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
