LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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