Over the next few days, when thinking about the meeting in New Jersey, she felt intrigued, rather than affronted. Her knowledge of European history made her feel that the proposition, made she thought with subtlety and taste, had a meaningful significance about it.
The whole event put her in mind of the role of women who had
been in a position of great influence and power in the past. Of queens like Britain’s Elizabeth I and Scotland’s Mary plus French, Spanish, and other noblewomen who according to the history books did or did not marry in order to secure alliances between warring nations or to make peace.
These women hadn’t simply responded to their own needs or hormonal yearnings but had behaved in a way that was judged to be for the common good or for the benefit of their family.
Jackie wondered, Was it so stupid to think of the union of two people in this way? Was it too cynical a view to see it like any other contract, a deal, one designed to achieve greater security for her country? If she proceeded, it could only work effectively if they were married. Not only would it be
unthinkable
for a woman in her position to settle for the role of mistress, her family and the nation would be horrified. For the relationship to be any use to the agency it would have to be public, be open. Her seniority, her dominion over Onassis-owned land, would have to be unquestioned. Only then could the CIA utilize the island for its own purposes.
Amid these thoughts she derived great satisfaction from knowing that a project as substantial as this would, at the very least, have needed approval from the top. It was entirely possible that the president, having been one of the earliest to see her potential, might have thought it up himself.
For a day or two she daydreamed about life in Greece, life with Onassis, but all this stopped when soon after Dr. King’s funeral, the newspapers began running stories about the slain man’s private life. Various reports claimed that he was frequently unfaithful. These were followed up by more articles about his infidelities, including information that some of his adulterous behavior had been recorded by bugs planted by the FBI.
As she penned further sympathetic letters to Coretta King, Jackie felt that history was repeating itself.
She upped the number of therapy sessions with David Goadshem when newspaper stories about the infidelities of one assassi
nated leader began to openly refer to the identical conduct of an earlier one.
America was disinterring its leaders in the nastiest way.
Jackie started to avoid crowds. She didn’t want to place herself within sight of their knowing looks. It didn’t matter whether they were the gawkers who based themselves outside her home, the photographers, stalkers equipped with telephoto lenses, the audience at the ballet or the clientele at Le Pavillon. Stuck inside her luxurious prison she felt even more isolated than she had three and a half years ago when the Marilyn stories emerged.
She felt bitter.
Murderers and thieves worked their sentences, paid their dues, and were free. Not her, she would never feel secure or safe again.
For the spring vacation she had arranged to go and see her in-laws in Hyannisport. As she watched her children enjoy their Easter egg hunt, she relaxed a little. This at least was one place where no word against her late husband would be heard.
In the private world of the Kennedy compound they walked, picnicked, and bicycled free of attention. This was what she now needed, to be part of a family of her own and to have somewhere safe and secure where she would be under no scrutiny. The most photographed woman in the world wanted to be out of the picture.
She thought, Why not do my patriotic duty?
Why not make life easy? Well, at least, why not give it a chance?
Onassis, whom she had seen at several private parties since the New Year, had been away on business in Europe for most of the time that he had been under CIA surveillance.
He had been excited when she called and mentioned that she had often told her children what a wonderful time she had had on his boat. Without demur he asked if it would be possible for the three of them to come to visit him in Greece.
She told him they would travel as soon as the summer vacation began in June.
Busy on deals in Saudi and Paris, he nonetheless threw himself into planning for the visit.
Toys were ordered for the children, an easel, fresh watercolor and oil paints, and an artistic tutor were acquired for Jackie, not to mention the most proficient yoga teacher from Bombay and a new Swedish masseuse.
Knowing that the family liked Italian food, he ordered a wooden pizza oven to be built and asked his chefs to work on their Italian recipes. More snapdragons and mature jasmine plants, both of which would blossom at the correct time, were planted near the house.
In his enthusiasm he cut a business trip to South America short and flew up to New York to attend a dinner with mutual friends, but Jackie refused to allow him to accompany her to 1040.
Onassis was at first nonplussed. Having begun his charm offensive when Jackie first came to Skorpios while she was recuperating after baby Patrick’s death, he had been well satisfied with his progress over the New Year. Then he realized that he had been behaving like a simpleton. A connoisseur of women, he knew that they were most impressed by time and attention. Foolishly he realized that he had lavished neither on Jackie. In four weeks’ time, during the second week of June, Jackie would be on his boat. Now was the time to apply his full concentration to the subject.
With no idea that the CIA was bent on matchmaking, he set out to woo her. Amid groups of friends they went to the ballet, the opera, charity events at the Metropolitan Museum, the Natural History Museum, and the restaurants and nightclubs of the Upper East Side.
But one place they never got to was bed.
She had to admit that Ari, with his constant tan and dark mischievous eyes, had a Continental charm that reminded her of her father. Earthy and frank, he was glamorously dominating, imposingly clever, an expert on the paucity of style in modern life and the lore of the ancient Greeks and the early gods. He could even make her laugh.
But, could she love him? Could she live with him?
They enjoyed flirting. When he confided that his full name was
Aristotelis, she called him “Telis” for short. In front of other people he would whisper sexy endearments in French. She began to request hostesses whom she trusted to seat him next to her. Until she knew how she felt this was as far as she would go. She watched as film stars, models, and actresses threw themselves at him. She would make him wait. She was going to be no pushover.
The CIA agents, covertly watching, reported every date faithfully and, insofar as they could, in full. Harry Blackstone passed their reports on to the president and the general.
Whenever these appeared there would be instant telephonic communication between Washington, Texas, and Langley. At the beginning the three of them acted as if they were the nervous mother of an old maid, but as May progressed they became disheartened.
As the president said, “Plato was a Greek, but a platonic relationship is not what a guy like Onassis is looking for.”
Onassis himself was on the point of giving up. The situation was impossible. Three times he had tried to come upstairs with her at the end of the evening. He had been charming but direct.
“Jackie, how can we get to know each other if there is always a dinosaur”—they had just been to the Natural History Museum—“or a mummy between us?” The evening before they had been to a charitable debutante cotillion.
Each time she had sweetly turned him down.
She had tried to assure him that it was not personal, that she was just being consistent with her rules of widowhood in the Jackie fishbowl. Because reporters and fans patrolled outside her front door seven days a week, often watching her go out and then waiting for her return, she was very careful about whom she entertained. Any well-known man, especially if he was alone, seen entering and leaving at night would lead to speculation, even if he was visiting someone else in the building.
She tried to explain to him that there was already too much gossip surrounding her, her every move, her every purchase. She was nervous of fueling more.
“The children don’t need to see any more Kennedy headlines. So
I very rarely entertain a man on his own, especially a famous one like you,” she said, smiling.
There was silence for a minute.
Ever the gambler, the Greek stretched his arms wide and said, “Okay, I guess I am not such an egotist that I can’t take a hint. You don’t know how rare this is for me. Jackie, I think you are fabulous, but I give up.”
She didn’t believe he would. She knew that he had been attracted to her ever since her first cruise on the
Christina
.
Three days went by without a phone call and she realized that he was serious and that, surprisingly, she was missing him.
It must be feasible to arrange things so that they could have some privacy in her hometown. Without telling him, she arranged to meet a friend, a woman, for drinks at the Pierre Hotel, where he had a permanent suite.
Would it be possible for her to slip into his suite from time to time?
Ten seconds in the lobby and she realized that the Jackie syndrome would make this impossible. The white noise of recognition crackled around her; couples checking in, other guests walking through to dinner or the bar, were transfixed.
Grabbing her pal, she fled to an uptown restaurant that could handle her.
It was a regular visit to the psychoanalyst that gave her the inspiration.
She telephoned Onassis. She was relieved when his office told her to hang on even if it might take a long time. She deduced from this that they had orders to put her through to their boss wherever he was and whenever she rang. He was definitely still interested.
He was on his boat. “At peace in the harbor at Hydra, right in the middle of a smooth, sun-filled sea,” he told her.
Wasn’t this what she had thought she wanted when she had been at her in-laws’ at Easter?
Breathlessly she asked him, “Telis, do you still want me?”
The silence of surprise and then the whoop at the other end told
her everything. She continued. “Rent us something in Midtown. Something in an anonymous block, small and simple, just for us.” Quickly, her voice got breathier. “Soon.”
Within days he found a place on East Sixty-fourth Street. Antiques, lamps, mirrors, and a miniature indoor garden were installed.
His men, working quietly so as not to annoy the neighbors, labored for forty-eight hours. There were paintings by Picasso and Rousseau, drawings by da Vinci and Michelangelo.
Flowers were flown in from all over the world, calla lilies, stephanotis, roses, and mimosa.
In the middle of Manhattan he created an arbor in which he was going to seduce the biggest prize America had to offer.
O
n the drive downtown Jackie thought about how to deal with Ari. He might think that sex was inevitable to night but until she decided exactly what she wanted from this relationship she must continue to keep him waiting. At sixty-two he was a man in a hurry; it would have been years since he had bothered to spend time with a woman he desired, instead of just showering her with money. To do what the general wanted she had to ensure that the Greek proposed to her.
“Sorry, Telis,” she breathed to herself, “I’m going to have to continue to be difficult.”
Meanwhile Ari was also expending thought on his seduction technique.
I don’t want this to take forever, he thought, so whatever happens to night must be different, special. He looked in the mirror and was glad his time on the boat had given him a tan. He practiced one or two of his stories.
Ari decided they would speak French in their love nest. Wrapped tightly around a French word, the slight rasp in his voice sounded sexier to him. Jackie had told him she liked the way foreigners
spoke; she found so many of her guests had enticing accents. But he also knew that women responded to sound like men reacted to sight. He was betting that his intonation of a language that needed the
r
’s to roll and the vowels to growl could penetrate the few walls that her brain might have erected against foreigners. Also, he knew that his English was not perfect. Remove her mother tongue, he thought, and I will be on a level playing field with all of her other suitors.
Under her trench coat she wore her newest, most enticing cocktail dress. Beneath the boned bodice in aquamarine silk there was room for little underneath. She must not get carried away. This wasn’t as simple as just having some fun. Onassis might want her publicly on his arm but for how long? He had enjoyed a long affair with Maria Callas, the opera star, yet they had never married. He already had a family. Why would he want her as anything more than another conquest to brag about?
So far she had only taken a first, timorous step toward becoming the Greek’s secret mistress. If they were ever discovered, her family and the nation would not understand.
She would gaze at the drawings of Skorpios and wonder, Could she marry him? Could she live with him? In their jet-set world they would probably have to spend no more than six months a year with one another, but could she cope with that?
She had always been a brilliant flirt. To night she would learn how to tease.
When he was in town she spent every night with him. If they needed to attend long prearranged events alone, they would meet up afterward. If he was at the apartment first she would find him practicing the tango or marveling at the latest consignment of flowers.
Work was never allowed to interfere. No papers, no phone calls, no telegrams. Every time they met he would have something for her.
If he had flown in from Athens it would be chokers of gold and matching rings and bangles from the Greek jeweler Lalaounis. If he
had arrived from Paris it might be an Art Deco diamond brooch from Cartier that he picked up on his way to Orly Airport. If he had flown in from Turkey he would produce necklaces embellished with coins of such antiquity they were barely legible. Sometimes he would simply pop into Harry Winston’s for something beautiful.
At first, he simply handed all these to her in their magnificent boxes. But as their heavy petting roused him to the heights of sexual frustration, he cunningly placed the items she loved in his trouser pockets or up his shirtsleeve. He enjoyed the hunt, and so did she.
He felt like a teenager in love and the more she denied him full sex, the more he wanted her.
They laughed a lot in that apartment. He always had the best gossip. Opening a bottle of champagne, he told her, “Churchill told me when he went to stay with Ike at the White House, he took four cases of bubbly in case they didn’t have any!”
He told her about Peter Sellers falling for Princess Margaret when they were all holidaying in Sardinia. He knew everything about everybody.
He read poetry to her, reminisced about his childhood in Turkey and Greece. She appreciated his knowledgeable comments on how she looked. He explained that this was how a Continental behaved. It was normal to be interested in how women put themselves together. She was spellbound by his slightly old-fashioned, courtly airs, his demonstrative touch. He was always kissing her hand, holding her arm.
She recalled her life with Jack, how many times she had entered the room and he hadn’t even looked up. How out of the public eye, boarding
Air Force One
or arriving at the White House, he would leave her to soldier on with the children while he made himself comfortable. There were times she excused this because of his bad health but then it became the norm.
How he only touched her in bed, rarely in public. She could not recall him tucking her arm into his, or stroking her hair.
Onassis could not have been more different.
No servants, no family. No friends to comment on his brillian
tined hair or to fret about the five-inch height difference between them.
No mild disdain when he sang noisily.
No judgments.
It took the agency some time to discover whom she was visiting in the prewar apartment building. The president and the general were kept up-to-date by Blackstone.
Guy, buried in work in Moscow and still under orders not to call her, hoped that her silence meant that she had decided to take umbrage at the proposed plan or at the very least she had realized that it would not,
could not,
work.
Doubtless she thought that he had been part of the Skorpios conspiracy. Well, some time in the future, when it had all gone away, he would set her right about that.
In between their exciting evenings Ari spent hours on the telephone making sure everything was perfect for Jackie and the children’s forthcoming arrival in Skorpios.
He was enjoying their relationship very much and was looking forward to getting close to Caroline and John. Even though they had not slept together he felt success might be in his grasp, culminating perhaps in an announcement on her birthday in a few weeks’ time. This marriage was going to open so many doors for him. Before he left town he ordered a flawless forty-carat diamond ring to be delivered aboard his yacht, the
Christina.
After another wonderful evening at Sixty-fourth Street he returned to his suite at the Pierre Hotel when he heard the news of the shooting of Bobby Kennedy at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles. The presidential hopeful had just finished a speech to the party faithful. As he and his wife left the ballroom and walked toward their exit via the hotel kitchen, gunfire rang out, and in seconds he was lying on the floor, badly wounded.
Ari and Bobby Kennedy had never gotten along. The Greek was convinced that when Bobby was attorney general he had stopped his plans for expansion in the States. The president’s brother had not appreciated the Greek’s willingness to deal with both the Ameri
cans’ friends and their foes. After the initial shock Ari knew that this was a moment when he could show Jackie how different life would be if she were with him. Suddenly galvanized, he saw this as an opportunity.
All three networks were showing the scenes in the hotel. They reported that the senator, who had just won the California Democratic presidential primary, was still alive.
Ari called Jackie. Even though it was very late he could give her a plane to whisk her from New York to Los Angeles, right now. In tears, she thanked him and was relieved to reach Los Angeles Good Samaritan Hospital before Bobby died.
Later, there were those who said that Jackie made the decision to marry Onassis when she stood, once again, at a burial at Arlington National Cemetery. This time, in the heat of June, a black lace mantilla covering her head, white short gloves hiding her hands, she gazed forlornly at the many fatherless Kennedy children gathered around the casket, ten of Bobby’s, eleven if the child as yet unborn was counted, plus her own two.
But they were wrong.
Upset, desperately unhappy to think that the tragedy she had so dreaded had happened to Bobby, and worried that now anyone with the Kennedy name, whether large or small, had become a target, it was the offer of a plane, of the cocoon of utter privacy, of the ability to respond so fast, that affected her greatly.
If there was any moment that made up her mind she should marry Aristotle Socrates Onassis, that it was not only her patriotic duty but that only he could look after her and keep her and her family safe, it was as she climbed the steps of his plane on that fateful night of June 5. She prayed for Bobby to pull through but she also decided, Now was the time to get out.