Remember (2 page)

He stared at her. “Oh, 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. “No, James, I think 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 what her words suggested struck him, and Jimmy exclaimed, “Oh God, those kids are so young. And so idealistic!”

His voice rose as he rushed on, “And they’re peacefil. 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.

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, then took a deep breath. “Okay, so what do you want to do?”

“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 said. “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 offwhen he saw the door open and Arch Leverson walk in.

Nicky’s producer did not seem surprised to see her. “And why might we be flung into jail?” he asked the cameraman.

“Nicky wants to try to film in the square,” Jimmy answered.

“Don’t think we can, Nick. Nothing’s changed since yesterday.”

Arch Leverson went toward Nicky and, putting a hand on her shoulder, gave her a warm smile, which she returned.

Always elegantly attired wherever he was, Arch was tall and thin, with a saturnine face, prematurely silver hair and light-gray 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 proposed hike in salary, the most exciting inducement ATN had 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 Nicky’s 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, he had changed networks and had never once regretted doing so. And he and Nicky had hit it off immediately. She was a real professional, who had won both his utmost respect and his affection.

Nicky looked up now 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 does seem inevitable.”

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

“Not really,” Arch said. “In fact, I’d go so far as to say it’s positively festive out there. Nevertheless, rumors 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 rumors.”

Arch sat down behind the desk and glanced at Nicky and Jimmy, looking extremely worried. “We’d better prepare ourselves for a rough weekend.

Tough in every possible way.”

“I’m sure of it,” Nicky said.

Jimmy made no comment, nor did he react to the producer’s dire prediction. Instead he paced up and down the room, looking preoccupied. Finally he said to 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 said. “The city’s teeming with police, and we wouldn’t get two steps before we’d be in deep trouble.”

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

Arch shook his head again. “No. It won’t be safe. It’s putting Nick at risk, and needlessly so. I’m not going to take that chance—” “Oh, come on, Arch!” Nicky cut in. “I’m a war correspondent, remember.

And I’ve been in dangerous areas for years. I think we ought to do what Jimmy suggests—” “But I don’t!” Arch shot back, and 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, I’m tired of doing 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, let’s try 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 in 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 and hurried over to the window. 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.

“Well, we’ve talked about it before, but we’ve always dismissed it.

Now we don’t have any choices left. Out there on the balcony we’ll at least 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 to survey the balcony, then, pivoting on her heels, she said to Jimmy, “I’m sure it’ll work, and I’m all for it.”

“Listen, Nick,” Arch said, “I’m afraid you will have to do a phone narration for tonight’s newscast, there’s just no alternative. We’ll do that first, then shoot out there, so that America can see you live, and in living color, 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 Luke?

At the Martyrs’ Monument?”

“That’s where I left him. He’s with Clee.”

“Then let’s make that our meeting place, shall we? Right now I want to walk around, nose about a bit, get a sense of what’s really happening.

I’ll talk to Yoyo and a few of the other students.”

“We’ll join you in an hour or so,” Arch told her. “After I’ve called the network.”

“See you later, then.” Her manner efficient and breezy, Nicky picked up her bag, shrugged it onto her shoulder and hurried out of the suite.

Arch sat staring at the door for a few minutes after she 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. 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, even 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 farfetched idea. 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 pack of cigarettes and lit one. Of course it was the story that mattered, that’s what it was all about, what she was all about. The story came first, it 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 wanted to be at the center of the action, where the excitement was.

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, and he now was a highly respected columnist for The New rork Tines. And then there was her mother, who could hardly be overlooked, Elise Elliot Wells, Pulitzer Prize winner, former distinguished foreign correspondent, writer of important historical books.

Arch had often wondered what it had been like, growing up with that formidable duo. Some childhood she must have had, being dragged around the world by two hotshot journalists in

search of headlines for their respective newspapers, who nonetheless, by all accounts, had adored their only child. Still adored her, 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” while 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 were divorced.

As for Nicky, well, she certainly was 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 traveled, well educated, intelligent, cool-headed, determined and very ambitious. Awesome combination in a young woman, he had decided long ago.

Her private life, sadly, 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 ended 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 tell how she felt because she never discussed her personal problems and always kept up such a good front.

Anyway, he did not want to pry.

Nicky guarded her privacy fiercely, and so she should, he 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.

He considered Nicky one of the most decent human beings he had ever met. She was fair, thoughtful, kind and extraordinarily loyal, and she had immense integrity. He wanted only the best for her the very best.

He wanted her to be happy. But what the hell, he thought, who’s happy in this crazy world?

He sighed, roused himself from these ruminations and 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 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. “

|t was a balmy night, almost sultry.

As Nicky walked along Changan Avenue at a steady pace she had to dodge in and out between the other pedestrians. Everyone seemed to be heading in the same direction.

When she first arrived in Beijing, Clee Donovan had told her that the Chinese always made their way to the square in the evenings and at weekends to demonstrate, celebrate, mark a memorable occasion or simply to while away the time. He had said that they went there to think, to mourn, to stroll, and also that it was 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 favorite 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 nonviolent demonstrations had started.

This had happened over six weeks ago, and the students were still occupying the square—hundreds of thousands of them. Moreover, they were being 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 airing their own grievances.