PART 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 Lever son, 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 drooping 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. Suddenly she knew the reason why. Her intelligence, judgment 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 and 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. And 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 and 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, and she was amazed that they moved so quietly, so silently.

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. As she glanced up and down the long avenue quickly, her eyes shifted back to the crowded pavement below her balcony and the people walking toward 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, as she 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 blond 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 blond brows, were large and clear, their color a bright 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 humor, and 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, she was commonly 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, as war correspondent for the American Television Network, headquartered in New York. Renowned as a brilliant investigative reporter as well as an expert chronicler of war, and respected for her spectacular coverage of world events, she had a reputation for being intrepid, and on camera she was very charismatic. She had become a genuine superstar in the media.

Nicky put down the brush, pulled her hair straight back into a ponytail 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. Tonight 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 May 20, 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 center 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, beige cotton trousers, a blue cotton T-shirt, and a short-sleeved safari-style jacket that matched the pants. This was her standard uniform when she was abroad on assignment in the summer, and she always packed three identical safari suits, plus a selection of T-shirts and man-tailored cotton shirts to add color to the suits, and for the benefit of the camera.

After she had slipped into soft brown loafers, she went to the closet and took out her big shoulder bag. This was a commodious carryall made of sage-green waterproofed fabric, and it contained what she laughingly referred to as "my entire life", she rarely went anywhere without it when she was on foreign assignment. And 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 U. S. dollars, Hong Kong dollars, English pounds and the local yuan, door keys for her Manhattan apartment, world address book, a small cosmetics bag containing toothpaste, toothbrush, soap, makeup, makeup mirror, hairbrush and a packet of tissues. All were neatly stashed in 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, sunglasses 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 important, do her job efficiently and effectively. But tonight she needed only a few of its contents. These she now took out of the carryall and locked it. Her passport and press credentials, the cellular phone, reading glasses, notebook and pens, gauze masks, some of the U. S. 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 and returned the carryall to the closet. As she left the suite she glanced at her watch. It was just ten-twenty.

Despite her sense of urgency about the 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 thirteen hours, and China being ahead, 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 a huge grin when he saw her. "Hi, honey," he said, then, walking back toward the desk, added 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 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 graying dark hair, rosy cheeks in a merry face and a twinkle in his pale-blue eyes. An ace of a cameraman who had won an endless number of awards, he loved his work and being part of Nick's team, and 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 resumed his phone conversation, talking fast in a low tone to end the call to his wife. "Nicky just came in, Jo honey. I gotta go.

Duty calls." After listening a moment or two longer, he finally said an affectionate good-bye and hung up. 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 were 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' sleep, 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, everythin is going to blow up tonight. My gut instinct tells me there's going to be a crackdown. Probably around midnight, or thereabouts."

Catching the tension in her voice and noting her worried expression, Jimmy looked at her keenly. After five and a half years of working with Nicky Wells in the trouble spots of the world, he trusted her intuition implicitly. Her judgment had rarely, if ever, been flawed.

"If you say so, Nick. 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 quizzically. "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, then 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 suppressed vehemence, and sat down heavily in a chair. "I've been doing a lot of thinking, 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. But he'll have no compunction, you know. He'll order the troops to move on the students." She sighed and finished in a low, sad voice, "I'm afraid there's going to be a bloodbath,

Jimmy."

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 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.

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.

At the same time these demonstrations were starting in Beijing in April, Nicky and her crew had been 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 should 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. "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 perhaps more important, how will the Chinese government react to the situation? 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 May 9. Ostensibly they had come to cover the state visit of Mikhail Gorbachev, which was due to commence on May 15, but they were really there because of the students--and because of Nicky's anticipation of trouble.

By the time the Russian leader, his wife and entourage appeared, 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. She had made a point of focusing on the students and their predicament in her news reports.

One day during Gorbachev's stay, a 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 a scorching sun, violent thunderstorms and heavy rain.

Arch had made sure that Jimmy got everything on film, and Nicky's daily newscasts had been brilliant, and had been transmitted back to the States via the satellite. For the short time that Gorbachev and the hordes of foreign reporters remained in Beijing, the government turned a blind eye, or 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 news gatherers 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, and she feared the students were going to die. Perhaps even thousands of them.

With this terrible thought her step faltered, but only for a moment.

She recovered herself, and walked on, even though her heart felt like a lead weight in her chest.

As a chronicler of war, revolution and natural disasters, she was a constant witness to death and destruction, pain and anguish, on every level in many countries. Yet she never grew inured to violence and the horror of catastrophic events.

Over the years, and especially in the last three, she had come to know the world as a most terrifying and horrendous place to live.

Men were no more civilized now than in medieval times. They were still as violent and brutal as they had been then, according to her mother, they always would be. Very simply, those characteristics were part of man's nature.

What she witnessed and reported on bit into her heart like corrosive acid. Yet she had disciplined herself and found a way, especially since the brutal manner in which Charles Devereaux had treated her, to conceal her true emotions, not only from that all-seeing eye of the television camera, but from her crew and friends as well. Not even Clee, the person she felt most drawn to, knew her real feelings about things that affected her.

Her pace quickened as her thoughts settled on Clee. He was in Tiananmen, and she needed to talk to him. His instincts were so good, and he often had a visceral, intuitive response to events, just as she herself did. Moreover, she trusted his judgment. She always had, ever since they first met in Lebanon, when they were both covering the long-running war there. They had been introduced the day after Premier Rashid Karami was assassinated, when a bomb exploded in his helicopter.

That was in 1987. She realized she had 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 bumped into each other in the lobby of the Commodore in West Beirut, the hotel favored by the foreign press corps.

Arch and Clee had made a date for drinks that evening, and Arch had insisted she come too.

Cleeland Donovan was something of a celebrity, a legend even. He was considered to be the greatest war photographer and photojournalist since Robert Capa, and, like Capa, he had a reputation for courage and daring. It was a well-known fact that Clee Donovan flung himself into the middle of the action on a battlefield in order to get the powerful images on film for which he was famous. An expatriate American living in Paris, he had founded Image, his own photo news agency, at the age of twenty-five, and seemingly had never looked back. His pictures appeared in every leading magazine and newspaper in the world, he had published several books containing his work, all of which had been best-sellers, and he was the recipient of many awards for his photojournalism. Also, according to Arch, women found him very attractive.

A faint smile touched Nicky's mouth as she remembered the night they had met. While changing in her room at the Commodore she had gone over what she had 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 conceited, full of himself and certainly egocentric.

She had been wrong, Clee was none of these things.

When he walked into the crowded bar of the Commodore, spoke to some of the correspondents and then headed in their direction, she had thought for a moment that he was someone else, another friend of Arch's, who had been invited to join them. He did not look as glamorous as he did in the photographs she had seen of him, although he was quite good-looking in a cleancut, all-American way. He had a nice face--that was the best way to describe it--a face 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 because his body was lean and athletic.

A pleasant, ordinary sort of guy, she had decided, despite all that fame, all that success. He had seated himself at the table, ordered a drink and begun to chat amiably with them.

Within twenty minutes or so she had changed her mind, Ordina7y was certainly the wrong word to apply to Clee Donovan. He was highly intelligent, very amusing and blessed with a natural charm that was irresistible. He had held them spellbound with his stories, fully living up to his reputation.

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. This had surprised her, because he looked so boyish.

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 expected.

He was sure of himself, but it was a self-assurance about his work, and it sprang from his talent as a photojournalist. Eventually she had come to understand that Clee's work was his lifeblood.

That night in Beirut they had taken a great liking to each other, and their friendship had grown steadily over the weeks and months that followed. Frequently they found themselves in the same trouble spots, covering the same stories, and when this occurred they always joined forces.

Sometimes they went in different directions, and were on opposite sides of the world, but they managed to stay in touch by phone, or through their respective offices, as a strong fraternal feeling had developed between them. 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. leeland 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. The thirty-three-foot statue had been erected in the middle of the square by the students to face a giant portrait of Mao Zedong that 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 and brought somewhat ceremoniously to the square.

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, and the raised arms holding high a torch of freedom. The statue was 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 statue and unveiled it three days ago. They had sung the "Internationale" amid much cheering, and shouts of"Long live democracy!" had nung out across the square. The ceremony had been emotional, and had touched him deeply. He had managed to shoot several rolls of film surreptitiously, even though cameras were forbidden in the square, he had had three cameras smashed by the police.

Fortunately, he had several in reserve, including the Nikon F4 that was now 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 remained 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 students had needed. Just seeing the statue in such a strategic spot had lifted their spirits. To protect the goddess, they had erected tents around her base, and groups of students were always present, ready to defend her.

But the government will tear the statue down, Clee thought, sighing heavily.

Luke Michaels, seated next to Clee, looked at him. "Something wrong?"

"I was just wondering how long that's going to be standing there," he murmured, gesturing to the statue.

"I dunno." Luke shmgged, ran a hand through his dark-red hair and turned his earnest freckled face to Clee. "Forever, perhaps?"

Clee laughed hollowly. "I give it a couple of days, at the most, before it's totally destroyed. And I can guarantee you this, Luke-- it won't be standing there a week from today."

"Yeah, I guess you're right, it's such a thorn in Deng's side.

Well, 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 international press. We have to keep telling the world about them and their struggle, do whatever it takes to accomplish that."

Luke nodded, and shifted his position slightly, he leaned back against the stone and closed his eyes. It was photojournalists like Clee and correspondents like Nicky who risked their lives to bring the tnuth to the public, and he found the two of them inspiring. He especially admired Nicky Wells, she was what his mother called a real trouper. 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 and learned a lot, working with her. At twenty-seven, he 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 nice to him right from the start, and had treated him like a seasoned veteran. She was a stickler about punctuality and a lot of other things as well, and a perfectionist, and sometimes she could blow her stack. But she was a pro, and he'd do just about anything for her.

He wished she could find a good guy. Sometimes she looked sad, and her eyes would have a distant expression, as if she were remembering something painful. There were strange rumors about a man she'd been in love with before Luke joined her team.

Apparently he'd treated her badly. 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 sat up with a jolt, hearing his name. He looked down, and 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 too, and there was always a great deal of activity. His buddy Tony Marsden 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'll be back."

"Take your time," Clee said, gazing out on the square. He knew he would be leaving China soon, the end was in sight. His elbows on his knees, his head propped morosely in his hands, he felt dreadful for the kids--they were so idealistic, so innocent, so brave. When he first came to Beijing almost six weeks ago, he had found them full of excitement and hope. They had spoken stirring words about liberty and democracy, and had sung their songs and played their guitars.

But tonight their guitars were still, and soon their voices would be still too. He shuddered slightly and felt the prickle of gooseflesh, he did not want to think of their fate--he knew they were in grave danger. Although he had not said this to Nicky or to 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 toward the monument. Like Changan Avenue, Tiananmen was extremely well illuminated, with numerous tall streetlamps, each topped with branches of lights, about nine altogether and shaded in white opaque glass. The square was so bright it could almost have been daytime, everyone was visible, and it was even possible to read a book quite comfortably.

A smile touched his eyes at the sight of Nicky, and he climbed down off the ledge and dodged through the crowd, hurrying to meet her. She spotted him and waved. "I knew you'd be out here before long," he said, coming up to her and smiling.

She nodded. "I had to be out here, Clee. My instinct tells me the situation is about to blow."

"Wide open," he confirmed. Taking her arm, he guided her away from the monument. "Let's walk around a bit, I need to stretch my legs, I've been sitting on that ledge for about an hour."

"Good, 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, and he might know something new."

"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 lookouts for the students.

"Yoyo's probably in the tent encampment. Shall we head over there?" she suggested.

"Yes, good idea."

"Where's Luke? Arch said he was with you."

"He just went offwith that guy from the BBC, Tony Marsden.

They're somewhere around. Do you need him?"

"No, I just wondered, that's all. And speaking of the BBC, have you seen Kate Adie this evening?" Clee shook his head, and Nicky said, "That's odd, she's usually one step ahead of me."

Clee chuckled. "Your British counterpart is often right in step with you, and sometimes she's a step behind you but she's never ahead of you."

Nicky laughed. "You're prejudiced, which is very nice."

"I guess so. In any event, Kate's probably somewhere in the crowd.

There are a helluva lot of foreign press out tonight--no doubt sensing 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. "Where's your camera?"

"Under my jacket, strapped to my shoulder. My buddies from Magnum and the Associated Press are doing exactly the same thing, as are most of the photographers."

"Clee . . . It's going to get dangerous out here--real soon."

"I think so too. 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 one of the things we have in common," Clee said.

"There's another?"

"Yes. We both have nerves of steel."

"I suppose we do," she agreed, laughing. "We'd bette, in this business. Just as we have to have a sixth sense for danger."

Clee nodded but did not say anything, 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 shantytown," Clee cut in.

"You're right. Does it smell again tonight?"

"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 stank, that's the only word for it. The stench was disgusting--rotting food, unwashed bodies, heaven knows what else. I felt nauseated."

As they entered the encampment and walked past several buses where some of the students lived, the air was surprisingly fresh, and the area looked as if it had recently been swept and cleaned up. There was no trash in sight.

Nicky was surprised, once again, by the neat lines of olive-green tents, waterproof and commodious, which had been sent from Hong Kong.

They were arranged in horizontal patterns, with almost military precision, and lettered signs hung over each group of tents, 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 because the action came 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 that 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 and shook her head.

The young Chinese student, Chin Yong Yu, nicknamed Yoyo, was standing with a young woman in the center of the encampment near his tent. Both of them wore blue jeans and white cotton shirts.

The girl 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 and who had been visiting relatives in Shanghai for the past few weeks. Yoyo was deep in conversation with the girl, but when he saw Nicky and Clee he broke off and waved enthusiastically, then turning to the girl, he said something and then hurried over to greet them.

Nicky had met Yoyo, an art student, quite by accident, in Tiananmen Square, when she first arrived in Beijing. She had been endeavoring to speak to some of the students that day, hoping to find 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. After that, 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 among the students and the leaders of the movement. He was not only friendly but bright, and she had grown very fond of him, as had the crew, and Clee. They worried about Yoyo, worried about what would happen to him when all this was over.

"Nicky!" Yoyo cried, coming toward 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 said grimly, "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 tonight."

Nicky shivered and looked pointedly at Clee.

"What about Chai Ling and some of the other leaders?" Clee asked.

"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.

The young Chinese looked 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 aood thing to do."

She reached out impulsively, took hold of his arm. "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, but don't be too long, Yoyo. There's not much time left."

When Nicky and Clee got back to the Martyrs' Monument, they found Luke waiting for them, and Nicky told him what had happened with Yoyo. She repeated what the student leader had said about the troops coming that night or in the early hours of the morning.

"Oh Jesus!" Luke exclaimed. "If that happens, those kids don't stand a chance."

"Actually they're sitting ducks," Nicky pointed out. "They're centered 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.

"Let's hope Yoyo can persuade the students to leave before that happens," Clee said.

Nicky was silent, her expression anxious. Then she brightened.

"Here he is now, thank goodness. Perhaps we can get him up on the monument with a bullhorn. He can at least warn the kids."

Yoyo and Mai joined them. They were holding hands, and Yoyo said, "This my friend, Mai. Her English not very excellent!"

"No need to apologize," Nicky replied warmly. As she looked at Mai she was startled--when she had seen the girl a little earlier, she had not realized how lovely Mai was. Her features were beautiful, her black, almond-shaped eyes enormous in her sweet and innocent young face. She had long glossy black hair, was small and slender, and everything about her was delicate.

Nicky thought she was like an enchanting little doll.

Thrusting out her hand, Nicky said with a wide smile, "I'm so pleased to know you, Mai."

The girl smiled back shyly, showing perfect white teeth. Nicky was surprised at the firmness of her hold, as she softly said, "Hi."

Mai shook hands with Clee and Luke, who also obviously appreciated the girl's loveliness.

To Yoyo, Nicky said, "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 sit down."

The five of them found places on the ledges that ran around the base and lower part of the monument, and they sat down to wait for Arch and Jimmy. And, they hoped, for 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 June 3 when Arch and Jimmy finally appeared. They came running into the square and as they approached the small group clustered together on the monument, Nicky immediately noticed their troubled expressions.

"What is it?" she cried with raised brows, glancing at Arch and then at Jimmy.

While trying to catch his breath Arch blurted out, "The troops !

They're coming down Changan Avenue. We just saw them as we were heading toward 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 from getting to the students in the square. They're keeping the army out of the square!" Jimmy said.

"Well, I'll be damned," Luke said.

Clee did not wait to hear another word, and neither did Nicky.

Simultaneously they jumped off the ledge and began to run toward 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 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 took offtoo, 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. 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. Suddenly, she saw that they were actually pushin,g the soldiers back. And what an army it was. Kids, she thought in astonishment. They were just kids, they looked even younger than the students.

Without considering her safety, Nicky moved closer to the crowds, she had to be nearer the action. Within seconds she was surrounded by people and swept forward by the force and movement of their bodies.

Everyone was pushing and shoving, several times she swayed and almost went down. At one moment, as people pressed into her from behind, she reached out and desperately clutched at a man's arm, he swung around angrily, but then quickly helped her to regain her balance. 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 managed to stay upright, and they bolstered each other. The mass of people swept on and on, and Nicky thought she would be knocked over or trampled.

At the precise moment she experienced her first flicker of panic, wondering 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 she shouted above the noise, "The troops look unarmed."

"They also look frightened to death."

There was more pushing and shoving and angry shouting before the Beijingers surged onward en masse. They were like a huge tidal wave of immense force, and 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 and berated them. Nicky began to realize that the enraged citizens of the capital were lecturing the soldiers 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 agreed, putting his arm around her waist, determined to keep her safe in this melee.

Unexpectedly, she saw Jimmy pushing his way toward them.

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

Being ruthlessly aggressive, Jimmy and Arch managed to push Nicky and themselves through the seething mass of people until they finally staggered out onto the edge of Changan Avenue. As 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."

"Our best bet is to stand here and watch what's happening from the sidelines," Nicky said.

Astonished, Jimmy said, "Hey, that's a new one for you, Nick, when have you ever been on the sidelines?" Not waiting for an answer, he rushed on, "But you're right, it's safer here. Being in the middle of that was like being in the center of--a stampede. And what an army it is--just look at em. They have camp gear, canteens and knapsacks but don't have any weapons." He shook his head wonderingly.

"I told you they weren't armed, Arch," Nicky said.

Clee joined 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 said.

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

"Not by this bunch, 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.

"Let's film on the balcony later, Jimmy, as we planned. I'll do a phone narration," Nicky said, knowing it was hopeless to argue with Arch when he was in a cautious mood. She had been in the line of fire on battlefields and he hadn't batted an eyelash or said anything about danger, but ever since they came to Beijing he had been issuing warnings constantly, and she couldn't help wondering why. She would have to ask him later, now was not the time. She glanced around, her eyes seeking Luke, but he was nowhere to be seen, neither were Yoyo and Mai. They had been swallowed up by that mass of people.

Eventually, much to her relief, Luke came into view, with Yoyo and Mai beside him. Mai was limping, had obviously hurt her leg or her foot, and Yoyo was helping her.

"What happened?" Nicky asked, hurrying over to them.

"Not serious," Yoyo said. "Man stand on Mai's foot. She okay."

Nicky put her arm around the Chinese girl's shoulders, and the four of them walked over to join the others.

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."

They sat down under the trees on the side of Changan Avenue to rest and cool off. In spite of the breeze, the air was warm, almost heavy, and both Nicky and Clee took off their jackets.

Arch passed around a pack of cigarettes but everyone except Yoyo declined.

Nicky leaned forward and said to Yoyo, "Did you find out anything?

Where are those troops from? What's happening?"

Yoyo puffed on his cigarette for a second and then said, "Troops from far away. From outside Beijing. They march many hours. They told go on maneuvers. 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, which Nicky broke when she said, "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, retreated down Changan Avenue, finally, in the middle of the morning.

The Beijingers returned home or went to their places of work. The students retreated to their tents and buses for much-needed sleep, and an air of calm descended over Changan Avenue and Tiananmen Square--suddenly there was a semblance of order and normality.

Nicky was convinced the tranquillity was illusory and that the situation had been contained only for 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 it would perceive the army's retreat as a humiliation. The officials would automatically blame the students, even though it had been 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 of sleep, and after her broadcast was finished, she had been in and out of the square all day.

Instinctively she knew that belying the atmosphere of calm were tension and fear, and she voiced this thought to Clee as they sat 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 sure."

"Me too," Clee said, and he 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. By Monday it'll be all over, and the aftermath's going to be pretty awful.

Arrests, trials, repression, and Christ knows what else."

"I'm concerned about Yoyo," Nicky confided. "He's been in the thick of it, and he is one of the leaders. I wish we could get him out of Beijing."

"We can," Clee said. "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 to Hong Kong. We could 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, it's a deal."

"There's another problem."

"What?"

"Mai. Yoyo won't leave Beijing without Mai."

"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 others will feel the same way, that it's the least we can do." He smiled at her. "So that's it, then. Mai comes along as well. The more the merrier."

Nicky looked at him. "You're a good guy, Clee Donovan," she said.

"So are you, Nicky Wells." There was a little silence, and then Clee asked, "Where will you go when we leave here?"

"You mean after Hong Kong? To New York. And you?"

"Back to Paris. But I may be in New York at the end of this month.

When I spoke to the office last night, or rather, 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 States."

"Come on," Nicky said, "let's get back to the square, see what's going on. I get nervous if I'm away for very long." he 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.

Nicky was speaking to Yoyo quietly, earnestly, endeavoring 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 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. We care too much about you to let you stay."

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

"Come on, Yoyo, don't be stubborn," Nicky said. "Please accept it, if not for yourself, then for Mai. Think of hen-of protecting her."

The young Chinese student shook his head again.

Wanting to make it easier for Yoyo, Clee now took charge and said firmly, "I'll tell you what we'll do. I'll go and get 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--" He broke off and cocked his head, listening intently before he threw Nicky a worried glance. "Gunf re?"

"Yes," she said and glanced quickly at Clee, they exchanged knowing looks. He took offwithout saying a word, with Nicky sprinting behind him, the story uppermost in both of their minds.

Everyone in the vicinity of the monument heard the shots, and there was a sudden rush as the correspondents, photographers and television crews raced after Clee and Nicky. Across the square they ran, heading for Changan Avenue.

On Changan Nicky lost Clee in the chaos. She saw armored vehicles and trucks moving down the wide boulevard, she noted that the troops were armed with AK-47 assault rifles. It was obvious they were making for Tiananmen, and she knew they would enter it by force if necessary.

There had been a rumor 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, 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 at one point the troops had used tear gas. Enraged, the masses had retaliated by throwing bricks and rocks at the soldiers, in turn, the troops had used truncheons and belts in an effort to quell the protesters.

That battle had merely been the prelude to what was happening now.

Experienced as Nick and Clee 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 turned their guns on the citizens and students crowding the sidewalks. Unable to believe her eyes, Nicky stood frozen as the people, howling like wounded animals, rushed forward, hurling bricks, rocks, pieces of iron pipes and primitive gasoline bombs at the troops, their anger spiraling into an immense rage. The soldiers replied by firing lethal bursts at them. People fell as they were hit by the bullets, crying out in terror.

The carnage had begun.

Appalled by what she was seeing, Nicky found herself unable to move.

She stood staring blankly, as chills shook her. A Chinese woman next to her roused her by grabbing her arm and saying 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. "It's dangerous here. Go home." The woman simply shook her head, and remained standing where she was.

The drone of helicopters circling overhead made Nicky lift her head and gaze up into the night sky. She remembered what Yoyo had said about tear gas being dropped by the choppers. Opening her shoulder bag with a shaky hand, she pulled out one of the surgical masks and stuffed it into her pocket where it would be handy if she needed it.

Changan Avenue had become a battleground. Tanks and truckloads of soldiers armed with machine guns were rolling inexorably down the avenue, one after another.

God help the students, she thought, moving away from the road.

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 were burning on the avenue. They had been set on fire 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 armed with Molotov cocktails, which they hurled at the tanks and armored personnel carriers. Gunfire increased and the stench of cordite and blood hung heavy on the warm night air.

Nicky was suddenly overcome by nausea. Bullets were whizzing over her head and it was clear that she had better try to get back to her hotel.

A cart trundled through the crowd, carrying a wounded man and woman.

When the people saw it they began to curse and shake their fists at the troops and, in response, the soldiers began to fire again. Nicky dropped to the ground to protect herself as tear-gas canisters exploded close to her. She pulled out the gauze mask, tied it around her face to cover her mouth and nose, but still she began to cough and splutter.

Pulling herself up, 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, coughing and gasping for breath, Nicky groped for tissues in her pocket and wiped her streaming eyes.

Some sixty or so soldiers were advancing with fixed bayonets down Changan. Pessimistic though she had been, she had not anticipated anything quite like this. Then, happily, she saw Arch a few yards away, and she knew that he was looking for her.

Running forward, she cried, "Arch! Arch! I'm here!"

As she reached him, he swung around and grabbed hold of her.

"Nicky! You're all right!"

"And you, Arch," she said.

"Have you ever seen anything like this?" he cried grimly. "The way they are killing innocent civilians, and the avenue is so jammed with tanks and trucks, the ambulances can't get through!"

"It's inhuman," she said.

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

When they reached the square, Nicky was struck by the curious calm pervading it. The atmosphere seemed peaceful but weirdly so.

They slackened their pace and continued up to the Martyrs' Monument.

Some of the press corps had returned and were gathered there. From the expressions on their faces she could see they were as distressed as she and Arch were by what they had witnessed on Changan.

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

"There's so much bloodshed out there, I don't know what to say, but I know what you must do," Nicky said tersely. Fishing around in her bag, she found the envelope of money and thrust it into Yoyo's hands. "You must take this, Yoyo."

Yoyo stared at her. "But Clee say he buy tickets--" "Don't argue, Yoyo, take it," Nicky said. "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 have to leave Beijing without you, get yourselves to Hong Kong.

We'll be at the Mandarin Hotel. You'll find us there."

Yoyo nodded and put 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 glanced around her and 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 shook her head. "The students must not show resistance to the soldiers. If you stay, you must be peaceful."

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, then said, "Listen to me, Yoyo, these troops are not young like the others yesterday. They are hardened veterans."

"Maybe Twenty-seventh 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 said, but she knew Yoyo and Mai would stay until the end, even though he fully understood they were in peril, if Mai didn't.

They were naive in many ways, like most of the kids in the square.

Clee came hurrying up to them looking disheveled.

"It's horrendous.... there are no words, really ..." he said.

She touched the camera hanging round his neck. "Still undamaged, I see."

"They're too busy shooting unarmed people to be bothered about a camera!"

Arch walked over, and putting his arm around Nicky's shoulders, he said, "Jimmy and Luke are going back to the hotel for a while.

Go with them, Nick. You've been out here for hours."

"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."

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 up as the grief-stricken and angry residents continued to torch tanks and armored personnel carriers.

In the immediate vicinity of the Beijing Hotel the scene was chaotic.

The wounded, dying and dead were piling up, and distraught and weeping Beijingers, many of them covered in blood, were desperately trying to move the victims so that they could get them to the hospitals and morgues as quickly as possible.

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 buses had been pressed into service as ambulances, and so had pedicabs and carts. Most of the injured were being taken to Xiehe Hospital, which was fairly close to Changan, since it was located in one of the streets immediately behind the Beijing Hotel.

In contrast, the square appeared to be peaceful enough when Nicky went back there at three-forty-five on the morning of June 4. 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, and were positioned at the far end.

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

As soon as she reached Clee, who was 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 efficient, aren't they?" she said sarcastically. And then she noticed that some of the students on the monument were busy writing, and she tugged at Clee's sleeve. "What are they doing?" she asked.

Clee sighed and shook his head. "Yoyo told me they're writing their wills."

Nicky turned away, swallowing, and felt the prick of tears behind her eyes. She struggled for self-control, the more emotional the situation and the story, the cooler she must be.

Clee had noticed her reaction, and put an arm around her. "It's a lousy world we live in, Nick, and you know that better than anybody. " "Oh, Clee. Some things are really hard to take."

"Yes." She gave him a halflhearted smile and then said briskly, "Well, our job is to see that the world knows about this. Where is Yoyo?"

"I saw him talking to Arch a little while ago. That singer, Hou Dejian, and a couple of other leaders have been on the loudspeakers, asking the kids to leave in an orderly fashion."

Clee stopped short as the lights in Tiananmen Square went out.

"Now what?" Nicky said.

"The worst, I suspect," Clee answered grimly. "Those lights didn't fail, they've been turned off."

In a moment the loudspeakers on the monument began to crackle, a disembodied voice said something, 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, I hope," Nicky said.

But as the words of the famous revolutionary workers' anthem rang out across the square, Nicky knew the students would not do so.

She could see, even in the dim light, that they simply sat there, listening to the music, motionless, unshakable, proud in their resoluteness. As soon as the record ended it was played again, and it was repeated several more times during the course of the next twenty minutes.

Nicky and Clee conferred quietly from time to time and talked with other journalists, everyone expected the military attack to begin at any moment, and they steeled themselves for the confrontation between the students and the troops. Another half hour passed, nothing occurred--and then, suddenly, the lights in front of the Great Hall of the People were turned on dramatically, flooding that side of the square with the most powerful and brilliant illumination.

Almost simultaneously the loudspeakers came alive once again and several people spoke, but neither Nicky nor Clee could understand what was being said. Then a British journalist standing nearby told them, "The leaders are urging the students to quit the square. They're all saying the same thing--get out before you're killed."

Clee said, "Nicky, I'm going to go get some shots of those guys on the loudspeakers, and of Chai Ling."

Nicky spent the next ten minutes or so strolling in the area of the monument, her eyes scanning the crowds and the ledges hopefully. There was no sign of Yoyo, Mai or the other students she'd come to recognize, and she began to wonder if they had finally left the square.

There was another announcement over the loudspeakers, another short silence, and then a second voice was heard, echoing out.

Nicky walked on, circling the monument one last time. Much to her surprise, a number of the kids were beginning to stand up, climb down off the ledges and walk away. Many had tears streaming down their faces, they had lost their peaceful fight for freedom and democracy, military power had prevailed, and many innocent people had been slaughtered. But at least some lives will be saved now, she thought.

Dawn was breaking, streaking the sky with light, filling it with an eerie, incandescent glow. She peered at her watch. It was after five, she could not stay in the square much longer. Sighing under her breath, she left the monument and started to walk to Changan. She would return to the hotel to prepare her newscast and the film segment, shower, put on her makeup and change her clothes. She and Arch had decided that first she would do the filmed piece on the balcony of the hotel, 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 far when she 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?

She turned around, dodged through the students who were now leaving, and hurried toward the tent encampment. As she ran she saw to her dismay that an increasing number of soldiers were coming into the square. Suddenly it seemed to her that they were everywhere, and in the distance she heard the clatter and rumble of tanks and armored personnel carriers moving forward across that vast rectangle of stone.

War correspondents were not supposed to be heroic. They had to get the story and get out alive. Her father had drilled that into her. But now she had to go back to look for Yoyo and Mai, and so she 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 urgent gestures with her arms, and cried, "Go!

Go ! " hoping they would somehow get the message . And then she ran on, making for the center of the encampment.

They saw each other at exactly the same moment--Yoyo and Mai, rounding the side of one tent as Nicky came out from behind another. They had both put on jackets, and Yoyo was carrying the small canvas bag.

"Forgot bag," Yoyo explained, holding it up. "Passport."

"Come on," Nicky said. "Troops are here, everyone's leaving." She swung away from them, ready to return through the encampment.

"This way! Quicker!" Yoyo exclaimed, and he took the lead as 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 and called, "Follow me ! " then 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 back over her shoulder, she saw that Yoyo and Mai were keeping up, 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 armored vehicles and the blazing guns was ominous.

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

"Nicky! Nicky!"

She looked back and to her shock saw that Mai was lying on the pavement. Yoyo was bending over her. Nicky spun around and ran back.

"What happened?"

Yoyo looked dazed. "Mai shot."

Nicky dropped to her knees and examined the girl's bleeding shoulder, then touched her face gently. Mai opened her eyes, blinked and then closed them. Nicky slipped her arms under Mai, trying to lift her, but when the girl moaned, Nicky swiftly laid her on the ground again. Her hands felt wet and she looked down at them, and 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 looked up.

The tanks had increased their speed and were almost upon them.

There was no time to lose. She said to Yoyo, "Quickly! Take Mai's legs, I'll lift her under her arms, and we'll carry her behind the monument."

These words were barely spoken when she was pulled away from Mai and pushed, almost flung, to one side. She heard Clee shouting, "Hurry, Nick! Move it, Yoyo! The tanks--they're closing in!"

People were scattering in panic and screaming. Struggling to her feet, she spotted Clee running out of the line of fire, carrying Mai in his arms, with Yoyo right behind them. They made it to safety just before the tanks and APCs, their guns blazing, rolled over the spot where, a split second before, Mai had been lying.

Others were not so lucky.

They took cover behind the Martyrs' Monument, an area that seemed to be relatively safe, at least for the moment, there were no troops in sight. Clee placed Mai on the ground, and Nicky sank onto the steps beside her. When Clee came and sat next to her, she said, "Thanks for saving my life."

He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face, staring at her without speaking. He had a peculiar expression on his face, one she had never seen there before.

Finally, he said, "We have to get Mai to a hospital." He took his camera off, hung it around Nicky's neck and said, "Look after this for me, I think I have some good shots." Then he bent down, and lifted Mai up in his arms.

When they reached Tiananmen Gate, they paused 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 found herself praying 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 blood, and the anguished residents of the city were trying to do what they could to help.

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

They had almost reached the Beijing Hotel when Yoyo cried, "Look!

Red Cross flag on Number Thirty-eight bus. Ambu7ce. Take Mai to Xiehe

Hospital."

Clee nodded, and plowed forward with the injured girl, hoping to God that the doctors could save her.

Nicky stood in the middle of the ATN suite at the Beijing Hotel, concentrating on what she had to say. It was fifteen minutes past eight on Sunday morning in China. In New York it was 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 hard-hitting newscast about the events she had 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 aging leaders desperate to hang on to their political power. Mao Zedong seems to have spoken the truth. At least, as far as China is concerned." There was a small beat, before she finished, "This is Nicky Wells saying good night from

Beijing."

At the other end of the line she heard Mike Fowler, the ATN anchorman, saying, "Thank you, Nicky, for that extraordinary report from

Beijing.

And now to the news from Eastern Europe . .

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

He smiled, nodded several times and 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 and walked over to her. "Nick, they loved it. You were just great!"

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

"I second that," Luke said.

"Thanks, guys," she said, smiling. Their praise mattered so much to her because she knew they always spoke the truth, and would not hesitate to tell her when she had not been up to her standards.

There was a knock on the door, and when Luke opened it, Clee walked in.

He looked awful, drained and haggard, Nicky knew what he was going to say before he said it, she could tell from the empty expression in his dark eyes.

"Mai is dead," he said, his tone flat. "They just couldn't save her.

They tried, but she'd lost too much blood."

"Poor kid," Jimmy said.

Luke sat down heavily and Arch looked bereft.

Nicky walked over to Clee, feeling a little unsteady on her legs.

"You look terrible, Clee. Come and sit down, let's get you some coffee ." Clee took a step closer to her, wiped away the tears on her cheeks, which she had not even known were there. "It's all right for you to cry, you know," he said.

"Yes." She took a deep breath. "And Yoyo?"

"He's devastated but unharmed."

She nodded. "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 there, and then he said, very quietly, "We journalists deal with war and death and tragedy on a daily basis. We get tough, we think we're invincible. But none of us are, not really, Nicky. Not even you."

PART TWO.

'ers |t was Cezanne country, van Gogh country. Clee had told her so, and he had been correct.

Colors from the artists' palettes were the colors of the day, the colors of the Provencal earth and sky, rich russet browns and burnt sienna, terra-cotta 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 arrived in Provence, Nicky had been entranced by the beauty of the countryside that surrounded the old mas or farmhouse, that 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-flagstoneedged swimming pool under the shade of a plane tree, sipping a citron presse' and daydreaming, she almost laughed out loud at herself. She had been reluctant to come here, but now she realized she would not have missed for anything in the world this brief respite from the business of reporting catastrophes.

And she was grateful to Clee for so generously giving her the use of his home. It was his very private retreat, and she knew that very few people were ever invited here. But then, she realized, that was Clee, always thinking of her well-being, this latest gesture was only one of his many kindnesses.

The idea of her coming to Provence had begun in Hong Kong three weeks ago, when she and Clee were finishing dinner at the Mandarin Hotel.

Out of the blue, somehow sensing that her fatigue was especially deep, Clee had said to her, "Go to my farm in the South of France, Nick. It does me good just to be there, I know it'll take your mind off things to be in that restorative place .

" She had balked at first. France had not particularly appealed to her just then, even though in much of the past she had loved it and felt at home there. But for several years now, she had associated it with pain.

Almost three years ago she had gone to Cap d'Antibes with her fiance, Charles Devereaux, a man with whom she had been very much in love and had been about to marry. 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 Cote d'Azur.

She had not set eyes on Charles Devereaux ever again.

And so she had not wanted to upset herself further by visiting a place where they had spent their last days together. There were moments when she still felt savaged by him, and shaken by a fulminating anger. She had lost herself in her work, thrusting aside unwelcome memories.

Of course Clee had no way of knowing any of this, and so he had persisted with the invitation. Just before leaving Hong Kong for Paris, he had said, "I'm afraid I can't be there, Nicky, but my housekeeper will look after you very well. Please go." A confident 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. Amelie's a doll. Listen, the farm's in beautiful country, artists' country--Cezanne and van Gogh both painted in the area. I know you'll relax there. Please go. You need to do something special for yourself, to have a few weeks of peace after the horror of Beijing.

You need to be better to yourself, Nick."

Touched, she had relented somewhat and told him she would think about it. And back in New York she had done exactly that.

Thoughts of Clee's farmhouse in France and a peaceful interlude there had flitted in and out of her head, and with surprising frequency.

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

Finally, it was Arch who had helped her come to a decision. Once the

TV special was in the can, he had told her she looked awful, 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 good rest would do you good," he had pointed out. "Take a break while you can, Nick. You really need it."

When she had muttered that perhaps something world-shaking might occur,

Arch had laughed and said he would fly her back from wherever she was if a war broke out somewhere.

She had laughed too, and had then protested, "But I know I don't look quite as bad as you say I do, Arch. Surely you're exaggerating." His answer had been pithy and to the point. "Losy, that's the way you look, Nick. Take my word for it."

She had looked at herself in a mirror, and had had to admit that Arch was right. When she had examined her face, she had decided that he had actually understated the facts. She looked positively ill. Her face was unusually pale, even haggard, she had dark rings under her eyes 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 color, if such a thing were possible.

Nicky was aware that cosmetics could camouflage a number of flaws for the benefit of the camera, and that she could continue to hide the telltale signs of fatigue with 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 felt debilitated and emotionally drained, and apparently now the signs were all too evident to others. And so she had put her mirror away, phoned

Clee at his Paris office, and told him she would like to accept his offer of the farmhouse in Provence if it was still open. He had been thrilled.

"That's great, Nick," he had said, his energy and 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 Marseilles, and then driven up to the farm. All you have to do is get yourself to Marseilles, via either 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, after 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, and landed in Paris a short three hours and forty-five minutes later.

After spending the night at the Plaza-Athenee, her favorite hotel, she had taken a plane from Orly Airport to Marseilles 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 Provencal, who throughout the drive inland had kept her entertained with rather fantastic folkloric tales of the region. He had also recited more facts about Air 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 found the Provincial accent a bit difficult to understand at first. But relatively quickly she had realized that Etienne was adding the letter to many words, so that bien became bieng, and so forth.

Once she got the hang of this adjustment of the French language and attuned her ear to the rich and throaty cadence of his speech as well as to his rapid delivery, she had discovered that she had no problem grasping everything he said.

On the way to Air-en-Provence from Marseilles, Nicky had 66 6' begun to notice that the landscape was completely different from that of the Cate 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 by them to many of the renowned coastal resorts for annual holidays and shorter stays. In particular, her mother and father had favored 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, after which he had disappeared from her life altogether and forever.

But Clee's area of Provence was entirely new to her and, as such, held no memories. This sudden knowledge had made her feel suddenly very much at ease. She began to relax in the airconditioned comfort of the Mercedes.

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 lavender, and dark vineyards and an abundance of fruit orchards stretched for miles.

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-Rhane, situated between the ancient university town of Air-en-Provence and Saint-Remy. It was on the outskirts of a tiny village close to the lush green foothills of Luberon, one of the 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 honeycolored 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 was finally brought to a halt by Etienne, he had exclaimed "Eh, voila!" and waved one hand at the farm with a grand flourish.

Then he had turned and smiled at her triumphantly, looking as though getting her here had been a major achievement.

Clee's housekeeper, Amelie, and her husband, Guillaume, had been waiting for her on the doorstep and had welcomed her enthusiastically with warm smiles.

Guillaume had then promptly whisked away her luggage-- along with Etienne, who had not needed a second invitation from Guillaume to "come inside the kitchen for a pastis." With merry laughter, Amelie had ushered Nicky inside the farmhouse and insisted on showing her around before taking her upstairs to her quarters.

They had started out in the kitchen, obviously Amelie's favorite spot in the entire house, and a place she was very proud of. The room was large and painted white, with dark-wood beams on the ceiling and terra-cotta 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 were set under the three windows. Placed on these were flat woven baskets brimming with local produce. One held 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 wafting in the air was the lovely aroma of marjoram, rosemary and thyme.

A round table in the center of the kitchen was covered with a red-and-white gingham cloth to match the neat little tied-back curtains at the windows. Taking pride of place on the far wall was an antique baker's rack made of black wrought iron trimmed with brass. It was 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 colorful pottery platters, plates, soup bowls and double-sized cafe'all lait cups and saucers.

The dining room opened off the kitchen, and these two rooms flowed into each other, as they were visually linked through the use of the same terra-cotta floor tiles, white-painted walls and ceiling beams. Here there was a big old-fashioned fireplace and hearth made of the local cream-colored 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 center of the table was a collection of brass candlesticks holding thick white candles. Huge bowls of flowers in the center of the table and on the sideboard brought touches of vivid color to the rather simply furnished room.

Hurrying forward, Amelie had next shown her out into the main hall and opened a door into a small downstairs sitting room.

Highly polished cream-colored 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. Occasional wooden 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," Amelie 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 rugs from Morocco.

The living room was decorated with French country furniture in the Provencal style, and the sofas and chairs were upholstered in cream, cafe all kit and caramel-colored fabrics. Again, masses of flowers introduced vivid color everywhere, and Nicky had an instant impression of air and light and spaciousness, and the most marvelous sense of tranquillity.

Across the landing, the library was lined with books and furnished with two overstuffed sofas covered in melon-colored cotton. Clee had created an audio-visual center 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," Amelie had informed her, nodding her head fondly. Then pointing her finger at the ceiling, she had announced, "One more flight, mademoiselle.

Alms!"

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, and it was composed of a bathroom, a bedroom and a sitting room, which were charmingly decorated, again with lots of white, cream and caramel, the basic colors in the house. Several good wooden pieces were set against the walls of the sitting room and an antique armoire and a chest graced the bedroom, even a cursory glance had told her that a great deal of care had been taken and every comfort provided.

"I will bring up your cases," Amelie had said after opening the armoire doors and 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, Amelie," Nicky had answered, smiling. "I'm sure I have everything. And thank you for the grand tour."

"Ah, it is a pleasure, mademoiselle," Amelie had answered with a smile before disappearing down the stairs.

This conversation had taken place only four days ago, but already Nicky was feeling 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 swim in the pool. The fresh air and exercise, plus Amelie's delicious cooking, were restorative. In the evenings she had read, listened to music or watched French television in the library, and, as a news addict, she had found herself tuning into CNN.

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 a small amused smile.

Nicky shifted slightly on the chaise, reached for the citron presse' and took a long swallow, enjoying the tartness of the lemonade. It was the last week of June and already hot, although not yet unbearably so.

Amelie had told her, only this morning, that July and August were the worst of the summer months in this part of Provence. Blisterin,g was the word she had used. Then Amelie had suddenly launched into a little discussion about the mistral, the dry north wind that could blow so furiously even in the summer, bringing havoc. It came whistling down to the south through the Rhane Valley, and it was often the first real warning of mean weather brewing. Amelie, like most Provencaux, blamed a variety of problems and ailments on the mistral.

"Animals can go mad. And people," she had confided somewhat dolefully as she had poured Nicky a second cup of cafe'all lait. "It causes migraine. And la,rippe. 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 coffeepot and warm up more milk for Nicky.

Just as Clee had predicted, Nicky had fallen in love with Amelie.

The housekeeper was small and stocky, and obviously very strong physically. She was undeniably Mediterranean, with blueblack hair pulled back in a bun, eyes like black olives and a nutbrown complexion.

Forever laughing and smiling, and always in high good humor, 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 Amelie, Guillaume was a typical Provencal. He was as brown as a berry, with a face weatherbeaten from being outdoors, jet-black hair speckled with gray and kindly, humor-filled eyes.

Medium in height, and very muscular, he tackled every job with the same vigor and enthusiasm as his wife.

He swept the yard, the outdoor dining terrace and the barbecue patio, cleaned the pool and tended the garden and the orchard as well as the little vineyard that stretched out behind the farmhouse for about four or five acres. Guillaume did the spraying, the cropping and the pruning, and he and Amelie, 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 pointing out many of its distinctive features.

Amelie and Guillaume had a son, Francois, who was studying at the Sorbonne in Paris and of whom they were very proud, Nicky had already heard much about him from his doting mother. Their two daughters, Paulette and Marie, were married and lived in the village, and were pressed into service at the farm on the rare occasions when Clee had extra guests.

When Clee called from Moscow on the night of her arrival, he had described Amelie 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 color and weathered by the years, and it 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 out of the earth, as if they were part of the land itself. As in a sense, they were. The farm and its outbuildings 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, and 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 unable to come here as often as he would have liked. 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 turbulent world.

She stayed outside until almost six o'clock, enjoying the changing light as the sun slowly began to sink behind the rim of the distant dark hills. And 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 every day. His whereabouts were unknown, and this worried her. She and Clee had looked hard for him in Beijing before they left for Hong Kong, but 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, and that he had not been arrested.

She and the crew and Clee had hung around Hong Kong for several days, hoping Yoyo 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, and so had Arch and Clee. She could only hope that he still had them and 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 decided against it, knowing that a letter from a Western journalist could easily create untold problems for him. The mail was most probably censored 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, endeavoring to set aside her worries about Yoyo.

There was nothing she could do except pray he was still safe and that he would find a way to escape to the West. lhe 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 if she herself had, 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 that it must have made her scream 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 roundup of international news was finished and the programming changed to a local American story about farmers in the Midwest, her mind began to wander. And not unnaturally, she focused on the nightmare she had just had. It had been awful, and it remained so vivid it was still dominant in 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 itand looked down she saw an oasis below. Feelin 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 I splattered with mud and blood. It was a copy of Life magazine.

She picked it up, leafed through itand came to a picture of Clee.

The caption saud he was dead--killed in action while 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 fnghtened and she turned icy even though it was searing hot under the desert sun. Shegot up and began to run, looking for Clee. She felt sure he was somewhere nearby. And alive.

She walked for hours and eventually she was no longer in the desert.

She was wearin 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 toward 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 leapedforward, running. She ran, too, but she stumbled, and when she stood up he was not there. For a split second she was afraid, and then she went searching for him among the dead soldiers. She could not find him.

There were milesand miles of dead bodies, and everythin,g 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, then she drew back in shock. One of the bodies was Yoyo. The other was Charles Devereaux.

She turned and ran, stumbling andfallingagainst thedead soldiers in her haste to escape the carnae. At one moment she looked down at her hands and clothesj they were covered in warm, sticky blood. A wave of horror and nausea swept over her, and just as she began to despair of ever finding Clee, of evergetting away, 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. It was abandoned.

She looked toward the dark blue sea. Not far out she saw a bodyfloating.

Was it Clee ? He beckoned to her. res, it was he! He was alive!

She rushed into the water. It was icy butcuriously thick, like oil, so thatswimming was laborious. And then she realized that the sea was not blue but red. It was made of blood.

Clee held out his hand to herj she reached for itj their f ngers were inchesapart. Asshe struggled tograsp his hand, his body began to sink, and it disappeared into the sea.

The dream had ended at this moment, and she had awakened to the scream.

It had been her screaming, she knew that now.

She shuddered, feeling gooseflesh on her arms, and she pulled the robe around her, suddenly very cold. Rising, she went over to the small bar next to the bookcase and looked at the bottles, then reached for the marc de Bourgogne.

Some memory registered vaguely, then she recognized the label. Of course, it was one of the brandies Charles had imported from France.

She put the bottle down on the silver tray. Then immediately she picked it up again, poured herself a small glass, and taking a sip of it, she walked slowly back to the sofa.

Nicky did not know a lot about dreams, but she was well enough informed to realize that her nightmare was simply a manifestation of impressions stored 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 analyze her dream. She knew very well what it meant, she was afraid that Yoyo was dead, and she was worried that Clee, a war photographer and in constant danger, might be killed.

It's all very understandable, she told herself, taking another little sip of the marc. Both men had been very much on her mind lately, and of course were therefore at the forefront of her thoughts. But why had Charles Devereaux been part of the nightmare? Perhaps because she was in France, where they had traveled, and where he had come often to buy wine for his importing company. And where they had spent those two weeks together . . .

The more she thought about it, there was no denying the fact that she had dreamed about those three men because each of them, in his own way, troubled her enormously. lee stood staring in deep concentration at the dozen or so transparencies arranged on the large light box in his Paris office.

After a couple of minutes 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 good 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. 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 that 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?"

"They have not said. 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 went to the door but 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're his idol."

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

Clee's eyes automatically went to the photograph of Robert Capa, which hung on the side wall along with a collection of other pictures. He felt a stab of familiar sadness, as he often did when he looked at Capa. His one and only regret in his life was that he had never met Capa. He had been born too late and Capa's tragic death had been so untimely.

After a moment he 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 one on top, Louise, please deal with all this any wayyou see f t, 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 friends Henry and Florence Devon he had better do it immediately. Henry, a writer, worked at the Paris bureau of Time, and Clee dialed his direct line. It rang and rang, and then it was finally picked up and Henry's gravelly Boston-accented voice was saying, "Allo, oui?"

"Hank, it's Clee."

"Clee, don't tell me you're canceling!"

"I have to, Hank. Look, I'm sorry, but it can't be helped."

"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, and then he laughed and said, "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."

Ignoring this, Clee said soberly, "Flo usually hedges her bet and invites a couple of other single guys, 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 the next morning. Picking up the phone, he dialed again.

A female voice answered immediately. "Is that you, Mel?"

"Hello, Clee. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong.... Mel, I--" "You're canceling 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."

"Do we have a date for Saturday night?"

"You know we do, Clee."

"I'll call you tomorrow, and I'm sorry about tonight."

He said good-bye and hung up. I'll send Mel 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 surge of relief that he had canceled 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. But 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 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 the rest he needed, but he would concentrate on a few personal problems that needed sorting out. One in particular had been at the back of his mind for several weeks.

Opening his eyes, Clee stood up and put on his jacket, then walked toward the door.

He paused halfway across the room and stood for a moment looking at the portrait of Capa. Of all the photographs that had been taken of him, whether in combat fatigues or civilian clothes, this was Clee's favorite. It was of Capa and David "Chim" Seymour, and it had been taken in a leafy Paris square in the early 1950s. The two friends were sitting on metal garden chairs, and Capa was wearing a raincoat over his suit, a cigarette was dangling from his lips. There was a quizzical expression in his eyes and he appeared to be smiling faintly.

One hand was resting on his knee, and Clee had always been struck by that hand--the long, sensitive fingers that looked so capable. And how darkly handsome Capa was in this picture, the strong masculine features, the thick black brows and hair, the smoldering dark eyes, the seductive mouth all added up to one helluva knockout of a guy.

Capa had been the possessor of a legendary charm and a debonair personality as well as good looks, and it was not difficult for Clee to imagine why Ingrid Bergman and so many other women had fallen head over heels in love with him.

Everything Clee had ever read about Capa had underscored his courage and daring as a photographer, his compassion and humanity as a man.

Once, the British magazine Picture Post, now defunct, had run a photograph of Capa, and the headline above the caption had read, The Greatest War Photographer in the World. And that was what he had been.

It had cost him his life, in the end.

Capa had been killed on May 25, 1954, when he had stepped on a Vietminh antipersonnel mine on a small, grassy slope above a dike, five kilometers outside Dongquithon in Indochina, during the French Indochina war. He had been forty-one years old. Two years older than I am now, Clee reminded himself, thinking of his own mortality and how fragile life truly was in the long run.

In 1955

Life magazine and the Overseas Press Club of America had established the Robert Capa Award "for the best photographic reporting from abroad requiring exceptional courage and enterprise ." Clee had won the award for his coverage of the war in Lebanon, and it was his most treasured possession. It came in a box lined with blue velvet and it stood on a shelf next to the Capa photograph, set slightly apart from the other international awards Clee had won for the excellence of his work.

Lifting the lid, Clee stared at the award for a second, and he wondered, as he often had in the past, why he felt so close to a man he had never known and yet missed as if he had been a dear friend. It baffled him, but there was no denying that Capa, a dead man, had been the single most important influence in his life.

Jean-Claude's voice could be heard outside in the corridor. Clee shook off his thoughts about Capa and left the room to see if anything was wrong.

"Hey, guys, what's going on?" he asked, going toward JeanClaude, who was talking excitedly, and Michel Bellond, a partner in the agency and a photographer of talent and courage.

"Rien," Michel said, and winked at Clee.

"He is right, it is nothing, really," Jean-Claude said and grinned.

"We were just discussing the merits of various restaurants, trying to decide where to have the dinner for Steve," he explained, referring to another partner in Image.

"Let's hear the choices," Clee said. "Perhaps I'll cast the deciding vote."

When Clee finally left the Image offices on the rue de Bern, it was drawing close to dusk, that time of day when the sky has changed to twilight colors but has not yet turned black.

He lifted his head as he walked toward the Champs-Elysees and looked up at the sky. Tonight it was a deep blue, almost peacock in intensity, and it had a soft incandescent glow to it, as if subtly illuminated from behind.

Magic hour, he said to himself, using the movie term that best described this time of day, which movie directors and cinematographers loved with such passion because it was especially effective on film.

When he reached the Champs-Elysees he stopped and gazed up that long, wide boulevard, his eyes focusing on the Arc de Triomphe in the distance. The tricolor, the French national flag, was suspended inside the arch from the top, and ingeniously illuminated with spotlights. It was blowing through the arch in the wind and looked unusually dramatic at this moment. Clee thought the arch was the most moving and magnificent sight he had seen in a very long time, but then the whole of Paris was particularly glorious right now. A large number of the impressive, ancient buildings had recently been carefully cleaned for the bicentennial celebrations taking place this year.

Turning left, Clee strolled down the Champs-Elysees, enjoying the walk after being cooped up in the office all day, he generally felt somewhat constrained when he was not out on assignment. But, whatever the circumstance, he enjoyed walking in Paris more than any other place in the world.

This was his city. He had first come here when he was eighteen and had fallen in love with it. At first sight. He had wanted to come to Paris because of Capa, who for so many years had lived in the French capital, where he had founded Magnum, his photo agency, in 1947 with "Chim" Seymour and Henri CartierBresson. Capa had been his hero since he was fifteen and growing up in New York. That year, 1965, he had read an article about the late photographer in a photography magazine, and ever after he had searched for anything and everything that had been written about Capa.

Clee had first started taking pictures when he was nine years old, using an inexpensive camera his parents had given him for his birthday.

Even when he was a child his pictures had been so extraordinary everyone had been amazed at his talent. His mother and father, and sisters Joan and Kelly, were his willing victims, and had allowed themselves to be photographed day and night doing every conceivable thing, and were his models on special family occasions.

Naturally gifted, sensitive, intelligent, and with an exacting eye, he was completely self-taught. Photography had been his passion, his whole life, when he was a teenager, nothing had changed much in subsequent years.

It was in 1968 that Clee had discovered Paris for himself, and instantly fallen under its seductive spell. That summer he had made up his mind that he was going to live there one day, and he had returned to New York determined to become a great photographer. He wanted to be another Robert Capa if that was humanly possible.

At the time Clee had been working in the darkroom of a portrait photographer in Manhattan, and he had stayed on for only another year.

Through a connection of his father's, he had managed to get a job on the New Xork Post as a junior photographer. Very rapidly he had made a name for himself on the paper, and he had never looked back.

During this period he had taken himself off to night school several evenings a week to study French, which he knew was an absolute necessity if he was ever to achieve his ambition and live in Paris. By the time he was twenty-one he was fluent in the language. He was also a far better photographer than some of the most seasoned veterans in the news business.

A staff job on The New rork Tines followed in 1971, but when he was twenty-three Clee left the paper. He had decided to become a roving photojournalist covering Europe, and worked as a freelancer for a number of American and English magazines.

Naturally, he had chosen to base himself in Paris, and two years later, when he was twenty-five, he had started Image. Banding together with two other photographers, he had hired three darkroom assistants, a secretary and Jean-Claude, who managed the agency. Michel Bellond, a Frenchman, and Steve Carvelli, an American of Italian descent, were his partners. Less than a year after Image had been founded, Peter Naylor from London be came the fourth and last photographer to join the group as a partner.

Right from the outset, Image had been successful, quickly garnering big international assignments, commanding high fees for the star photographers and soon winning a clutch of awards. After fourteen years it was still going strong with the four original partners and several staff photographers, along with additional darkroom assistants and secretarial help. And it had become one of the most prestigious photo agencies in the world.

Clee was well aware that his family had been dismayed, even distressed, when he had become an expatriate and settled in Paris. At the time, he was regretful of this, but he had never had any intention of changing his life. It was his own to live the way he saw fit. In the early years his parents and sisters had come to visit him frequently, and whenever he had gone back to New York he had spent as much time with them as he could. And he still did, whenever he was there.

Despite the fact that he had defied his father and had not gone to college, choosing instead to plunge into the world of the working photographer, they had remained truly good friends.

Second-generation Irish, with an analytical mind, a golden tongue and the gift of gab, his father, Edward Donovan, had been a successful, well-known attorney in Manhattan, and highly respected in the field of criminal law. He had died unexpectedly of a heart attack in 1981, and Clee, like his mother and sisters, had felt the loss acutely. Ted Donovan had been very much a family man, a devoted husband and a loving father.

To Clee's considerable relief, his mother had managed to cope with her grief rather well, and quite bravely, he thought, thanks in no small measure to his sisters' offspring. Both Joan and Kelly were married, and between them they had three daughters and one son. Martha Donovan's grandchildren had become her life, and she appeared to be at peace with herself these days.

Clee's thoughts stayed with his mother as he hailed a passing cab, got in and gave the driver his address. He must call her this weekend and let her know he would be in New York in late July, tell her that they would be seeing each other soon. This would please her as much as it pleased him. They had remained close over the years, and he knew she worried about him a great deal, especially when he was in a combat zone. This was only one of the many reasons he stayed in constant touch with her wherever he was.

Within a short time the cab was turning into the rue Jacob in the sixth arrondissement, that charming part of Paris known as the Latin Quarter.

It was here that Clee lived in a fourth-floor apartment of a handsome old building.

Clee sat on the sofa in the living room, the lights dim, the Mozart disc on the player turned low. He nursed a beer, lost to the world as he pondered his personal life.

Nicole Wells. He repeated her name to himself in the silence of his head. She had become a problem. A nagging problem, as it so happened.

For two years they had been copains--best buddies in the truest sense.

In Beijing he had saved her life. Inside himself, everything had changed.

He no longer thought of her simply as his best buddy. She was a woman he cared about as a w07nan. He had realized this when he had put his arms around her on the steps of the Martyrs' Monument in Tiananmen, after pushing her away from the approaching tanks. In fact, he was so filled with relief that she was safe, for a moment all of his strength had seemed to ebb out of him. Momentarily undone by this surge of unprecedented emotion, he had been incapable of saying a word. Nicky had thanked him, and he had turned her face to his and looked into those cool, appraising blue eyes. Suddenly he was brimming with feelings he did not fully understand.

Ever since leaving Hong Kong he had tried hard to shake off these feelings, but without much success. Off and on, they had continued to both confuse and trouble him, but he was aware of the reasons to some extent. He and Nicky had drawn closer and closer--in fact, had grown to love each other as a brother and sister. Now his emotions were engaged on a different level, and he was not sure what to do about it.

To begin with, he did not want to get seriously involved with any woman because he did not want to care so much for someone that he would feel bound to make a commitment, perhaps get married and eventually have children. For most of his adult life he had believed that this would be unfair, in view of the dangerous life he led as a war photographer.

And certainly he was not prepared to give up that life of travel and excitement. Besides, he enjoyed his freedom, he had no desire to be pinned down by marital obligations. If he was honest, he believed himself to be a bachelor at heart.

And then there was Nicky herself. She was perfect as a friend, but hardly the most suitable candidate for a lover. She was too complicated, too complex by far. And then there were the very obvious logistical problems--she lived an ocean away, and she had one of the biggest careers in American television. Hardly the right ingredients for a harmonious love affair.

Also, for a long time Clee had been convinced that Nicole Wells lived out her life on various battlegrounds--the battlegrounds of the wars she covered, the battlegrounds of network politics, the battleground of her damaged heart.

Furthermore, he could not help thinking that she was still in love with Charles Devereaux, as futile as that was, even though she had never made a single reference to him in the entire time he had known her.

This omission had always struck him as odd, inasmuch as they were best friends.

Arch Leverson had filled him in, however, and he had a fairly good picture of what had happened. In his opinion, and Arch's, Devereaux had behaved like a louse. But then brilliant and successful women such as Nicky were not necessarily discriminating when it came to men. Very frequently they picked the wrong ones, the bastards.

The clock on the white marble mantelpiece chimed nine and Clee sat up with a jolt, realizing that he had been thinking about Nicky ever since he returned from the office.

What the hell am I,going,g to do about he7

?

The question hung there for a while, and then all of a sudden it occurred to him that he did not have to do anything. She had absolutely no idea that he was harboring these strange new feelings for her. If he was smart and did not reveal them, she would be none the wiser. Very simply, he would go on treating her as a pal. This was the ideal solution, the only solution to his predicament. When he was with her he must behave exactly as he had in the past, and everything would be all right.

Vastly relieved that he had finally solved a problem that had hovered over him since Beijing, Clee got up and went to the kitchen, took another bottle of beer out of the refrigerator and opened it.

As he was crossing the foyer the phone began to ring and he hurried through the living room to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Clee, it's me."

"Nicky!" he exclaimed, and he was so happy to hear her voice that he felt an overwhelming rush of pleasure, which startled him. He sat down heavily in the nearest chair.

"What's happening down there in Provence?" he asked a bit lamely, glad that she was hundreds of miles away and couldn't see his reaction to her voice.

"It's very quiet here, but it's been wonderful for me these last few days," she said. "So sunny and peaceful, and you were right, I did need the rest. Clee, I love your farm. It's just beautiful, and so comfortable. You made a wonderful job of it."

When he did not immediately respond, she said quickly, "I hope I'm not calling at an inconvenient time."

"No, no," he assured her, finding his voice at last. After clearing his throat, he said, "And I'm glad you like it there, Nick. My sister Joan will be delighted, she's the one responsible for the farm. She restored and decorated it for me."

"And here I've been thinking you've got hidden talents," she said, and laughed her throaty laugh, which suddenly sounded very sexy to him.

He muttered, "How long are you planning to stay in Provence?"

"I don't know. Originally I thought a week, but maybe I'll stay on for a while. Clee, I was wondering if you might come down for a few days?

Keep me company. If you don't have anything better to do?"

"I'd love to, Nick, but I'm jammed. The agency's flooded with jobs."

"Oh."

"Look, I'm just in the middle of something, let me call you back later," he said. "Or will you be going to bed early?"

"No, that's fine. Talk to you later, then. Bye."

She hung up before he could say another word, and he felt rotten for being abrupt. He had been having erotic thoughts about Nicky, and he had begun to feel self-conscious, ill at ease on the phone with her.

She was a baffling woman in a variety of ways. When he first met her in Beirut two years ago, he had thought she was the classiest-looking woman he had ever seen--beautiful, elegant even in her battered safari suit, and very photogenic. At that time he had categorized her in his mind as a Grace Kelly for the eighties and nineties. She had that very poised, cool exterior that could be so off-putting to some men, but he was sure it concealed great warmth. Eventually he had come to believe that deep down she was romantic and passionate by nature, but that she had been so badly hurt by Devereaux she was frozen cold when it came to men.

None of this had mattered to him before because they were just friends and nothing more. And in any case, when he first met her he had been heavily involved with another woman and had not been interested in Nicky as a lover.

But it mattered now. Everything about her mattered now. But it mustn't. I have to care about her as a friend, and that's all, he cautioned himself.

Jumping up, Clee went back to the kitchen, where he tore a piece off the fresh baguette on the table, and made himself a sandwich.

Then he paced restlessly around the kitchen, munching on the sandwich and taking an occasional swig from the bottle of beer.

And though he tried his utmost to put her out of his mind, his thoughts continued to turn on Nicky Wells.

At ten o'clock he called her back, and went out of his way to sound warm and friendly. They chatted for about twenty minutes, he told her about Marc Villier and the interview planned for the following morning, they discussed his trip to the States for Life magazine. And, as they usually did, they touched on the subject of Yoyo, of whom there was still no news.

Just before he said good-bye, Clee murmured, "I'm sorry I can't come down to the farm, Nick. There's nothing I'd like better than a few days in the sun, a chance to relax with you. But duty calls, I've just got too much work."

"Please don't worry about it, Clee," she said pleasantly.

"Honestly, I do understand."

As he hung up he was not so sure that he did.

Clee sat for a moment reflecting, with his hand resting on the phone.

He had nothing planned for the next few days other than the meeting with Villier tomorrow and the date with Mel on Saturday night. He could in fact go down to Provence for a long weekend.

He sighed as he thought of Mel. He was forever canceling dates with her for one reason or another, and that was damned unfair of him.

Still, if nothing else, he supposed this told him something important about the status of his relationship with her. She was lovely, but his feelings for her were not particularly intense.

If he was truthful, he had to admit he was only mildly fond of Melanie Lowe, and this would never change.

His thoughts veered back to Provence. There was no real reason why he could not go down there. Not true. There was an excellent reason.

Nicky Wells.

He was also forgetting his decision of a short while ago--to keep his relationship with Nicky exactly the way it had been from their first meeting, platonic. He had absolutely no intention of changing that.

Nor did he have any intention of going to the farm this weekend. Why expose himself when he felt vulnerable to her at present? Surely it was better to get a grip on his feelings, wait for them to change, to settle down before he saw her again.

He would be with Mel for the weekend. And for as long as they both wished to continue their pleasant liaison. Mel suited him fine. She was sweet and loving and undemanding. Furthermore, he liked being with her, enjoyed her wry sense of humor, her easygoing ways and her brightness.

And Nicky would remain his comrade-in-arms with whom he shared so much on an entirely different level. She was ideal to have as his best buddy, and he knew he must never do anything to jeopardize their friendship, which he cherished.

What Guillaume told you is true, Mademoiselle Nicky," Amelie said, nodding her head several times for emphasis. "Soon it will be scorching hot. Unbearable. This is not the day to go to Arles." As she finished speaking, Amelie squinted up at the sky and repeated, "Scorching, oui."

Nicky tilted her head, following Amelie's gaze. The sky was so vividly blue it almost hurt her eyes and she blinked. She put on her sunglasses.

"If you think I shouldn't go, then I won't," she murmured, deeming it best to trust the couple's judgment. Amelie and Guillaume were wise in the ways of the Provencal land and the weather, and in the week she had been staying here they had not been wrong in anything they had told her about the area.

"Too hot to go tramping the streets of the city," Amelie went on, waving her hand dismissively. "Better to be here. Sit under the trees in the shade. Swim in the pool. Stay cool. That is the best thing on a day like this, Mademoiselle Nicky."

"Then that's what I'll do, Amelie." Nicky smiled at her and added, "Thanks for your good advice. I appreciate it."

It was eight o'clock on Friday morning. The two women were standing in the middle of the lawn that stretched from the edge of the outdoor dining terrace on one side of the house to the pool area at the bottom of the garden. The sun was shining brilliantly in that azure sky of dazzling clarity, and the air was already vibrating with intense heat.

Nothing moved, not a blade of grass nor a single leaf stirred, and even the birds were curiously silent this morning as they took refuge in the dark green branches of the trees.

Amelie straightened her crisp white apron, peered at Nicky and asked, "What would you like for lunch?"

Nicky burst out laughing. "Amelie! I've only just had breakfast!

You're going to have to stop feeding me in this way. I'm beginning to feel like a duck being force-fed--fattened up forfoiegras." Shaking her head, Amelie exclaimed, "But, Mademoiselle Nicky, you are too thin!" Opening her arms wide, Amelie threw them around her solid Provencal body and hugged herself. Then she winked and announced, "A man likes something to hold on to, n'est-ce pas? That is my opinion."

"Perhaps you're right," Nicky said, laughing. "But please don't make anything too heavy for lunch. It's much too hot to eat."

"I will prepare the perfect lunch for the weather," Amelie reassured her. "Yesterday Guillaume bought wonderful melons in the village, from Cavaillon. They are the best in the whole of France, mademoiselle. So sweet, like honey. Mmmm." Amelie kissed her fingertips, and went on,

"So you will commence with the chilled melon. Then you will have a simple salade ni,coise, and for dessert, vanilla ice cream."

"Thank you, it sounds delicious. But no ice cream, Amelie, iced tea instead."

"As you say, Mademoiselle Nicky." Amelie flashed her a warm smile.

"Excuse me, I must go to my kitchen. So much to do. And I must also think about your dinner for tonight. Nothing fattening, no." And so saying she hurried up the steps leading to the terrace and bustled into the farmhouse.

Amused, Nicky looked after her, shaking her head. Amelie seemed to be determined to put some flesh on her bones whatever it took.

Turning, Nicky strolled over to the narrow flagged path cutting through the long stretch of sloping green lawn and headed down to the pool area located at the very tip of the garden. This had been skillfully designed to flow into the landscape and it had a lovely natural look to it. The pool was set in a rectangle of lawn, and only a few yards away a cluster of trees formed a small copse, where flowers had been randomly planted to make them look as if they were growing wild.

Under these trees Guillaume had arranged several chaises, oldfashioned deck chairs and low occasional tables, as he did every morning. Nicky had discovered that this was the coolest spot in the garden, frequently, a light breeze rustled through the trees, and it was her favorite place for reading.

She smiled inwardly as she walked toward the copse. Amelie had been fussing and mothering her all week long, and nothing was too much trouble for her or Guillaume. In consequence, she felt rested and spoiled, but she was also beginning to grow just a little bored after a week here alone.

Nicky had said this to her mother last night, when she had called her in New York. Her mother had exclaimed, "Good Lord, darling, how can you be bored in Provence! There's so much to see and do.

Besides, it's about time you stayed put for a moment or two. If only to catch your breath. You're never still--forever rushing around the world in search of stories."

Flabbergasted, Nicky had retorted, "Mother, how can you of all people say such a thing! You were doing exactly the same as I when you were my age. Not only that, you had me in tow."

Her mother had had the grace to laugh. "Touche' But to tell the truth, darling, your father and I do wish you would slow down a bit. For the past ten years you've been covering wars and uprisings and revolutions, been in the thick of all kinds of catastrophic events, in every corner of the globe. And when I look back, I can't help but shudder to think what you've been through, the risks you've taken...." Her mother had stopped at this juncture in the conversation, and there had been a little pause before Nicky had asked softly, "Mom, are you trying to say that you and Dad want me to stop being a war correspondent?"

Her mother had been quick to deny this. "Of course not, your father and I would never interfere with your life or your career.

But I know it must get wearying for you. And it is dangerous."

Nicky had laughed dismissively. "Don't forget, Mother, I have a guardian angel."

Elise Wells had chosen to ignore this remark and suggested that Nicky return home to New York for the remainder of her vacation if she was tired of France. "You can always join us in Connecticut, if you wish.

Your father and I are going to stay at the house for the rest of the summer, and you know how much we adore having you with us."

They had chatted about the idea of a visit for several minutes, and Nicky had agreed to spend a few days in the country with her parents when she got back to the States.

They were close, the three of them, and they had been for as long as Nicky could remember. She was an only child, and sometimes she felt the responsibility of being one. An only child was expected to excel, since parents generally centered their hopes and dreams in that one child.

Her parents were eminently fair and had never made unreasonable demands on her. She loved them as much as they loved her, they were her champions, her chief supporters in everything she did.

They had been especially wonderful to her through the entire Charles Devereaux crisis.

Immediately she pushed the thought of Charles away. She had no wish to remember someone who had caused her pain, however long ago that was.

Reaching the pool area, Nicky put her book down on one of the tables, took off the loose cotton shirt she was wearing over her black bikini and settled on a chaise.

Diffused sunlight trickled through the cool green canopy of leafy branches above her head, and she stretched out her long legs, closed her eyes and for a while drifted with her thoughts, which were still focused on her parents. She knew her mother and father wondered why she had not had a serious involvement with a man since Devereaux, and that at one time they had even believed her to be hung up on him. But she had explained that she was not, and she had spoken the truth. The reason why there was no special man in her life was very simple really.

She hadn't met anyone who had genuinely interested her in the past two and a half years, at least not for a long-term relationship.

One day, she thought, one day my prince will come. When I'm least expecting it. And no doubt he'll knock me for a loop. That was the way it was supposed to be, wasn't it? Wobbly knees, palpitating heart and all that stuff. She laughed to herself.

In the meantime, she wasn't unhappy with her life. She had a successful career and she loved her work, whenever she wanted it, there was a family life with her parents, and she had several close girlfriends with whom she shared a great deal. And then there was her friend Cleeland Donovan. He was caring and protective, and she treasured his friendship.

Suddenly Nicky realized how disappointed she was that Clee had not been able to come down for the weekend. It would have been nice to see him, she would have enjoyed his company in these peaceful surroundings.

Usually when they were together they were in a combat zone or some other trouble spot in the world. At those times they were under immense pressure, intensely involved in what they were doing, scrambling to do their work properly, to get the story, usually under the most adverse circumstances--they also had to fight the horror of what they were witnessing, plus the fear, which never failed to surface at some point.

What a lovely change it would have been if they could have relaxed together and had some fun this weekend. But he could not get away, or did not want to, or was otherwise engaged, and that was that.

Now that she thought about it, spending a few days with her mother and father in New Milford was a rather appealing idea. If she left the farm on Monday morning, went to Marseilles and then directly on to Paris, she could take the Concorde to New York on Tuesday morning, and drive up to Connecticut on Wednesday afternoon. She would speak to Guillaume later about ordering a car and have the driver Etienne come and get her.

Having made this decision, Nicky pulled her reading glasses out of the pocket of her shirt and picked up her book. It was Richard Whelan's biography of Robert Capa, which she had found in the library upstairs, and it made fascinating reading. From the moment she started it she had understood why Clee had always been so intrigued by Capa.

Nicky began to read and was soon completely absorbed in Capa's life story. An hour slipped by, and then another.

In the middle of the morning Amelie appeared, sailing down the garden path carrying a tray.

"Eh, voila!" she cried, standing next to Nicky's chaise. "I have made fresh lemonade for you, I know how much you enjoy it, mademoiselle."

She poured a glass from the jug.

"Thank you, Amelie," Nicky said, taking it from her. "This is just what I need. It's getting hotter by the minute out here."

"Oui. The sun can be dangerous, faites attention, " the housekeeper cautioned and hurried back to the farmhouse.

Nicky looked up from her book at the exact moment that Clee reached the middle of the garden path leading down to the pool.

He stood perfectly still, smiling at her, and after a second, Nicky's face broke into a delighted smile. She threw her book down and leaped to her feet.

"Clee! How did you get here!" she cried and ran toward him.

Throwing her arms around him, she hugged him. He hugged her back, and then they walked back to the pool area.

"How did you manage to get away?" she asked, looking up at him, her smile radiant.

"Jean-Claude reshuffled the assignments, gave my jobs to the other guys," Clee lied. "He thought I looked tired, decided I needed a rest.

So I took the last flight from Paris to Marseilles yesterday. When I arrived it was too late to start driving here, and anyway I didn't want to disturb the household at that late hour, so I stayed at a hotel in Marseilles. Etienne drove me up this morning."

"I'm so glad! It's wonderful to see you!" Nicky said, her enthusiasm bubbling up. "I was getting a bit lonely."

He looked at her and nodded, but did not say a word.

Nicky continued, "I almost drove to Arles today, but Amelie persuaded me to stay here because of the heat--" Abruptly she broke off and shook her head as the truth dawned on her. "She knew you were coming.

That's the reason why she went on and on about the weather--said it was far too hot to go into the city."

"As a matter of fact, she was right about the weather, it is murderous in the cities at this time of year, much worse than out here," Clee said. "But yes, she did know I was coming. I told her not to tell you, when I spoke to her yesterday. I wanted to surprise you."

"Well, you succeeded!" She laughed as she flopped down on the chaise and stared up at him. "Why don't you take your clothes off?"

Startled, he gaped at her, then laughed. "What?"

"You look so hot, I mean. Don't you think you'd be more comfortable in swimming trunks?"

"Yes. Yes, of course, I'll go and change. What I need after that long drive is a swim in the pool and a glass of ice-cold champagne. I'll be back in a minute, with a bottle of Dom Perignon." think of it, Nick, I was only four years old when Capa died in Vietnam during the French Indochina war," Clee said and paused, staring at her for a long moment.

Then he added quietly, "He's the only person I've ever really missed not knowing."

Nicky made no comment.

Clee went on in the same quiet voice, "I just wish I'd met him, been a friend. I really do miss not having known him. Do you understand what I mean?" He laughed a bit self-consciously and muttered, "I bet you think I'm nuts."

"No, you've explained it very well. It's a kind of sadness inside, a feeling of regret that you were born too late to meet someone you consider somehow very meaningful to you, even though your lives never crossed."

"Yes."

"Quite aside from being a remarkable photographer, Capa was obviously a fascinating man, by all accounts," Nicky continued.

"In the biography I've been reading, the photographer Eve Arnold is quoted as saying Capa had charm and grace and a lightness, that when he came into a room it was as if a light had been turned on. She said you wanted to be near him, that you wanted to be part of that ebullience, part of that zest. He had enormous .

. . charisma. I think that's the word for it, Clee. The only word, actually."

"I remember reading that myself. Also there's a wonderful description of Capa by Irwin Shaw that was also quoted in Whelan's biography. " "Yes, I read it, too." Nicky smiled at him. "Capa must have seemed so glamorous to you when you were growing up, and his life must have seemed very adventurous and exciting."

'LHe did, it did," Clee admitted. "But actually, I'd wanted to get into combat to take war photos long before I'd ever heard of Robert Capa. Still, he was my inspiration in so many different ways." Clee shifted in the chair, crossed his legs and after a moment asked, "When did you decide you wanted to be a war correspondent?"

"When I was little, same as you. I was emulating my father, I suppose ."

"Do you think that's really why you do it? I mean now, today, after all these years?"

"Oh no, not anymore. I do what I do because I want to report on history in the making. I want to witness events, to report on them as accurately and as truthfully as I can. I want to bring the news to the people--and with as much integrity as possible."

"I think our reasons are much the same. I just hope my pictures have as much integrity as your newscasts."

"They do." Nicky looked at him probingly. "Do you think you'll ever give it up?"

"I doubt it." Clee shrugged, then grinned at her. "Well, maybe one day, when I'm too old to dodge the bullets. And what about you?"

"I feel the same. It's funny about the fear, isn't it? And how alike we are in that respect. You and I never seem to experience the fear until after the action is over. Do you think all journalists are the same?"

"No, I don't. Some feel the tear at the time they're working, others are like us--get knocked out by it afterward. Joe Glass of the London Sunday Times once told me when we were in Lebanon together that he suffers immense fatigue immediately after he's had a very frightening experience in a war zone. You and I are lucky in a sense, Nick, because our emotions don't close in on us until much, much later."

"You take too many risks on the battlefield, Clee."

"Calculated risks. Anyway, you're exactly the same."

"No, not really. I'm much more cautious than you, despite what you and Arch think."

"I should hope you are."

A thoughtful expression settled on Nicky's face, and after a moment, she said slowly, "We broke the golden rule in Beijing, didn't we, Clee?"

"What do you mean?" His brows puckered, he was mystified.

"We became involved with Yoyo. That has such inherent dangers, we should never let our emotions become engaged with a subject when we're covering a story. We have to remain a little aloof, a bit removed, to do our job. We have to keep a proper perspective."

"Sometimes it's pretty tough not to get involved," Clee responded quickly. "None of us are that hard-boiled, are we? And listen, Arch and the guys felt exactly the same as we did about Yoyo. How could you not get involved with the kid, he's something else, really special, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes, that's true."

Nicky leaned against the sofa and looked across at Clee. There was a small silence before she asked softly, "What do you think happened to him? You don't think he's . . . dead, do you, Clee?"

"No, I don't. I have a feeling Yoyo is hiding out, that he went underground. I've always said that to you, and I can only reiterate it now. You'll see, he'll turn up, and probably sooner than we think."

"You're not just saying that to make me feel better, are you?" she said focusing her eyes steadily on his.

"No, I'm not," he said adamantly. He leaned forward, intent on what he had to say to her. "Yoyo is bright, enterprising, resourceful. He'll make it out of China, I feel very strongly about this--I really do have a lot of faith in him."

Clee rose and went to the door of the library, where they were sitting.

"I want to show you something. I'll be back in a minute.

" While Clee was gone, Nicky closed her eyes, thinking of Yoyo.

Clee had spoken with such conviction, she had to believe that he was correct in his assessment of what had happened to the boy.

She had no alternative, she must go on hoping that he would surface eventually, either in New York or Paris or Hong Kong.

Practically the last thing she had said to him was that if he arrived in the British Crown Colony and needed help, he was to telephone one of them immediately. Person to person collect. She had promised Yoyo that she or Clee or Arch would take it from there, would get him out of Hong Kong no matter what.

Opening her eyes, Nicky sat up and reached for her glass, took a sip.

Knowing it was futile to worry, she put thoughts of Yoyo at the back of her mind.

She glanced around, taking in the peacefulness of the room, and understood why it was Clee's favorite. It had also become hers.

Its tranquillity acted as a balm to her troubled spirits.

Decorated throughout in pale colors, primarily white and cream with touches of melon and terra-cotta, it was filled with numerous bowls of flowers and tall pots of leafy branches.

Hundreds of books filled the shelves soaring to the ceiling, and there were magazines and big art books arranged on various tables. Some of Clee's photographs, obviously those he liked the most, were framed on the walls, and hanging above the gargantuan stone fireplace was a collection of ethereal watercolors of the area done by a local artist.

With the emphasis on comfort, it was a casual room, designed for relaxing, reading, listening to music, and watching television and films.

Today the weather had been extremely hot again, oppressively so.

Fortunately, the two large fans on the ceiling--Casablanca fans she called them--circulated the air, and now that the sun had slunk off to the west the atmosphere was pleasant. Outside the windows the summer light was rapidly fading, the sky turning a deeper blue as night fell.

It was almost eight-thirty on Sunday evening, earlier, Clee had suggested that they have a picnic in the library and watch a video of an old movie later, and she had agreed.

It seemed to Nicky that the weekend had passed in the blink of an eye.

She and Clee had puttered around the farm on Friday after his unexpected arrival, chatting, laughing, reminiscing and catching up with each other's news. As Clee had pointed out to her on Friday evening, in the two years they had known each other this was the first time they had ever had a chance to relax together, to talk in the way they had that day--and about so many diverse things.

On Saturday, because it was so much cooler, Clee had driven her to Arles.

"But don't expect to see many of van Gogh's old haunts," he had warned her on the way there. "There's not much left that's associated with the time he spent in Provence. Even the house he shared with Gauguin has been torn down. But there is the Allee des Sarcophages, which he painted so wonderfully and with such vibrancy. We can go and see that.

And of course there are the fields and fields of sunflowers where he used to go and pick bunches for his still lifes. They should be in full bloom now."

Arles, as Nicky had discovered, was a captivating place, very ancient, almost otherworldly in a certain sense. Clee had taken her sightseeing through the old city and she had been fascinated.

Her father had always said she made a good tourist, with her curious mind and investigative nature, her desire to know about everything.

The old city was filled with crumbling Roman ruins juxtaposed against strong medieval stonework, and there were numerous monuments and museums, and a lot of quaint things to see. She had been in her element, and Clee had seemed pleased she was enjoying herself so much.

After strolling for several hours through the old city, with its ramparts and air of antiquity, they had gone for a late lunch at a charming bistro Clee obviously knew well. He was greeted with affection and enthusiasm by Madame Yvonne and Monsieur Louis, the owners, who had given them the best table in the house, according to Clee. He had ordered for them both, selecting various local dishes, telling her she would love them and explaining each one to her. He had also insisted she join him in a pastis, the popular local drink, an apeetif that tasted of aniseed and turned milky in color when mixed with the mandatory splash of water.

After lunch they had wandered around the newer part of Arles, window-shopping mostly, but Nicky had bought a handful of postcards to send off to Arch, her crew and friends in New York.

As she pored over the cards in the bookstore Clee had selected a dozen or so magazines and a stack of newspapers, and then they had meandered back to the car.

It was late afternoon when they had set offfor the farm, driving along at a leisurely pace. Arriving at the house, they had had icy champagne on the terrace and, a little later, a light supper.

This had been lovingly prepared by Amelie and served in the garden.

Amelie and Guillaume had departed early this morning to go to the wedding of a niece in Marseilles. As much as Nicky appreciated Amelie, she was glad to have a respite from all the meals, delicious and tempting though they were. Clee had not made any comment when she had refused the cold chicken, fish, vegetables and various other dishes Amelie had prepared in advance for their lunch. Instead, she had made herself a small tomato salad, which she had eaten with a chunk torn from a fresh baguette.

Taking another sip of her drink, Nicky reflected on the day. She and Clee had done absolutely nothing, mostly because of the intense heat.

In the morning they had taken it easy under the trees near the pool, reading magazines and newspapers, in the afternoon they had come up here to the library to listen to Kiri Te Kanawa's rendition of arias from Tosca, performed with the National Philharmonic Orchestra and conducted by Sir Georg Solu.

Nicky had curled up on one of the big, squashy sofas, closed her eyes and drifted off into another world, transported by Puccini's music and Dame Kiri's silvery voice. Yes, she reflected, it has been a special day, and in so many ways.

The door opened and Clee entered carrying two large portfolios.

He strode over to the long library table, and said, "I haven't told you--but I'm planning a photographic book on Beijing, on Tiananmen.

I'd like to show you some of the pictures."

"Oh, Clee, I'd love to see them," she exclaimed, jumping up and joining him at the table.

He pushed aside a pile of magazines, took the photographs out of the first portfolio and spread them out on the table. The collection was a mixture of color and black-and-white.

The pictures were so powerful, had such a sense of immediacy, that Nicky caught her breath, instantly she was carried back to Tiananmen Square. Those tense and turbulent days leading up to the bloody massacre at the beginning of the month were suddenly vividly alive again.

She recognized how accurate Clee's eye was. He had taken very direct and candid photographs of people and events. Each shot had a feeling of intimacy and the people looked so vital.

"These are extraordinary, Clee," Nicky said with sincere admiration.

"They're so powerful, and extremely moving."

Her words brought a quick, pleased smile to his face, and he took another batch out of the second portfolio. "These are more personal," he explained, lining them up, watching her, waiting for her reaction.

Nicky found herself looking down at pictures Clee had taken of her alone in Tiananmen Square and in other parts of Beijing. Some were with Arch and her crew, and others were with Yoyo or with Yoyo and Mai.

There were additional shots of Yoyo with the other student leaders, and with Mai, and all of the backgrounds were so familiar to her they brought a lump to her throat, the Martyrs' Monument, the tent encampment, the Goddess of Democracy, Changan Avenue.

"Oh, Clee, they're stunning! That old cliche about one photograph saying more than a thousand words is true, isn't it?"

"I guess so," he said with a shrug of his broad shoulders, and he brought out the last set of photographs. As she stood staring at them she was overcome by a sudden flood of memories. Across the vast rectangle of stone that was Tiananmen Square came the inexorable flow of tanks and armored personnel carriers. Down Changan Avenue marched the implacable, cold-faced soldiers, carrying machine guns that meant death for their own people.

Standing at the barricades, defiant and angry, were the ordinary citizens of Beijing, shaking their fists at the People's Liberation

Army, and desperately trying to save the lives of the students--the children of China. And blowing in the wind were the giant white banners bearing the students' slogans of democracy and freedom written boldly in bright red paint the color of blood.

Finally Nicky's eyes settled on the pictures of the fallen students, those who had been shot or crushed by the tanks, who lay dead or dying in pools of their own blood in the streets. All at once she could smell the cordite again, hear the sharp crack of rifles and the ominous rumble of tanks rolling across cold stone, the screams of terror, a tremor ran through her.

Nicky was so moved by the breathtaking images Clee had captured on film that tears sprang to her eyes and she brought her hand up to her mouth.

She turned to him but discovered she was unable to speak.

Seeing the tears, he reached out for her and pulled her to him.

"Don't be upset," he began in a faltering voice.

He had been so conscious of her the entire weekend, and never more than today. He knew it was a mistake to take her in his arms in this way.

Her perfume was fragrant in his nostrils, her body warm and vibrantly alive against his.

Reluctantly he let go of her. Nicky had never looked so lovely to him.

Her skin was a golden brown, her blond hair sun-streaked after the week in Provence, and her eyes seemed bluer than ever in her bronzed face.

It took all his self-control not to reach out for her again.

She said, "That's what you want, isn't it?"

"What?" he asked, startled, and wondered if she had just read his mind.

"For me to be upset--for everyone who looks at these pictures to be upset. And to be touched and moved and appalled and horrified and angered."

"I suppose so, yes," he admitted.

"They will be. The photographs are so stunning, I feel as if I've been kicked in the stomach. The book is going to be sensational."

"I hope so, darling." He held his breath. The word "darling" had popped out by accident, but if she had noticed this slip of the tongue she did not show it. In fact, she was displaying no reaction whatsoever.