Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir (44 page)

About halfway through the cruise, Mrs. Kennedy said she needed to talk to me. We went to the top of the ship near the smokestack for absolute privacy.

“Mr. Hill, I know I told you that King Hassan of Morocco, when he was our guest last spring, had extended an invitation to me to visit Marrakech. I’ve decided to take him up on it. I have already cleared it with the president and we will be going directly there from Athens.”

So now we were adding Morocco to the itinerary. One thing was for sure—Mrs. Kennedy made life interesting.

“That sounds wonderful, Mrs. Kennedy. Have any flights or other arrangements been made?”

“Oh, yes. You won’t have to worry about that at all. King Hassan is sending his personal plane to pick us up in Athens and take us straight to Marrakech. So you see, it won’t be any problem at all.”

I laughed. “No, Mrs. Kennedy, it won’t be any problem at all.”

“I think Pierre is going to announce it to the press in a day or two but I wanted to make sure you knew so you can do the things you have to do—but I don’t want anyone else to know. Only Lee knows and I’ll tell Provi as we get closer to leaving.”

“Thank you for telling me.”

I understood that she didn’t want anyone else on the boat to know where she was going once we got off the yacht in Athens. And there was good reason. There was an ongoing border clash between Algeria and Morocco that had escalated very recently. I knew that if she had cleared the trip with the president, he was monitoring the situation closely. But I needed to get Ken Giannoules on a plane to Marrakech as soon as possible.

“Are you enjoying the cruise so far?” I asked.

“It’s been wonderful, really a dream come true. I hope you and Mr. Landis are enjoying yourselves.”

“Yes, we are having a good time,” I replied. “The
Christina
really is rather impressive,” I said with a grin. “And you know, I am not easily impressed.”

“Yes, Mr. Hill. I know,” she said with a smile. She stood up and said, “Come, join us for hors d’oeuvres. We’re not going off the yacht tonight, so you can relax. Tomorrow we’re going to Levkas, and Mr. Onassis’s private island, called Skorpios.”

I
HAD HEARD
that Onassis owned his own island.
Who the hell owns their own island?
Located in the Ionian Islands, west of mainland Greece, Skorpios was about four and a half miles in circumference, and covered with lovely pine, cypress, and olive trees. It was extremely private, and offered absolute seclusion. We stopped for a swim and walked around the island, but Mrs. Kennedy was eager to return to the yacht and move on to see more historic sights.

We headed back to Glyfada near Athens, stopping at Delphi on the way to see the famous temple of the Oracle of Delphi. As we approached the point of anchorage in the Bay of Glyfada, Onassis decided he wanted to take Mrs. Kennedy and the rest of the party to one of his favorite places. Cars and security had to be arranged, so I contacted the Greek national at the State Department—a guy named Greg—who had been so helpful throughout the trip, and went ashore ahead of the party to get everything set.

Paul remained with Mrs. Kennedy, and once I had everything arranged, he got into one of the Hacker tenders with her, as Onassis took the helm. I had the cars and drivers waiting at our predetermined spot and watched as the boat headed toward me. Suddenly the boat turned sharply, increased speed, and started racing down the coast.

“Goddammit! What the hell is he doing?!” I yelled.

Greg was standing nearby, watching the same thing. He said something in Greek to the drivers, and said, “Clint, get in. Let’s go!”

I jumped into one of the cars and we raced down the coast. He had a pretty good idea where Onassis was going. We arrived at a point and parked the cars, just as the tender came into sight.

Onassis pulled the boat to the dock where we were standing waiting, and glared at me. His normally tanned complexion had gone pale, and he looked like he had just lost the biggest battle of his life. We had outsmarted him and he did not like it one bit.

Paul had a big smile on his face. “Way to go, Clint,” he whispered.

Without the help of Greg and the knowledge of the drivers, I would have been left standing at the seaside wondering where to go. They made me look good. I made sure they knew that and thanked them profusely.

Mrs. Kennedy approached the car and as she got in, she said in a low voice, “Nice save, Mr. Hill.” That was all the thanks I needed. Outsmarting Onassis was a real pleasure.

We remained overnight on the
Christina,
preparing for our departure for Marrakech the following day.

The next morning, we bade our host a hearty thank-you and good-bye. Onassis gave Mrs. Kennedy and Lee some parting gifts of expensive jewelry to remember the trip, while Paul and I left with nothing but our memories of being on one of the most incredible yachts in the world, and the satisfaction of having helped Mrs. Kennedy have a trip of a lifetime, without incident.

We went straight to the Athens airport and boarded the Royal Moroccan aircraft King Hassan had sent for Mrs. Kennedy. The Caravelle jet, which could hold eighty to one hundred passengers, was all ours—just Lee, Provi, Paul Landis, Mrs. Kennedy, and me. We were on our way to the next adventure.

K
EN
G
IANNOULES HAD
gone to Marrakech several days earlier to advance Mrs. Kennedy’s visit to Morocco. It was not an official visit and even though it had been announced to the press, there was no formal motorcade planned. Still, it was clear the people of Morocco were thrilled to have the first lady of the United States as a guest, and the reception was enthusiastic. Once again we witnessed Mrs. Kennedy’s international popularity. Women in long black robes and veils called out with their unique shrill shriek of welcome.

Men dressed in the traditional djellaba and turban politely applauded as we drove to the Bahia Palace, inside the thirty-foot-high walls of the ancient city. Mrs. Kennedy loved it.

By sheer coincidence, Mrs. Kennedy’s visit occurred during the reverent celebration of King Hassan’s firstborn son, Prince Mohammed, who had been born on August 21. It was a Moroccan and Muslim custom to celebrate when the baby was forty days old.

I was worried about how this would affect Mrs. Kennedy, since Patrick, had he lived, would have been nearly the same age. She handled the situation with grace and dignity. She said to me at one point, “Isn’t it wonderful they are able
to celebrate the life and hope for the future of their new son? The president and I had similar hopes and dreams for Patrick.”

There was also a festival in which hundreds of Berber tribesmen had traveled to the city with their horses, guns, and tents. The event took place on a field about two football fields in length. Mrs. Kennedy, Lee, Agent Landis, and I were seated under a tent on the sidelines as the tribesmen began dancing and singing to the rhythmic sounds of their drums. Mrs. Kennedy loved this kind of stuff.

Agent Giannoules had warned us that there would be gunfire as the tribesmen charged each other on horseback, demonstrating their horsemanship and skill as fighters. When I explained this to Mrs. Kennedy, she said, “Oh, that sounds so exciting!”

She hadn’t brought a camera, but Paul Landis had one that he had been taking pictures with all week.

She turned to Mr. Landis and said, “Mr. Landis, why don’t you go down on the field and take some pictures?”

“That’s a great idea, Mrs. Kennedy,” he said.

He got up and walked down to the arena. The Berber tribesmen, all dressed in their traditional clothing, then began to line up on horseback at one end of the field.

All of a sudden, without warning, a gun fired into the air.
Crack!
The riders charged, creating a cloud of dust, amid the whoops and hollers and the sound of the horses’ hooves trampling down the field, right toward Paul.

“Oh no!” Mrs. Kennedy exclaimed in horror as she threw her hands to her face.

When the dust cleared, there was Paul, his face white as a sheet, yet still snapping away with his camera, just inches from the tramping horsemen.

Mrs. Kennedy and I burst out laughing. We could hardly contain ourselves at the sight of Paul, visibly trembling, as the tribesmen circled around in mock battle.

When Paul was able to make his way back to where we were seated, I couldn’t help myself.

“Paul,” I said, “if you need to go to your room and change your shorts, feel free to do so.”

“Oh, Mr. Hill! Poor Mr. Landis!” Mrs. Kennedy laughed and laughed and laughed. It was so wonderful to hear that laugh again.

It was music to my ears, and I knew everything was going to be okay.

T
HE NEXT DAY
we left Marrakech on King Hassan’s private plane and headed for Paris. On the Pan Am flight back to New York, Mrs. Kennedy couldn’t stop talking about the trip. She was in great spirits.

“You know, Mr. Hill,” she said, “the president is going on a trip to Texas next month, and he wants me to join him. I had told him I didn’t want to go—I didn’t think I was ready. But now I feel so much better and I really want to help him as much as I can.

“Maybe I will go after all.”

Mrs. Kennedy rides Sardar in Middleburg

A
s soon as we returned from Greece and Morocco, Mrs. Kennedy was eager to spend as much time as possible in Atoka. Beginning the weekend of October 25, 1963, it became the habit that every Friday, after Caroline’s school let out at 1:00
P.M.
, Mrs. Kennedy, the children, Maud Shaw, and I would helicopter directly to the Atoka property, with Paul Landis and the children’s agents driving the cars, filled with suitcases and things Mrs. Kennedy had decided to bring to the new house.

The sprawling ranch-style house at Atoka that Mrs. Kennedy had designed and decorated sat on a rise with tremendous views of the countryside. It was very secluded, with not another home in sight, and had acres and acres of rolling
meadows for Mrs. Kennedy to ride her beloved horses. Sardar and Macaroni had been transported there, along with a new pony named Leprechaun—a gift for John from the people of Ireland. Beautiful stables had been built to accommodate the horses—and the Secret Service agents. An office with brand-new equipment had been designed into the stable building as the Secret Service Command Post, which really worked out well, but also served as a subtle reminder of where we stood in the pecking order.

That first Friday afternoon, the first thing Mrs. Kennedy wanted to do was ride Sardar. It was a glorious autumn day, and from the vantage point at the back of the house, I could see the entire thirty-nine-acre property. As I watched her gallop at full pace, the wind blowing in her hair, her body moving as one with her beloved Sardar, I thought,
This is what she needed more than anything.
The cruise on the
Christina
was magnificent, no doubt about it, but there was nothing that compared to the joy on her face when she was riding.

When she finished, I was waiting by the stables with the groom they had hired to care for the horses. After dismounting, Mrs. Kennedy handed the reins to the groom and said, “Mr. Hill, come walk with me to the house.”

I always thought she looked so beautiful in her riding clothes—natural, no makeup, and after an exhilarating ride, her face was flushed from the exercise. But despite how much she seemed to have enjoyed being back on Sardar, I could tell something was wrong.

As we started walking, she said, “You know I told you I was going to go with the president to Texas . . .”

“Yes . . .” I had a feeling I knew what this was about.

“Well,” she said, “I’m having second thoughts, after this incident with Adlai Stevenson.”

Adlai Stevenson, the ambassador to the United Nations, was one of Mrs. Kennedy’s friends. The day before, he had been heckled while giving a speech on world peace in Dallas. Then, when he emerged from the auditorium, a group of anti–United Nations protesters attacked him with placards, and someone reportedly spat on him. The police had to force back the protesters, and by all accounts, it was an ugly scene.