LITMIR.BIZ

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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,

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