’

‘I know,’ Clee said, and took a sip of his coffee. Putting the cup down, he went on in a low tone, ‘The government wants those kids out of the square in the worst way now. They’re losing face in the West, and they can’t stand that. I’ll tell you something else, Nick, when it does happen it’ll be fast.’

‘And bloody. And short. It won’t last very long, Clee.’

He nodded. ‘By Monday it’ll be all over bar the shouting, and the aftermath’s going to be pretty goddamn lousy. There’ll be arrests, trials, repression, and Christ knows what else.’

‘I’m concerned about Yoyo,’ Nicky confided, sudden worry flicking into her eyes. ‘He’s been in the thick of it, and he is one of the leaders. He’s going to be in grave danger. I wish we could get him out of Beijing.’

‘We can,’ Clee said. Bringing his head closer to hers across the table, he continued, ‘And incidentally, you just took the words right out of my mouth. I was about to tell you that I’ve been thinking about giving him money for an airline ticket. For Hong Kong. We’ll take him along with us when we leave. He can stay there for a few days and decide what he wants to do.’

‘I’ll split the price of the ticket with you.’

‘You don’t have to,’ he began, then seeing the determined look on her face, he finished, ‘Okay, you’ve got a deal.’

‘There’s another problem.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Mai. Yoyo won’t leave Beijing without her.’

‘So we’ll give him enough for two plane tickets. I couldn’t live with myself if we left those two kids behind, and I know for sure you couldn’t, Nicky. Arch and the guys’ll feel the same way, and it’s the least we can do. Yoyo’s been terrific, very helpful to all of us.’ He grinned. ‘So what the hell, Mai comes along as well. The more the merrier.’

Nicky smiled at him. ‘You’re a good guy, Clee Donovan.’

‘So are you, Nicky Wells.’ There was a little silence, and then Clee asked, ‘Where are you heading when we leave here?’

‘You mean after Hong Kong?’

‘Yeah.’

‘New York. Where are you going?’

‘Back to gay Paree. But I may be in New York at the end of this month. When I spoke to the office last night, or rather, in the early hours of this morning, Jean-Claude told me there’s an assignment in from Life Magazine for me. If I want it. And I’m thinking of taking it … I wouldn’t mind a few weeks back in the good old US of A.’

‘Oh God, finally I’m stuck!’ Nicky exclaimed, rolling her eyes to the ceiling.

‘What do you mean?’

‘If you come to New York at long last, I’m going to have to cook you that fancy dinner I’ve been promising you for the last year and a half.’

‘Hey, Nick, that’ll be great!’ he cried, his face lighting up. ‘I’m holding you to it, and I’ll bring the wine.’ He motioned to one of the waitresses, and as she came gliding over to the table he asked her for the check. Turning to Nicky, he said, ‘Let’s mosey on back to the square, see what’s going on. I get a bit nervous if I’m away for very long.’

‘I know what you mean,’ she said, pushing her chair away and standing up. ‘Ready when you are.’




FOUR







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

At that time Nicky and Clee were standing with Yoyo and Mai near the Martyrs’ Monument. Arch, Jimmy and Luke were mingling with the other broadcast journalists, mostly American and British, who were assembled nearby. All were comparing notes, trying to predict what would happen next, whilst knowing the worst was coming.

Nicky was speaking to Yoyo quietly, earnestly, trying to be as persuasive as possible. ‘Please take the money, Yoyo. I know how proud you are, but this is not the moment for pride. You must be practical. Listen to me … we insist you take the three thousand dollars, it will get you and Mai out of Beijing. Clee and the guys and I think you should leave tomorrow, no matter what the situation is here. And the money is from the five of us. We want to help you … after all, you’ve helped us. And we care about you.’

‘Too much money,’ Yoyo said. ‘Thank you. No.’ He kept shaking his head. ‘You, Clee, guys very nice. Kind. Very excellent people. But can’t take money.’

‘Come on, Yoyo, don’t be so stubborn,’ Nicky exclaimed. ‘Please accept it, if not for yourself, for Mai. Think of her - of protecting her.’

The young Chinese student shook his head again.

Wanting to make it easier for Yoyo, Clee now took charge, and with a degree of firmness. ‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do … I’ll go and buy the airline tickets for you and Mai. I’ll do it tomorrow -’

‘Too much money, Clee,’ Yoyo said, cutting him off. He paused and there was an unexpected change in his voice when he added slowly, ‘Okay, I think about it -’ Yoyo broke off, cocked his head, listening intently before he threw Nicky a worried glance. ‘Gunfire?’

‘No mistaking it,’ she cried and glanced at Clee. They exchanged knowing looks. He nodded, and instantly took off without saying a word.

Nicky sprinted forward, catching up with Clee, everything else forgotten in her dash toward the action. The story was uppermost in her mind.

Everyone in the vicinity of the monument heard the sound of shots being fired, and there was a sudden mad rush as the correspondents, photographers and television crews raced after Clee and Nicky. They ran across the square at breakneck speed, heading for Changan Avenue.

Once Nicky was on Changan she lost Clee in the chaos. Immediately, she saw that armoured vehicles and trucks were moving down the wide boulevard, noted that the troops were armed with AK-47 assault rifles. It was obvious to her they were making for Tiananmen, and she knew they had every intention of entering it by force. There had been a rumour earlier that Deng had reportedly told the military commanders, ‘Recover the square at all cost.’ And there was no doubt in her mind that they would do exactly that; they had already demonstrated their deadly intentions that very afternoon.

She and Clee had been witness to their brutal actions when they had returned to the square after their rather late lunch at the Beijing Hotel. At the western end of the square, close to the Great Hall of the People, thousands of soldiers had beaten up demonstrators who had tried to block their entry into Tiananmen.

As far as she and Clee had been able to determine, no shots had been fired, but there had been much violence, and apparently the troops had used tear gas at one point. Enraged, the masses had hit back, throwing bricks and rocks at the soldiers; in turn, the troops had used truncheons and belts in an effort to quell the protestors.

Seemingly, this pitched battle had merely been the prelude to what was happening at this very moment. That was why she and Clee had just tried to persuade Yoyo to leave Beijing as soon as possible. Experienced as they were, and understanding the politics involved, they were aware that the situation could only worsen in the next twenty-four hours.

Now, suddenly, the troops who had been firing shots into the air were viciously turning their guns on the citizens and students crowding the sidewalks flanking the avenue.

Nicky stood watching in horror, unable to believe her eyes.

Howling like wounded animals, the people rushed forward, hurling bricks, rocks, pieces of iron pipes, and primitive gasoline bombs at the troops and trucks. Their anger spiralled up into greater rage, and they began to scream and shout furiously at the soldiers, who replied by firing rapid, lethal bursts at them.

People fell as they were hit by bullets, crying out in terror.

The carnage had begun.

Appalled by what she was seeing, Nicky found herself unable to move for a few seconds. She was paralysed, stood staring blankly, and chills swept through her. It was a Chinese woman next to her who roused her, when she grabbed her arm, peered into her face, and said in English, ‘The People’s Army are killing us - civilians. They are murderers! Bastards!’

‘Don’t stay here, go home!’ Nicky said to the woman urgently. ‘It’s dangerous here. Go home.’ The woman simply shook her head, remained standing exactly where she was.

The drone of helicopters circling made Nicky lift her head, and she gazed up into the night sky. She remembered what Yoyo had said about tear gas being dropped by the choppers. Opening the shoulder bag slung across her body, she groped for one of the surgical masks, stuffed it into her jacket pocket where it was handy, if she needed it.

When she pulled her hand out of her pocket she saw that it was shaking. She was hardly surprised. The troops were mowing down innocent people. It was the most unconscionable thing she had seen in the longest time; she was shocked, revolted. Changan Avenue had become a battleground. Tanks and truckloads of soldiers armed with machine guns were rolling inexorably down the avenue, one after the other.

God help the students, she thought, moving away from the road, trying to get to the safety of the trees on the sidewalk, which many people were hiding behind.

Fires were beginning to break out everywhere. Overturned buses, which had been used as barricades by the people, blazed at various intersections, and a number of military vehicles burned on the avenue. They had been set alight by the infuriated Beijing residents, and orange and red flames shot up into the dark sky, an inferno in the making.

Much to Nicky’s amazement, people were continuing to emerge from the apartment buildings and houses that lined Changan. They were on a rampage, intent on fighting back, using any makeshift weapons they could find: brooms and sticks and bricks. Some of them were better armed with Molotov cocktails, and these they pelted at the tanks and armoured personnel carriers. Gunfire increased and the stench of cordite and blood hung heavy on the warm night air. She felt suddenly quite nauseous. Bullets were whizzing over her head and she ducked, deciding she had better get away from here as fast as she could.

A cart trundled through the crowd, carrying a man and a woman with gunshot wounds. When the people saw it they began to rant at the soldiers and shake their fists, and, in response, the soldiers pulled their triggers and gunfire spurted over and over again. Nicky dropped to the ground to protect herself. Several tear gas canisters exploded quite close to her, and she pulled out the gauze mask, swiftly tied it around her face, covering her mouth and nose. Nevertheless, she began to cough and splutter almost immediately. Pushing herself up onto her feet, she inched her way over to the far side of the pavement, where she sought refuge under a clump of trees.

Leaning against a tree trunk, Nicky continued to cough and gasp for breath for a few more minutes, and her eyes watered. She found a tissue in her pocket and wiped her streaming eyes; although she continued to heave for a short while, she soon began to breathe easier, felt a bit better.

The smoke was clearing, and she swung her head, looked about. Some sixty or so soldiers were advancing with fixed bayonets down Changan. She closed her eyes convulsively. Pessimistic though she had been, she had not anticipated anything quite like this. When she opened her eyes a second later she spotted Arch a few yards away. He was glancing from side to side worriedly, and she knew that he was seeking her.

Running forward, she cried, ‘Arch! Arch! I’m here!’

He swung around just as she reached him, and grabbed hold of her, pulled her to him. ‘Nicky! You’re all right!’

‘And you, Arch,’ she said.

‘Have you ever seen anything like this carnage?’ he cried, his face as grim as hers. ‘It’s horrible, the way they are killing innocent civilians, and the avenue is so jammed with tanks and trucks, the ambulances can’t get through to help the wounded.’

‘They’re inhuman,’ she said, and began to shiver uncontrollably.

‘The monstrous ways of man,’ Arch muttered. Tightening his grip on her, he added, ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’

Crouching low, they ran down the pavement under the shelter of the trees, returning to Tiananmen Square.



The moment they hit the square Nicky was struck by the curious calm which lay over it. The atmosphere was peaceful, weirdly so.

She and Arch slackened their pace, and continued up to the Martyrs’ Monument at a steady, easy jog. Some of the press corps had returned, were gathered there once more, chatting amongst themselves. From the expressions on their faces, she could see they were as distressed as she and Arch by what they had just witnessed on Changan.

Yoyo and Mai were standing nearby talking with a small group of students, and Nicky headed over to them, drew them away from their friends.

‘There’s so much bloodshed out there, I don’t know how to describe it to you. Or to anyone else, for that matter,’ Nicky said tersely. Fishing around in her bag, she found the envelope of money and pressed it into Yoyo’s hands. ‘You must take this. Please.’

Yoyo stared at her. ‘But Clee say he buy tickets -’

‘Don’t argue, Yoyo, take it,’ Nicky responded sharply. ‘Tomorrow’s going to be worse than tonight, and I’ll feel better, knowing you have the money on you. If anything happens and we get separated, or if we leave Beijing without you, just get yourselves to Hong Kong. We’ll be at the Mandarin Hotel. You’ll find us there.’

Realizing there was nothing else to do but take the money, Yoyo nodded, putting the envelope in his trouser pocket. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I understand. I have passport. Mai have passport. Everything be okay, Nicky.’

‘I hope so.’ Nicky swung her head, glanced around, then brought her gaze back to Yoyo. ‘What’s been happening in the square?’

‘Not much. Very quiet. Wuer Kaixi speak. Say this government oppose the people. Say Chinese must sacrifice themselves. For beautiful tomorrow.’

Nicky expelled a deep breath, shook her head. ‘It’s going to be bad, Yoyo, especially if the students show resistance to the soldiers. If you stay, you must be peaceful. That’s imperative.’

He nodded. ‘I understand. Chai Ling say this.’

‘Did she speak also?’

‘Yes. She say this peaceful sit-in. Tell students stay seated. No resist army.’

Nicky stared hard at Yoyo. ‘Listen to me, these troops are not wet behind the ears like the others were yesterday. They are hardened veterans. And dangerous.’

‘Maybe 27th Army. They tough. Bad. We be okay, Nicky. Don’t worry.’

But I do worry, she said under her breath.

‘People from Workers’ Federation here. They come protect students,’ Yoyo explained.

‘I can’t help wishing you’d protect yourselves by leaving,’ Nicky murmured for the umpteenth time, but she knew she was wasting her breath. Yoyo and Mai would stay until the end, even though he fully understood they were in peril, if Mai didn’t. She hoped they would be safe, prayed they would be. They were so sweet and innocent, but naive in many ways. Most of the kids in the square were exactly the same.

Not long after this conversation Clee came hurrying up to them looking dishevelled but unhurt. ‘Pretty rough back there, Nick. The worst bloodletting I’ve witnessed in years.’

‘It’s horrendous … there are no words really …’ She touched the camera hanging round his neck. ‘Still undamaged, I see.’

‘They’re too damned busy shooting unarmed people to be bothered with me and my camera!’

Arch walked over, accompanied by Jimmy and Luke. All three of them looked as miserable and concerned as she felt.

Putting his arm around Nicky’s shoulders, Arch said, ‘Jimmy and Luke are going back to the hotel for a while. Why don’t you go with them? You’ve been out here for hours. It’ll give you a chance to freshen up, rest for a while.’

‘I think I will,’ she answered. ‘I want to make some notes for my broadcast anyway, and prepare my opening. I’ll be back in an hour or so.’

‘Take your time,’ Arch replied. ‘I can guarantee you this little shindig is going to last all night.’




FIVE







Nicky was in and out of Tiananmen for the next few hours, as were most of the foreign press corps.

The areas surrounding the square were a mess. Soldiers were everywhere and the crowds had not diminished. In fact, it seemed to Nicky that they had increased. Overturned vehicles and abandoned bicycles littered Changan Avenue, and an even bigger number of fires were flaring as residents continued to torch tanks and armoured personnel carriers, their grief and anger unassuaged.

In the immediate vicinity of the Beijing Hotel the scenes were chaotic. The wounded, the dying, and the dead were piling up, and distraught and weeping Beijingers, many of them covered in blood, were desperately trying to move the victims. Their aim was to get them to the hospitals and morgues as quickly as possible, and they were valiant in their efforts. They were using all kinds of makeshift stretchers; Nicky even saw one made out of a door ripped from a telephone booth and tied to two long pieces of iron pipe. Several Number 38 buses had been pressed into service as ambulances, and so had pedicabs and carts. Most of the injured were being taken to Xiehe Hospital. It was fairly close to Changan, since it was located in one of the streets immediately behind the Beijing Hotel.

Conversely, the square appeared to be peaceful enough when Nicky went back there for the fourth time, at three forty-five on the morning of 4 June. Yet after only a few minutes in the square she felt the tension in the air. It was a most palpable thing, and underlying the tension was the smell of fear.

The troops had moved in, were positioned at the far end.

Near the Goddess of Democracy she saw lines of soldiers drawn up. They stood staring at the square, their faces cold, cruel, brutal, rifles in their hands, ready to charge on their own people when the order was given.

As soon as she reached Clee, hovering near the monument, he told her there were machine guns positioned on the roof of the Museum of Chinese History on the eastern side of the square.

‘They’re well prepared, aren’t they?’ she said, her tone sarcastic. Contempt settled on her face. And then she noticed that some of the students on the monument were busy writing, and she tugged Clee’s sleeve. ‘What are they doing?’ she asked, puzzled.

Clee sighed, shook his head. ‘Yoyo told me they’re writing their wills.’

‘Oh God.’ Nicky turned away, swallowing, and unexpectedly she felt the prick of tears behind her eyes. Immediately, she took control of herself. The more emotional the situation and the story, the cooler she must be.

Try though she had to conceal her feelings, Clee had noticed her reaction, and he put an arm around her. ‘It’s a lousy world we live in, Nick, and you know that better than anybody.’

‘I do. Still, some things are really hard to take.’

‘I should say.’

She gave him a half-hearted smile. ‘You mentioned Yoyo. Where is he?’

‘Somewhere around. I gave him hell a short while ago, told him to split. Then I saw him talking to Arch.’

‘Where’s Arch?’

‘He went back to the hotel. To call New York, and have a pow-wow with Jimmy about your film segment.’

‘We must have missed each other on Changan. It’s a foul mess out there.’ Again she glanced at the students on the monument. They must know how dangerous it is now.’

‘That singer, Hou Dejian, and a couple of other leaders have been on the loudspeakers, asking the kids to leave in an orderly fashion, and -’ Clee stopped short as every light in Tiananmen went out.

‘I wonder what this means?’ Nicky peered at him in the gloom.

‘The worst, I suspect,’ he answered grimly. ‘The lights didn’t fail, they were turned off by the authorities.’

‘Bastards,’ Nicky muttered.

Within the space of only a few minutes the loudspeakers on the monument began to crackle. A disembodied voice said half a dozen words, and then the volume increased and music began to play.

‘It’s the “Internationale”!’ Clee exclaimed. ‘Christ, I wonder what the kids will do now?’

‘Leave. Hopefully,’ Nicky replied.

But as the words of the famous song rang out across the square, Nicky knew they would not do so. She could see, even in the dim light, that the students simply sat there listening to the record, motionless, unshakeable, proud in their resoluteness. The minute the record ended it was played again, and repeated several more times during the course of the next twenty minutes.

Nicky and Clee stayed together, conferring quietly from time to time, and talking to other journalists. Everyone expected the military attack to begin at any moment. Nicky and Clee steeled themselves for the confrontation between the students and the troops. But another half hour passed and nothing untoward occurred until, unexpectedly, an array of lights in front of the Great Hall of the People was turned on dramatically. They flooded that side of the square with the most powerful and brilliant illumination.

At the same time, the loudspeakers came alive once again, and several people spoke. Neither Nicky nor Clee could understand what was being said, but a British journalist standing next to them told them the gist of it. ‘The leaders were urging the students to quit the square. They’re all saying the same thing - get out before you’re killed.’

‘Ah, but will they? I doubt it,’ Clee said, swiftly answering his own question.

‘I agree with you,’ the British journalist murmured. Then he shrugged, wandered off.

Clee said, ‘Nicky, I gotta go. I want to get some shots of these guys on the loudspeakers, and of Chai Ling. This is one helluva moment.’

‘Go ahead, Clee. I must look for Yoyo and Mai. They have to be somewhere around here,’ she said as he hurried away.



Nicky spent the next ten minutes or so strolling in the area of the monument, her eyes scanning the crowds and the ledges hopefully. But there was no sign of Yoyo and Mai, and she began to wonder if they had finally heeded her earlier warnings and left the square. She fervently hoped that they had.

Someone else spoke to the students over the loudspeakers. There was a short silence, and then a second voice was heard echoing out, filling the warm air with words.

Nicky did not have the slightest idea what was being said, and she walked on, circling the monument one last time. Much to her surprise, a number of the kids were beginning to stand up. Slowly they climbed down off the ledges and walked away. She stood watching them go.

Many had tears streaming down their faces, and her heart went out to them. They had lost their peaceful fight for freedom and democracy. Military power had prevailed and many innocent people had been brutally slaughtered. But at least some lives will be saved now, she thought, and glanced around anxiously. Where the hell were Yoyo and Mai?

Dawn was breaking, streaking the sky with light, filling it with an eerie, incandescent glow. She peered at her watch. It was after five already, and she could not stay in the square much longer. Sighing under her breath, she left the monument and started to walk to Changan. It was time to return to the hotel to prepare her newscast and the film segment, shower, put on her makeup and change her clothes. Earlier, she and Arch had decided that she would do the filmed piece on the balcony of the hotel first, to be sent out by courier later that morning. At eight fifteen she would do her live phone narration for the seven o’clock nightly news.

Nicky had not walked very far when she suddenly remembered the small canvas travel bag Yoyo kept in his tent. He had once told her his most important possessions were in it. Was his passport in the bag? Had he gone back for it?

Making a swift decision, she spun around, dodged through the students who were now leaving, and sped towards the tent encampment. As she ran she saw to her dismay that an increasing number of soldiers were entering the square. It seemed to her that they were everywhere, and in the distance she heard the clatter and rumble of tanks and armoured personnel carriers moving forward across that vast rectangle of stone.

She paid no heed, but plunged ahead through the deserted encampment, shouting, ‘Yoyo! Mai!’

One or two faces peered out of tents, and she cried, ‘Leave! Tanks are coming!’ Realizing that they did not understand English, she made wild and urgent gestures with her arms, and cried, ‘Go! Go!’, hoping they would somehow get the message. Then she ran on, making for the centre of the encampment, still calling at the top of her voice, ‘Yoyo! Mai!’

They saw each other at exactly the same moment.

Yoyo and Mai were rounding the side of one tent when Nicky came out from behind another, and was instantly in their direct line of vision.

They had both put on jackets, and Yoyo was carrying the small canvas bag.

‘I’ve been looking for you all over!’ Nicky cried.

‘Forgot bag,’ Yoyo explained, holding it up. ‘Bag important. Passport in it.’

I’ll say it’s important, Nicky thought, but said, ‘Come on. Troops are here. Everyone’s leaving.’ She swung away from them, ready to return through the encampment.

‘This way! It quicker!’ Yoyo exclaimed.

He took the lead. The three of them ran down a narrow opening between the rows of tents, and came out into an open area of the square, just to the north of the Martyrs’ Monument.

Lines of troops were rapidly advancing in their direction, and behind them came the APCs and tanks intent on destroying everything that stood in their path.

Nicky swung to her right, called, ‘Follow me!’ and ran the opposite way, aiming for the monument and the entrance to Changan just beyond it.

Her heart sank as she heard the sound of rifle fire behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that Yoyo and Mai were keeping up, were close on her heels. And so she continued to race across the square, putting distance between herself and the encroaching army as fast as she could. The sound of the oncoming armoured vehicles and the blazing guns were ominous to her ears.

Drawing closer to the monument, she saw, out of the corner of her eye, that the last few students were retreating, trying to escape as they were.

‘Nicky! Nicky!’

Without slackening her pace she looked back. To her shock she saw that Mai was down. Yoyo was bending over her.

Nicky spun around and ran back to them. ‘What happened?’

Yoyo’s face was stricken. ‘Mai shot.’

Nicky dropped to her knees, examined the girl’s bleeding shoulder, touched her face gently. Mai opened her eyes, blinked, closed them. Nicky stood up, then, bending forward, she slipped her arms under Mai, trying to lift her. The girl moaned and, afraid to move her, Nicky swiftly laid her on the ground again.

Her hands felt wet and she looked down at them, saw they were covered with blood. Her heart tightened. Mai must have been shot in more than one place. She wiped her hands on her pants, straightened, and raised her eyes, looking straight ahead of her.

The tanks had increased their speed, were almost upon them. There was no time left. She said to Yoyo, ‘Quickly, take Mai’s legs, I’ll lift her under her arms. We’ll carry her behind the monument.’

These words were barely out of her mouth when she was bodily pulled away from Mai and pushed, almost flung, to one side. As she rolled over, she heard Clee shouting, ‘Move it, Nick! Move it, Yoyo! The tanks are closing in!’

People were scattering in panic around her, and screaming.

Struggling to her feet, she spotted Clee running out of the line of fire, carrying Mai in his arms. Yoyo was right behind him. Nicky half ran, half stumbled after them and they made it to safety just in time.

Tanks and APCs, their guns blazing, rolled over the spot where, a split second before, she and Yoyo had been crouching next to Mai. Several students had been less lucky. They lay dead or injured, crushed by the tanks. One boy had had his head smashed in, and there was a pool of his blood and brain on the stones.

With a convulsive shudder, Nicky averted her eyes, and went to take cover behind the Martyrs’ Monument, where Clee was placing Mai on the ground. This area seemed to be relatively safe, at least for the moment, and there were no troops in sight. She sank onto the steps and discovered she was shaking all over.

Clee came and sat on the steps with her, put his arms around her, held her.

She clung to him tightly. ‘That was a close call, Clee,’ she muttered. After a small pause, she said against his bloodstained jacket, ‘And you just saved my life. Thanks.’

He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face, stared at her without speaking.

Nicky stared back. He had the most peculiar expression on his face, one she had never seen there before. It puzzled her.

Finally, he said, ‘Let’s get Mai to a hospital.’ He took his camera off, hung it around Nicky’s neck. ‘Look after this for me,’ he said, bent down, and lifted Mai up into his arms.

Yoyo, who had been hovering over his girlfriend, let go of her hand, grabbed his canvas bag, and together he and Nicky followed Clee.

When they reached Tiananmen Gate, Nicky paused and turned to look back at the square.

The Goddess of Democracy was no more. It had been toppled by a tank and demolished - smashed to smithereens. The tent encampment had been flattened to the ground. She prayed that the few remaining students had managed to escape before this had happened.

And she felt an immense sadness flowing through her as she hurried after Yoyo and Clee.



Changan Avenue was congested with tanks and troops. The dead and the dying lay in pools of their own blood, and the anguished residents of the city were trying to do what they could to help those less fortunate than they.

Nicky and Yoyo walked ahead of Clee, pushing through the chaos and the crowds, clearing the way for him as he carried Mai.

They had almost reached the Beijing Hotel when Yoyo caught hold of Nicky’s arm. ‘Look!’ he cried excitedly, pointing. ‘Red Cross flag on Number 38 bus. Ambulance. Take Mai to Xiehe Hospital.’

Nicky turned around to Clee. ‘Let’s get her to that ambulance. The medics can take over.’

Clee merely nodded, ploughed forward with the injured girl. He hoped to God the doctors could save her.



Nicky stood in the middle of the ATN suite at the Beijing Hotel, concentrating hard, focusing on what she had to say. It was fifteen minutes past eight on Sunday morning in China. In New York it was thirteen hours earlier, exactly fifteen minutes past seven on Saturday night.

She held her cellular phone, talking into it clearly, steadily, and without pause, using what she termed her television speed. She was coming to the end of her hardhitting newscast about the events she had just witnessed in Tiananmen, and her final words were dramatic:

‘The late Mao Zedong once said political power grows out of the barrel of a gun. The People’s Liberation Army turned their guns on ordinary citizens and students today. Innocent people. Unarmed people. It was a massacre. And they did it at the command of ageing leaders desperate to hang onto their political power. Seemingly Mao Zedong spoke the truth. At least, as far as China is concerned.’ There was a small beat, before she finished, ‘This is Nicky Wells saying goodnight from Beijing.’

At the other end of the line she heard Mike Fowler, the ATN anchorman, saying, ‘Thank you, Nicky, for that extraordinary and tragic report from Beijing. And now to the news from Eastern Europe …’

Nicky clicked off the cellular, looked over at Arch who was sitting at the desk, the phone to his ear.

He smiled, nodded several times, held up a bunched fist, his thumb jerking to the ceiling, indicating that she had done a good job.

He was on the wire to the network, talking to the News Editor, Joe Speight, who was in the control room at ATN Headquarters in New York. ‘Thanks, Joe,’ Arch said, beaming. ‘We’ll ship the film out in an hour. You should have it tomorrow night. Okay. Ciao.’ He hung up, rose, walked across the floor to her. ‘Great, Nick! They loved it. You were just great!’

Jimmy said, ‘That’s one of the best pieces you’ve done from here … but the moving film we just shot is even better.’

‘I second that,’ Luke said, grinning at her.

‘Thanks, guys.’ She smiled at them. Their praise mattered, meant a lot to her. They always spoke the truth, did not hesitate to tell her when she had not been as good as she usually was.

There was a knock on the door and Luke went to open it. Clee walked in. He looked awful, drained, even haggard, and Nicky knew what he was going to say before he said it. She could tell from the empty expression in his dark eyes.

She stared at him.

‘Mai died,’ he said in a flat tone. ‘They just couldn’t save her. They tried. But she’d lost too much blood.’

‘That’s tragic,’ Jimmy said. ‘Poor kid.’

Luke sat down heavily on a chair without uttering a word; Arch looked bereft, and was also rendered silent by the sad news.

Nicky walked over to Clee, feeling a little unsteady on her legs. ‘I had a horrible feeling she wasn’t going to make it,’ she said, biting her lip. She paused, overcome by emotion, but swiftly regaining her equilibrium, she continued, ‘You look terrible, Clee. Come and sit down, let’s get you some coffee.’

Clee took a step closer to her. He lifted his hand and with his fingertips wiped away the tears on her cheeks, which she did not even know were there. ‘It’s all right to cry, you know,’ he said.

‘Yes.’ She took a deep breath. ‘How’s Yoyo?’

‘Devastated.’

She nodded. ‘I can imagine. Where is he?’

‘At Xiehe Hospital, making arrangements to take Mai’s body home to her parents. They live on the outskirts of Beijing.’

Suddenly all words failed her and she was unable to speak.

Clee put his arm around her and walked her over to the sofa. They both sat down, and he said, very quietly, ‘We journalists deal with war and death and tragedy on a daily basis, and because we’re tough we think we’re invincible. But none of us are, not really, Nicky. Not even you.’





PART TWO










Lovers


Come live with me, and be my love;

And we will all the pleasures prove …

Christopher Marlowe




SIX







It was Cézanne country, Van Gogh country, so Clee had told her, and he had been correct.

Colours from the artists’ palettes were the colours of the day, the colours of the Provencal earth and sky: rich russet browns and burnt sienna, terracotta bleeding into orange and apricot, pink and peach tints balanced by acid yellow and vibrant marigold, and a gamut of brilliant blues and greens so sharp and shiny they resembled glazed enamel. And all were enhanced by a soft golden glow as if they had been liberally soaked in the hot Provencal sunshine.

From the moment she had arrived in Provence, Nicky had been entranced by the beauty of the countryside which surrounded the old mas, or farmhouse, which Clee owned. A day did not pass without her catching her breath in surprise and delight at one thing or another. In an infinite number of small and grand ways, nature in all its glory was constantly revealing itself to her in this fabled southeastern corner of France.

On this sun-filled afternoon, as she sat near the white stone-flagged swimming pool under the shade of a plane tree, sipping a citron pressé and daydreaming, she almost laughed out loud at herself. She had been so reluctant to come here, but now she realized she would not have missed this brief respite from the business of reporting catastrophes for anything in the world.

And she was grateful to Clee for so generously giving her the use of his home, his very private retreat into which few were ever admitted. But then that was Clee. He was always thinking of her well-being, and this latest gesture was only one of his many kindnesses. He was such a good friend, and very dear to her.

The idea of her coming to Provence had begun in Hong Kong almost three weeks ago, when she and Clee were finishing dinner at the Mandarin Hotel. Out of the blue, Clee had suddenly said to her, ‘Go to my farm, Nick. It’ll do you good to be there. It’ll take your mind off things, be restorative for you.’

She had shaken her head vehemently, balking at the mere idea of it. At this moment in time, France did not particularly appeal to her, even though she had always loved it and felt at home there in the past. Unfortunately, it was now associated with pain and hurt in her mind.

Almost three years ago she had gone there with her fiancé, Charles Devereaux, a man with whom she had been very much in love, and whom she had been about to marry. Unexpectedly, without any kind of forewarning, or hint of trouble between them, he had terminated their relationship in the most brutal of ways. No explanations or reasons were given, and it had happened only a couple of months after the idyllic trip to the Côte d’Azur.

She had not set eyes on Charles Devereaux ever again.

Naturally she did not want to upset herself further by visiting a place where they had spent their last few days together. There were moments when she still felt savaged by him, was filled with a fulminating anger, and this was enough for her to cope with, without having additional, unwelcome memories thrust upon her.

Of course Clee had no way of knowing any of this, and so he had been extremely persistent, using every argument he could. She had remained adamant.

Just before leaving Hong Kong for Paris, he had offered her the farm once again. ‘I’m afraid I can’t be there, Nicky, but my housekeeper will be, and she’ll look after you very well.’ A smile had flashed on his boyish face, and he had added, ‘She’ll spoil you to death, and I guarantee you’ll fall in love with her. Amelia’s a doll. Listen, babe, the farm’s in beautiful country, artists’ country - Cézanne and Van Gogh both painted in the area, and I know you’ll enjoy it. Please go. You need to do something special for yourself, to have a few weeks of peace after the horror of Beijing. Be good to yourself, Nick.’

Touched by his thoughtfulness, she had thanked him profusely, and, relenting slightly, she had told him she would think about it. And back in New York she had done exactly that. Much to her continuing astonishment, thoughts of Clee’s farmhouse in France and a summer vacation had flitted in and out of her head, with surprising frequency.

In the few spare moments she had between filming and editing a special on Tiananmen Square and its aftermath, she had pondered whether to take the trip or not. She had continued to be oddly ambivalent, could not make up her mind to buy an airline ticket, pack her bags and go.

Unknowingly, it was Arch who had finally helped her come to a decision. Once the special was in the can he had told her she looked more exhausted than he had ever seen her. ‘Done in,’ was the way he had put it. ‘We have no other specials coming up until later in the year, and a bit of R and R wouldn’t do you any harm,’ he had pointed out. ‘Take a break while you can - you really need it, Nick.’

When she had muttered that she did not want to have a vacation at this time, in case something world shaking occurred, Arch had laughed, had said he would fly her back from wherever she was if a war broke out somewhere.

She had laughed with him, had then protested, ‘But I know I don’t look quite as bad as you say I do, Arch. You’re exaggerating, as usual!’

His answer had been pithy and to the point. ‘Lousy, that’s the way you look, kiddo, take my word for it.’

Later, she had looked at herself in a mirror, and had had to admit that Arch had spoken the truth. She had examined her face minutely, with objectivity, and had decided that he had actually understated the facts. She looked positively ill; her face was unusually pale, even haggard, she had dark rings, and her hair was lifeless. Much to her alarm, her eyes, always so clear and vividly blue, had seemed dull, faded almost, as if they were losing their colour, if such a thing were possible.

Nicky was well aware that cosmetics could camouflage a number of flaws for the benefit of the camera, and that she could continue to hide the tell-tale signs of fatigue with a few clever makeup tricks. But she had also recognized that afternoon that it would be foolish not to take a rest, especially since the network owed her so much time off. She had been feeling debilitated and emotionally drained, and apparently the signs were now all too evident to others.

And so she had put her mirror away and made a snap decision. The same day she had phoned Clee at his Paris office, and told him she would like to accept his offer of the farmhouse, if it was still open. He had been thrilled that she wanted to go to Provence.

‘Hey, babe, that’s great,’ he had said, his excitement echoing down the wire. ‘I’m leaving for Moscow tomorrow, to photograph Gorbachev for Paris Match, but Jean-Claude will make arrangements for you to be met in Marseille, and then driven up to the farm. All you have to do is get yourself to Marseille, either via Paris or Nice. Just let Jean-Claude know the day you’ll be arriving, and the time. I’ll call you from Moscow, to find out how you’re doing, how you’ve settled in.’

Within forty-eight hours she was zooming across the Atlantic faster than the speed of sound, a passenger on board the French Concorde, landing in Paris a short three hours and forty-five minutes later. After spending the night at the Plaza Athénée, her favourite hotel, she had taken a plane from Orly Airport to Marseille the following morning.

Jean-Claude, Clee’s office manager, had explained to her that a chauffeur from the car company they used would be waiting for her at the airport. ‘You won’t be able to miss him. He’ll be holding up a card with your name written on it in bold letters,’ Jean-Claude had said on the telephone.

True to Jean-Claude’s promise, the chauffeur had been there when she had alighted from the plane and gone to the baggage area. He had introduced himself as Etienne, and he was a pleasant, chatty and informative Provençal, who throughout the drive inland had kept her highly entertained with rather fantastic folkloric tales of the region. He had also recited more facts about Aix and Arles than she could possibly absorb at one time.

Although she spoke French well, having spent part of her youth in Paris with her globe-trotting parents, Nicky had nonetheless found the Provençal accent a bit difficult to understand at first. But relatively quickly she had realized that Etienne was adding the letter g to many words, so that bien became bieng, and so forth. Once she had got the hang of this adjustment of the French language, had attuned her ear to the rich and throaty cadence of his speech, and his rapid delivery, she had discovered she had no problems grasping everything he said.

On the way to Aix-en-Provence from Marseille, Nicky had begun to notice that the landscape was completely different from the Côte d’Azur, which was the part of southern France she knew so intimately. Her parents were Francophiles, and as a child she had been taken to many of the renowned coastal resorts by them, for annual holidays and shorter stays. In particular, her mother and father had favoured Beaulieu-sur-Mer, Cannes and Monte Carlo. And then in October of 1986 she had spent those two extraordinary weeks in Cap d’Antibes with Charles Devereaux, before he had disappeared from her life altogether. And forever.

But this area of Provence was entirely new to her and, as such, it did not hold any kind of memories, neither good nor bad.

This sudden knowledge had made her feel more at ease, and finally she had begun to relax in the air-conditioned comfort of the Mercedes, continuing to glance out of the window from time to time.

They had passed through a land of flat plains interspersed with hills and mountains. There were quaint little towns set in bucolic surroundings, and picturesque hilltop villages that looked as if they were propping up the vast unblemished blue sky. Many fields and hillsides were luxuriant with purple lavender, and dark vineyards and an abundance of cherry and fruit orchards stretched for miles. And dotting this fertile landscape intermittently were lines of crooked olive trees and stately black cypresses which stood like sentinels against the far horizon.



Clee’s farmhouse was in the department of Provence called the Bouches-du-Rhône, situated between the ancient university town of Aix-en-Provence and St Rémy. It was on the outskirts of a tiny village close to the lush green foothills of Lubéron, one of the great mountain ranges of Provence.

The farmhouse was larger than Nicky had expected it to be. It was sprawling yet had a certain gracefulness and was obviously quite old. It had looked beautiful in the late afternoon sunshine which glanced across its red-tiled roof and cast a warm honey-coloured glaze over the pale stone walls. Standing at the end of a long straight driveway lined with cypress trees, it was visible for the entire approach to the white front door.

When the car had finally been brought to a halt by Etienne, he had exclaimed, ‘Eh, voilà!’ and had waved one hand at the farm with a grand flourish. Then he had swung his head and smiled at her triumphantly, looking as though getting her here had been a major achievement on his part.

Clee’s housekeeper Amelia and her husband Guillaume had been waiting for her on the doorstep, and they had welcomed her enthusiastically, their smiles warm, their manner friendly.

Guillaume had then promptly whisked away her luggage - along with Etienne. The latter had apparently not needed a second invitation from Guillaume to ‘come inside the kitchen for a pastis.’

With billowing laughter and perpetual smiles, Amelia had ushered Nicky inside the farmhouse, and had insisted on showing her around before taking her upstairs to her quarters.

They had started out in the kitchen, obviously Amelia’s favourite spot in the entire house, and she was apparently proud of it.

The room was large, painted white, and had dark wood beams on the ceiling, terracotta tiles on the floor. A massive stone fireplace took up an end wall; to the side of this stood a big oven, and several marble-topped counters for baking and food preparation were set under the three windows. Placed on these were flat woven baskets brimming with local produce. One held a selection of fruit - apples, oranges, pears, plums, peaches, apricots, cherries and grapes; the other overflowed with vegetables - carrots, cabbage, potatoes, beans, artichokes and peas. Ropes of onions and garlic, and bunches of the herbs of Provence swung from a ceiling beam, and the lovely aroma of marjoram, rosemary and thyme wafted to her on the air.

A round table stood in the centre of the kitchen, covered with a red-and-white gingham cloth to match the neat little tied-back curtains at the windows, and taking pride of place on the far wall was an antique baker’s rack made of black wrought-iron trimmed with brass. It had been stacked with a variety of copper pots and pans that glittered and winked in the sunlight, while on the wall opposite a series of built-in shelves displayed colourful pottery platters, plates, soup bowls and double-sized café-au-lait cups and saucers.

The dining room opened off the kitchen, and these two rooms flowed into each other, were visually linked through the use of the same terracotta floor tiles, white-painted walls and ceiling beams.

Here there was a big, old-fashioned fireplace and hearth made of the local cream-coloured stone and stacked with logs for the winter, and a window at each end of the room filled it with light. A country feeling had been created by the long oak dining table, high-backed chairs and carved sideboard. Floating over the table was a rustic black-iron chandelier, and running down the centre of the table was a collection of brass candlesticks holding thick white candles. Huge bowls of flowers in the centre of the table and on the sideboard brought touches of vivid colour to the rather simply furnished room.

Hurrying forward, Amelia had next shown her out into the main hall, and had opened a door into a small downstairs sitting room. Highly polished cream flagstones gleamed on the floor, the walls were painted a soft butter yellow, and two sofas covered in cream linen faced each other in front of a small fireplace. Wood occasional tables were scattered around, and two tall pottery lamps with cream shades stood on antique chests on either side of the chimney. A table under the window held all the latest magazines from around the world, copies of Life and Paris Match being much in evidence, as well as Time and Newsweek.

‘Now we shall go upstairs?’ Amelia had said to her, swinging around and guiding her back to the front hall. Nicky had dutifully followed her up a white stone staircase, broad and curved, which stopped on a square landing.

On either side of this were the library and the main living room. Both were painted white, had soaring fireplaces, pale wood floors and flat woven rugs from Morocco.

The living room was decorated with French country furniture in the Provençal style, and the sofas and chairs were upholstered in cream, café-au-lait and caramel-coloured fabrics. Again, masses of flowers introduced vivid colour everywhere, and Nicky had an instant impression of air and light and spaciousness, and the most marvellous sense of tranquillity.

Across the landing, the library was lined with books and furnished with two overstuffed sofas covered in melon-coloured cotton. Clee had created an audio-visual centre in one corner, using the most up-to-date equipment: a large-screen television, video player, tape deck, compact disc player. Stereo speakers were positioned high on the bookshelves.

‘This is Monsieur Clee’s room, he likes it the best, I think,’ Amelia had informed her, nodding her head. She had then pointed her finger at the ceiling, and announced, ‘One more flight, Mademoiselle. Allons!’

The two of them had gone out onto the large landing and climbed up a narrower flight of white stone steps to the bedroom floor.

Nicky had discovered that she had her own suite under the eaves: a bathroom, a bedroom and a sitting room. The latter were quaint, and charmingly decorated, again with lots of white, cream and caramel. Several good wooden pieces were set against the walls of the sitting room and an antique armoire and a chest graced the bedroom; with only a cursory glance, she had noticed that a great deal of care had been taken, and every comfort had been provided.

‘I will bring up your cases,’ Amelia had said, after showing her around, opening the armoire doors, sliding out drawers in the chest. ‘And please, Mademoiselle Nicky, you must tell me if there is anything else you need. Monsieur Clee will be angry if I do not look after you properly.’

‘Thank you very much, Amelia,’ Nicky had answered, smiling. ‘I’m sure I have everything. And thank you for the grand tour.’

‘Ah, it is a pleasure, Mademoiselle,’ Amelia had answered with a smile, before disappearing down the stairs.



This conversation had taken place only four days ago, but already Nicky was beginning to feel rested. The farmhouse and the surrounding grounds had had a soothing effect on her, and she was more tranquil than she had been for a long time. She had slept better than she usually did, and had relaxed completely in this peaceful environment.

Her days were slow, lazy, without pressure, and she had done nothing more complicated than walk around the grounds and the woods close by, and swum in the pool. The fresh air and exercise, and Amelia’s delicious cooking had done her good; in the evenings she had read, listened to music or watched French television in the library, although mostly she had found herself tuning into CNN, being such a news addict.

According to Guillaume, Clee had recently installed cable to pick up the American news network. ‘For his work, you know, Mademoiselle,’ Guillaume had found it necessary to add, and she had turned away to hide the small, amused smile that had touched her lips.

Nicky shifted slightly on the chaise, reached for the citron pressé, took a long swallow, enjoying the tart taste of the lemonade.

It was the last week of June and already hot, although not yet unbearable. Amelia had told her only this morning that July and August were the worst of the summer months in this part of Provence. Blistering was the word she had used. Then Amelia had suddenly launched into a little histoire about the Mistral, the dry north wind that could blow so furiously even in the summer, bringing with it havoc. It came whistling down to the south from the Rhône Valley, and it was often the first real warning of mean weather brewing. Amelia, like most Provencaux, blamed a variety of problems and ailments on the Mistral.

‘Animals can go mad. And people,’ she had confided somewhat dolorously as she had poured Nicky a second cup of café-au-lait. ‘It causes migraine. And la grippe. And toothache. And earache. And sometimes in winter it can blow for as long as three weeks. It destroys property! Uproots trees and flings tiles off the roofs! Quel vent!’ And then with a typical Gallic shrug she had hurried off to the kitchen to refill the coffee pot and warm up more milk for Nicky.

Just as Clee had suggested she would, Nicky had fallen in love with Amelia. The housekeeper was small, stocky, and obviously a very strong woman physically, undeniably Mediterranean with blue-black hair pulled back in a bun, eyes like black olives and a nutbrown complexion. Forever laughing and smiling, and always in a high good humour, she went through the farmhouse doing her vast number of chores like a whirlwind. Or the Mistral perhaps. She cleaned and polished, washed and ironed, baked bread and cakes and tarts, prepared the most wonderful meals, and arranged the beautiful vases of flowers and the decorative baskets of fruit that were all around the house.

Like Amelia, Guillaume was a typical Provencal. He was as brown as a berry with a weatherbeaten face from being outdoors, jet-black hair spreckled with grey, and kindly, humorous brown eyes. Medium in height, and very muscular, he tackled every job with the same vigour and enthusiasm as his wife.

He swept the yard, the outdoor dining terrace and the barbecue patio, cleaned the pool, kept the garden and the orchard spruce, and attended to the little vineyard. This stretched out behind the farmhouse, and covered about four or five acres. Guillaume did the spraying, the cropping and the pruning, and he and Amelia, with some local hired help, picked the grapes, kegged the wine and bottled it.

‘Some of it is sold. Some we keep for ourselves. And for Monsieur Clee, naturellement,’ he had explained to her when he had taken her around the property yesterday, pointing out many of its distinctive features.

Amelia and Guillaume had a son, Francois, who was studying at the Sorbonne in Paris, of whom they were very proud; Nicky had already heard rave notices about him from his doting mother. Their two daughters, Paulette and Marie, were married and lived in the village, and were frequently pressed into service at the farm whenever Clee had more than one guest.

When Clee had called from Moscow, on the night of her arrival, he had described Amelia and Guillaume as the salt of the earth. Now she knew exactly what he meant. They were devoted to him, took care of the farmhouse and the land as if they themselves were the owners. The house they lived in adjoined the main farmhouse and was entered through a door opening off the kitchen. It was built of the same local stone, pale beige in colour and weathered by the years, and had an identical red-tiled roof, heavy wooden shutters and doors painted gleaming white.

Both houses were visible to her from the pool area where she was sitting, and it seemed to her that they appeared to grow up out of the earth, as if they were part of the land itself. And in a sense, they were. The farm and its out-buildings were a hundred and fifty years old, so Guillaume had told her, and they did look as if they had been there forever.

Everything about the farm fascinated Nicky; she was beginning to realize how much she enjoyed being in the country, close to the land. It was easy to see why Clee loved the farm, although he was not able to come here as often as he would like. During the two years she had known him, he had talked about this place occasionally, and she understood why his voice changed slightly whenever he discussed his home in Provence. It was a very special corner of peace and beauty in the troubled and turbulent world.



Nicky stayed outside until almost six o’clock, enjoying the changing light as the sun slowly began to sink down behind the rim of the distant dark hills. Then she took her book and glasses and walked slowly up the flagged garden path to the house.

Climbing the two staircases to her rooms under the eaves, she thought of Yoyo, as she did at some moment during every day. His whereabouts were unknown, and this was the only thing marring her stay here. She and Clee had looked hard for him in Beijing before they had left for Hong Kong. He had disappeared. But then so had most of the other student leaders. ‘Gone underground,’ Clee had said to her, and she had hoped this was really the case, that he had not been arrested.

She and the crew and Clee had hung around Hong Kong for several days, hoping he would show up, but he had not and in the end they had had no alternative but to leave.

Nicky’s only consolation was that Yoyo knew where to find them. She had given him her business card in the first week she had met him, as had Arch and Clee. She could only hope that he would be able to get himself out of China, using the money they had given him.

At one moment she had thought about writing to him at the Central Academy of Arts, but had resisted, knowing that a letter from a Western journalist could easily create untold problems for him. Who knew whether the mail was censored or not? In her opinion, it most probably was these days. And a letter from her might cost him his freedom. Or his life.

Sighing under her breath, Nicky pushed open the door to her rooms and went in, trying to set aside her worries about Yoyo. She was helpless. There was nothing she could do except pray he was still safe, and that he would find a way to escape to the West.




SEVEN







The scream shattered her nightmare.

It echoed around the bedroom and seemed to pierce her brain, almost as if she herself were screaming. Nicky sat up with a jerk, instantly wide awake, her face and arms bathed in sweat. She tilted her head and listened, blinking as she adjusted her eyes to the dimness of the room.

There was no sound except for the faint ticking of the clock on the bedside table, the rustle of the leaves on the tree outside the window as they brushed against the panes of glass.

Had she herself screamed out loud during her frightening dream? Or had it been someone else? Someone outside? She was not sure, and just to make certain she climbed out of bed and went to the window. She looked out. The sky was dark, cloudless. A full moon was slung high above the old stables, and it cast a silvery sheen over everything in the yard, throwing into focus the cypress tree, the old wheelbarrow planted with flowers, the garden seat, the flight of steps leading down into the orchard. But there was no one out there, so it was not possible that anyone had screamed. Except for her, of course.

A small shiver passed through Nicky even though it was an exceptionally warm night. Turning away from the window, she went back to bed, troubled by the nightmare that had so frightened her it had brought that scream to her lips. And woken her up. Slithering down, she pulled the sheet around her bare shoulders, and tried to go back to sleep.

But she had little success, and when she was still wide awake after half an hour she slid out of bed, slipped into her cotton robe and went down to the library. After turning on a lamp and the television set, she curled up on one of the sofas, deciding that since she could not sleep she might as well watch CNN.

Once the round-up of international news was finished, and the programming changed to a local American story about farmers in the midwest, her mind began to wander. Not unnaturally, she discovered she was focusing on the nightmare she had just had. It had been awful, and try as she did to shake it off, it remained so vivid it was still dominating her mind. The nightmare had been about Clee, and she could remember every detail of it clearly.



She was in a vast, empty desert. It was warm, pleasant, and even though she was alone she was not afraid. She felt content. She was walking up a sand dune, and when she was on top of it and looked down she saw an oasis below. Feeling thirsty, she ran down the slope of the dune and began to drink the water, scooping it up in her hands, until she saw that it was streaked with blood. She pulled back, filled with horror, and as she crouched on her heels she noticed a crumpled magazine splattered with mud and blood. It was Life. She picked it up, leafed through it, and came across a picture of Clee. The caption said he was dead, killed in action while he was on assignment for the magazine. But it did not say where he had died, or when. And there was no date on the magazine. She was frightened, and turned icy even though it was so hot under the desert sun. She got up and began to run, looking for Clee. She had this feeling that he was somewhere nearby. And alive.

She walked for hours and eventually she was no longer in the desert. She was wearing thick winter clothes and it was dawn on a frosty day. All around her were dead men and the bloody signs of war and destruction. Clee walked towards her through the mist and took hold of her hand. He helped her to climb over the dead bodies. Suddenly they saw a jeep in the distance. Clee said, ‘Look, Nick! We can get a lift back with the retreat!’ He leapt forward, running. She ran, too, but stumbled. When she stood up he was not there. For a split second she was afraid, and then she went searching for him amongst the dead soldiers. But she could not find him. There were miles and miles of dead bodies, and everything was so silent she wondered if it was the end of the world. She saw two bodies lying close to each other side by side. She hurried to them, turned their cold, dead faces to see if either one was Clee. She drew back in shock. One of the bodies was Yoyo. The other was Charles Devereaux. She turned and ran away, stumbling and falling against the dead soldiers in her haste to escape the carnage. At one moment she looked down at her hands and clothes. They were covered in warm, sticky blood from the dead. A wave of horror and nausea swept over her, and just as she began to despair at not finding Clee she reached the end of the battlefield. Now she was walking along a white, sandy beach, and parked under a palm tree was the jeep she had seen earlier with Clee. It was abandoned. She looked towards the dark-blue sea. Not far out she saw a body floating. It was Clee. He beckoned to her. He was alive! She rushed into the water. It was icy but curiously thick like oil, so that swimming was tedious. And then she realized that the sea was not blue but red. It was made of blood.

Clee smiled and held out his hand to her. She reached for it. Their fingers were inches apart. She struggled to grasp his hand. And then his body sank into the sea.



At this moment the dream had ended and she had awakened because someone had screamed. It had been her, she knew that. Nicky shuddered. Goose flesh sprang up on her face and arms, and she pulled the robe around her, feeling suddenly so cold. Rising, she went over to the small bar next to the bookcase and looked at the bottles, reached for the Marc de Bourgogne. The label rang a bell. Of course, it was one of the brandies Charles had imported from France. With a small grimace she put the bottle down on the silver tray, then immediately picked it up again, poured herself a small glass and, taking a sip of it, she slowly walked back to the sofa.

Nicky did not know a lot about dreams, but she was well enough informed to realize that her recent nightmare was simply a manifestation of things jostling around in her subconscious. Once, several years ago, her mother had told her that one dreamed one’s terrors, and that whatever truly frightened a person came to the fore in sleep, when the subconscious rises. And so it did not take her long to analyse her dream. She knew very well what it meant: firstly she was afraid that Yoyo was dead. Secondly, she was worried that Clee, a war photographer and in constant danger, might one day be killed.

It’s all very understandable, she told herself, taking another little sip of the marc. Both men had been on her mind lately, and were therefore at the forefront of her thoughts.

But why had Charles Devereaux been part of the nightmare? She had no answer for herself … but, yes, of course she did. Several times in the last few days he had insinuated himself into her thoughts, for the simple reason that she was in France, where he had travelled often, buying wine for his importing company. And where they had spent those two weeks together before he had chosen to vacate her life.

The more she thought about it, there was no denying the fact that she had dreamed about those three men because each one of them, in his own way, troubled her enormously.




EIGHT







Clee stood staring at the dozen or so transparencies arranged on the large light box in his Paris office, an expression of deep concentration on his face.

After a couple of minutes studying the pictures, he turned to Jean-Claude Roche, who ran his photo agency, Image, and nodded. ‘I think you’re onto a winner, and the pictures are good, Jean-Claude. Damned good, as a matter of fact. So let’s get the guy to come in and see me, and the sooner the better. We can certainly use another world-class photographer around here, there’s more work than we can handle right now.’

Jean-Claude looked pleased. ‘Marc Villier is really terrific, Clee. Very bright, aggressive, yet sensitive. And he possesses the unflinching eye, as you do. You are going to like him, he is … how shall I say … very personable.’

‘Good. And if these photographs are anything to go by, his work is more than excellent. It’s brilliant. Let’s move on. Do you have anything else to go over with me?’

Jean-Claude shook his head. ‘No. Everything is under control. The assignment sheet is on your desk. Everyone is booked out for the next few weeks. Except for you. I’ve kept you free.’

‘That’s great. I could use a few days respite after Beijing and Moscow,’ Clee exclaimed, his face brightening at the prospect of some time off. Turning around, he collected the transparencies which lay on the light box and handed them to Jean-Claude.

‘Thanks,’ Jean-Claude said as he slipped them into a large envelope. ‘I shall go and call Marc, ask him to come in tomorrow morning. Is that all right with you?’

‘Sure. By the way, where do we stand with my assignment for Life?’

‘They need you for about three weeks, late July and early August. They want you to go to Washington first to photograph the President and Mrs Bush, this is their priority.’

‘Yeah, that figures. Congress is still in session through July, and Bush is probably going to be gone in August, either to Camp David or Kennebunkport. And who am I doing after the President and Mrs B?’

‘They have not said, Clee. But they want you for a few specials. I told them I would give them the date of your arrival as soon as possible. They need to confirm with the White House. So, when will you go?’

‘About the fourteenth, I guess.’ Clee walked over to his cluttered desk and sat down. ‘Ask Marc Villier if he can come in early tomorrow, around seven thirty, eight.’

‘I will.’ Jean-Claude crossed the floor to the door, paused before leaving and looked back at Clee. ‘There will not be any problem, he will come whenever you wish. He wants nothing more than to work with you, Clee. You are his … idol.’

Clee merely smiled, made no comment. He knew all about idols and what having one could mean.

Jean-Claude nodded and left.

Clee’s eyes automatically strayed to the photograph of Robert Capa, which hung on the side wall along with a collection of other pictures, and he felt a little stab of familiar sadness, as he often did when he looked at it. His one and only regret in his life was that he had not known Capa. He had been born too late and Capa’s tragic death had been so untimely, far too soon.

After a moment, he swung his gaze and dropped his eyes to the papers littering his desk, shuffled through them without paying much attention, which was quite normal for him. Paperwork was not his strong suit; in fact, it bored him. He clipped the letters together, scrawled across the top one: Louise, please deal with this stuff any way you see fit, and dropped the pile into the tray in readiness for his secretary the following day.

Glancing at the clock he saw that it was almost six. If he was going to cancel the dinner with his close friends Henry and Florence Devon he had better do it immediately. Henry was a writer and worked at the Paris bureau of Time, and Clee dialled his direct line. It rang and rang then was finally picked up and Henry’s gravelly Boston-accented voice was saying, ‘Allo, oui?’

‘Hank, it’s Clee. How’re you, old buddy?’

‘Jaysus, Clee, don’t tell me you’re cancelling!’

‘I have to, Hank. Business, I’m afraid. Look, I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped.’

‘Oh hell, Flo has invited this Lacroix model, whatever-her-name-is. Stunning girl. You wouldn’t want to miss meeting her, would you?’

‘I wish you two would stop trying to fix me up!’ Clee exclaimed a bit impatiently, then he laughed and continued swiftly, ‘There’s really no way I can make it tonight. This meeting just came up and it’s important.’

‘I’ll bet it is. Knowing you, I suspect you’ve suddenly got a hot and heavy date with a beautiful blonde. Or redhead. Or brunette.’

‘If only. From your mouth to God’s ear,’ Clee retorted and chuckled. In a more serious voice he said, ‘Look, I wouldn’t pass up Flo and you and what’s-her-name for some hit-and-run date with a dame. Never. Come on, Hank, surely you know me better than that.’

‘Don’t I just,’ Henry shot back and cackled wickedly down the phone.

Ignoring this, Clee said soberly, ‘Flo usually hedges her bets and invites a couple of single guys as well as me, so I’m sure the Lacroix lady won’t be short of flattering male attention this evening.’

‘That’s quite true. On the other hand, Flo really wanted you to meet her, Clee.’

‘I will. Another time. Tonight I’m stuck. How about lunch tomorrow?’

‘No can do. I’m flying to Nice. I’m working on a piece about the Grimaldis of Monaco, and I have to do some interviews in Monte Carlo.’

‘Then call me when you’re back and we’ll catch up.’

‘It’s a deal. And Clee?’

‘Yes, Hank?’

‘We’ll miss you tonight.’

‘I’ll miss being there. Give my apologies to Flo, and kiss her for me.’ As he hung up Clee made a mental note to send flowers to Florence tomorrow morning. Flowers from Lachaume, no less. That ought to do the trick in the apology department.

Picking up the phone he dialled again. A female voice answered immediately. ‘Is that you, Mel?’

‘Hello, Clee. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong … Mel, I -’

‘You’re cancelling our date tonight.’

‘Listen, honey, I’m sorry, but I have an American picture editor in town, and he -’

‘Must see you tonight, because he’s leaving first thing tomorrow, and it’s vitally important for the agency,’ she finished for him, sounding as if she knew the words by heart.

‘You got it.’

‘Why don’t you come over later, Clee?’

‘It’ll be too late.’

‘I don’t mind.’

There was a small pause. He said finally, ‘I would prefer to see you at the weekend, Mel. If you’re free. We could drive out to the country for dinner on Saturday night. How about it?’

He heard her sigh at the other end of the phone.

She said, after a moment, ‘Oh all right then. But I don’t know why I let you do this to me, Cleeland Donovan. Most other guys couldn’t get away with it.’

‘Get away with what?’

‘Being so elusive.’

‘Ah, but that’s what makes me so very irresistible,’ he retorted flippantly.

‘Sadly, I think that happens to be the truth,’ she answered him in the softest of tones.

‘Okay, so do we have a date for Saturday night?’

‘You know we do, Clee.’

‘I’ll call you tomorrow, honey, and I’m sorry about tonight.’

They murmured their goodbyes and he dropped the phone back in its cradle. Another order of flowers from Lachaume tomorrow, he thought, putting his feet up on the desk, leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes.

Clee felt a sudden and most marvellous surge of relief that he had so easily managed to cancel Flo and Hank, and the conflicting date with Mel as well, by telling a couple of harmless white lies. The truth was he did not have a business date, nor any kind of date, for that matter. On the other hand, he did not have the head for a fancy dinner party at the Devons’; nor was he in the mood to dine alone with Melanie Lowe, bright and lovely as she was, and of whom he was quite fond. He simply wanted to be alone; he had a lot on his mind and a great deal of thinking to do. This was the other reason why he had been so pleased when Jean-Claude had told him he was free, that he had no other assignments before he left for the States to do the work for Life. He was not only going to take it easy for the next week and have a much-needed rest, but he would concentrate on a few personal problems which needed sorting out. One in particular had been at the back of his mind for several weeks.





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