Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir

21

Onassis and the Christina

Sue Roosevelt, Mrs. Kennedy, Aristotle Onassis, and Franklin D. Roosevelt, Jr. aboard Christina

After the death of Patrick, the other agents and I noticed a distinctly closer relationship, openly expressed, between the president and Mrs. Kennedy. I first observed it in the hospital suite at Otis Air Force Base but it became publicly visible when Mrs. Kennedy was released from the hospital, a week after the birth. With press photographers snapping away, President and Mrs. Kennedy emerged from the hospital suite hand in hand. It was a small gesture, but quite significant to those of us who were around them all the time. Prior to this, they were much more restrained and less willing to express their close, loving relationship while out in public. The loss of Patrick seemed to be the catalyst to change all that.

The president had to return to Washington, but Mrs. Kennedy and the children elected to stay for the rest of the summer—as they had planned—at the Cape. It was the best place for her to recuperate and day by day, her physical strength began to return. Emotionally, however, she was drowning in sorrow. The loss of her son was constantly on her mind, and she seemed to become more and more depressed.

She continued to write notes and request information be passed on to various individuals, but you could tell her heart wasn’t in it. She spent time with the children, but for the most part remained alone and secluded in her room in Brambletyde. There was nothing anybody could say or do to ease her pain. We simply hoped that time would heal this tragic wound.

The president came as often as possible to Hyannis Port, midweek for one night in one case and for an extended stay over Labor Day weekend. Not only was he taking great pains to be supportive to Mrs. Kennedy, but I noticed that he was paying more and more attention to the children than ever before. He started taking John with him to visit Ambassador Kennedy or out to the Allen Farm to watch Caroline ride. He would go swimming with John and Caroline in the ocean—watching with delight as they jumped to him from the decks of the Honey Fitz. Taking Caroline to Sunday church services with him became a regular occurrence. Having Caroline and John ride on the helicopter from the Kennedy compound to Otis Air Force Base with him as he was departing for Washington on Air Force One became more common. This was all new.

One day—it must have been at the end of August or the beginning of September—Mrs. Kennedy called me at the command post to say she wanted to go for a walk. When she came out of the house, she seemed to have a brighter look on her face than I had seen in weeks.

We began walking, and she turned to me, with a glint in her eye.

“How would you like to go back to Greece, Mr. Hill?”

I looked at her with surprise. “I would love to go back to Greece.”

She smiled and said, “Well, I have arranged to join Lee and Stash on a cruise through the Greek islands on a private yacht.”

“That sounds wonderful, Mrs. Kennedy. When will you be leaving?”

“We haven’t decided for sure, but we’re hoping to go in a few weeks.”

A few weeks? I tried to be nonchalant, but I needed to find out as much information as possible. Mrs. Kennedy still didn’t truly understand how much effort it required for us to ensure her security outside the country.

“Do you know the name of the yacht?” I asked.

“Yes, actually I do. It’s called the Christina. It’s Mr. Onassis’s yacht.”

I lost my breath and was unable to speak for a few seconds. President Kennedy’s words—the request he had made before Mrs. Kennedy’s first trip to Greece back in 1961—came rushing into my mind: Whatever you do in Greece, do not let Mrs. Kennedy cross paths with Aristotle Onassis.

I was stunned to think that now, for some reason, it was all right for Mrs. Kennedy to associate with this man.

This trip to Greece had apparently been a topic of conversation between Mrs. Kennedy and her sister, Lee, when Lee came to be with her immediately after Patrick’s death. Lee and her husband, Prince Radziwill, were friends of Onassis and had been on his yacht. It seemed that Lee had contacted Onassis and the invitation had been extended. A trip to the Greek isles, on what was reputed to be the most luxurious private yacht in the world, was too good of an opportunity to turn down.

I knew Mrs. Kennedy would not go on a trip like this without her husband’s concurrence. But why now, after the loss of their son, would the president be willing to let her go on Onassis’s yacht, where, I assumed, the owner himself would be aboard? I could only surmise that it was because she had been so depressed, and perhaps the president thought a trip might give her something to look forward to.

“I don’t want a lot of publicity,” she said, “but I suppose everyone will find out.”

“Yes, I’m sure the word will get out, and,” I added, “there will be a great deal of interest.”

I asked her a few questions about who else would be aboard, any other stops she might make, but it seemed the trip was still in the planning stages.

“Please let me know as soon as possible of any additional details, okay?” I requested.

“Oh, Mr. Hill, you always want to have so much information about these little trips I take.”

Mrs. Kennedy’s “little trip” was going to involve the ambassadors of two countries, a contingent of Secret Service agents and State Department personnel, and the navies of Greece, Turkey, and the United States. My job was to make sure she didn’t have to worry about any of that.

As soon as we returned from the walk, I called my supervisor, Jerry Behn, the SAIC of the White House Detail, to let him know Mrs. Kennedy’s plans. We had to notify the Paris Secret Service Field Office, which handled operations in Europe, and get Agent Ken Giannoules—our Greek-speaking agent—to start setting things up as soon as I received the schedule.

A few days later, Mrs. Kennedy informed me that the dates were set. We were leaving October 1 and would be gone two weeks. Mrs. Kennedy was only bringing Provi with her—no other staff—and it was to be kept as private as possible.

As we began to make the plans for the trip, information was flowing back to me that a great many people were very upset about Mrs. Kennedy going to Greece. Members of Mrs. Kennedy’s staff as well as the president’s were expressing concern about this proposed trip and how it would appear to the public—not just that she was choosing to vacation abroad, but specifically that she would be associating with Aristotle Onassis. Not only did he have some long-standing legal issues with the United States government, but his reputation was that of a womanizer and opportunist. There had always been concern about Mrs. Kennedy’s sister Lee’s friendship with Onassis, but to have Mrs. Kennedy herself spending time on his private yacht? This took on a whole new set of problems. There was grave concern that once Onassis got his foot in the door, he would take advantage of the situation to the detriment of everyone but himself. The general theme was that he could not be trusted.

The president had been made aware of the potential political fallout, but he insisted that Mrs. Kennedy would be permitted to go as planned. That was the end of that.

We remained at Squaw Island for the seventy-fifth birthday party for the president’s father on September 6, and then it was on to Hammersmith Farm in Newport, for most of the rest of September. On September 12, the president flew in from Washington to celebrate their tenth wedding anniversary. Good friends Ben and Tony Bradlee came as weekend guests, and the next few days were spent swimming at Bailey’s Beach, cruising on the Honey Fitz, and playing golf at the Newport Country Club. Mrs. Kennedy seemed to be slowly coming out of the depressed state she had been in and began enjoying activities again. It was wonderful to see her renewed spirit and happy expression return.

Mrs. Kennedy and the children finally returned to the White House with the president on Monday, September 23. It was the beginning of the school year for Caroline in the school established by Mrs. Kennedy within the White House. To get the school year off to a rousing start, Mrs. Kennedy had arranged a surprise for all the children on Wednesday, September 25. Mrs. Kennedy, Caroline, and John met the students at the entrance to the White House and announced they were going on a field trip. To Dulles Airport. For a ride on the Goodyear blimp.

You’ve never seen a group of students more excited in your life.

I was up to my eyeballs trying to make arrangements for the trip to Greece, so I sent Paul Landis and the Kiddie Detail agents with Mrs. Kennedy and the twenty youngsters for the adventure of a lifetime.

Later, Mrs. Kennedy told me what a wonderful time they all had, especially John.

“You know how much John loves airplanes and flying, Mr. Hill. I think someday he is going to be a pilot.”

We were scheduled to take a commercial flight from New York City to Rome, and then on to Athens, the evening of October 1. It so happened that the Imperial Majesty Haile Selassie, Emperor of Ethiopa, was arriving in Washington the same day. In her first public appearance since the death of Patrick, Mrs. Kennedy joined the president for the welcoming ceremonies at Union Station, and rode in the short motorcade to the Blair House, where the emperor was staying. The seventy-one-year-old Selassie was small in physical stature, but he was held in high regard around the world, having been the respected leader of his country for more than four decades. He came bearing personal gifts—an exotic leopard-skin coat for Mrs. Kennedy, a carved ivory doll for Caroline, and a carved ivory soldier with sword for John—and Mrs. Kennedy found him charming. They spoke in French together, and I could tell she wished she could have spent more time with him, but because of our departure that evening, she wasn’t able to attend the state dinner that was planned in his honor.

EVER SINCE MRS. Kennedy’s trip to Greece had been announced, I kept waiting for the president to call me into his office to give me some sort of instructions concerning Mr. Onassis. But I never got the call. Nothing was ever said.

There were quick good-byes to the children and the president and then we were off—Provi, Paul Landis, Mrs. Kennedy, and me—on our way to National Airport, where the Caroline was waiting to take us to New York for the scheduled TWA flight.

The New York Secret Service Field Office had arranged for the Caroline to taxi and be nose-to-nose with the big 707 to facilitate our transfer from one plane to the other. No press, and no crowds. Just the way she liked it.

We boarded the aircraft and settled into the first-class section. All except Agent Landis, that is. We had reserved a seat in the section behind first class next to the bulkhead for one agent to occupy. Poor Paul was given that assignment. His job was to preclude anyone from the rear coming into the first-class section. We had reserved six seats for Mrs. Kennedy—four in the center to be made into a bed, with an additional two seats by the window for her to sit in. Two additional seats in first class were for Provi and myself. It would be a long, sleepless night for Paul and me as we crossed the Atlantic.

Mrs. Kennedy slept almost the entire way, and after graciously signing photographs for the crew—I always kept a stash of her photos in my briefcase for such occasions—we transferred to the plane that would take us to Athens.

The weather was hot and sunny when we arrived in Athens, under a beautiful clear blue sky. As we were about to deplane, Mrs. Kennedy turned to me with a smile on her face and a gleam in her eye.

“Mr. Hill, are you ready to have some fun? I sure am.”

It was so nice to see her smiling again. It was obvious she was looking forward to the next two weeks.

“Yes, Mrs. Kennedy,” I said, returning the smile. “I think all of us will have a good time.”

But, believe me, I thought, I am going to know everything that is going on.

Prince “Stash” Radziwill and Mrs. Kennedy’s sister, Lee, were there to greet us, along with U.S. ambassador Henry Labouisse. Agent Giannoules had done a great job of handling everything for our arrival, assisted once again by Nick Damigos from the State Department, who knew all the local officials and was keyed into anything that might affect Mrs. Kennedy’s visit.

We spent the first few days of the trip in Athens, where once again the beautiful seaside villa owned by Markos Nomikos had been made available for Mrs. Kennedy and her guests. There was a courtesy visit to King Paul and Queen Frederika at the Tatoi Palace one afternoon, and as we drove down the long driveway, Mrs. Kennedy got a big grin on her face.

“Mr. Hill, you look so worried,” she said.

“Yes, Mrs. Kennedy, I’m thinking about the last time we were here.”

She laughed and said, “Don’t worry. I promise I won’t sneak off for a high-speed ride with Prince Constantine again. And remember? You did catch us.”

“Oh, I remember only too well,” I said with a smile. “I’ll be paying very close attention to your every move this time.”

“I thought you always did that, Mr. Hill,” she said, laughing.

Her teasing and playfulness was back, it was good to see, and true to her word, she didn’t try to pull a fast one on me. At least not at the Tatoi Palace. The next day, we were to begin our cruise on the Christina.

IN THE NEARLY three years that I had been with Mrs. Kennedy, I had had the opportunity to sail aboard some fabulous yachts. Nomikos’s Northwind, Gianni Agnelli’s Agneta, and of course the yachts in the presidential fleet—the Honey Fitz, the Manitou, the Sequoia. But nothing could have prepared me for the Christina.

Anchored in the bay at Glyfada, the 325-foot Christina made the other yachts in the harbor look like bathtub toys. We were met at the dock by a few members of the crew, and two sleek mahogany-hulled Hacker speedboats—the tenders for the Christina. Our bags were loaded, and off we sped to the massive white yacht in the distance.

There were a great many staff to greet us and yes, Aristotle Onassis himself was standing on deck as we boarded. Gray-haired, with black bushy eyebrows, he was shorter than I had expected, and had a stocky frame. He had a very large nose, an oily, olive complexion, and dark circles surrounding rather small eyes.

“Welcome, welcome,” he said. “Welcome aboard the Christina.” He greeted Lee with a kiss on each cheek—as Europeans do—and then proceeded to do the same to Mrs. Kennedy. I cringed as I watched him place his hands on her arms and lean in to graze her cheek with his lips.

This is the man President Kennedy had told me—in no uncertain terms—to make sure Mrs. Kennedy did not meet in 1961. Now, here she is being greeted by him on his yacht as his guest. Did I misunderstand something?

All these thoughts ran through my mind as the other guests appeared on deck. There was Franklin D. Roosevelt Jr. and his wife, Suzanne; Onassis’s sisters Artemis Garofalides and Mrs. Calliroë Patronicola; Greek actor Alexis Minotis; Silvio Medici De’ Menezes and his wife, Princess Irene Galitzine. Many of these people I had met previously—and of course Princess Irene and I had shopped and dined together in Capri—but under these conditions, I felt like an intruder, completely out of place.

A steward escorted Mrs. Kennedy to her cabin, as I followed along, with Provi not far behind to make sure all was well with her mistress. The stateroom Mrs. Kennedy had been assigned was furnished as royally as any palace she had stayed in, while the en suite bathroom had solid gold fixtures, with faucets in the shape of dolphins. I had no idea splendor of this extreme existed. It was only the tip of the iceberg.

As Paul and I explored the yacht we encountered extravagance upon extravagance. A spiral staircase with pillars of onyx soaring three levels above a mosaic floor bearing the image of the Greek letter omega. A lounge with a stunning lapis lazuli fireplace surrounded by bookshelves containing rare volumes. A seawater swimming pool on the aft deck inlaid with an exquisite mosaic copied from the Palace of Knossos in Crete. If you want to dance, push a button and the floor of the pool rises, the water drains, and the mosaic tile floor of the pool is now at room level, ready to accommodate your every move.

Want a drink? Go to Ari’s bar on the main deck. A wooden circular bar made from the timbers of a Spanish galleon with heavy sailing rope as the facing. You are sitting on bar stools covered in whale foreskin. Your arms and feet are resting on footrests and handholds of ornately carved whales’ teeth accented in gold. Under the glass top to the bar itself are tiny ship models, which, at the flick of a switch, move on a lighted relief of the sea.

There is a library, and more lounge area, complete with a grand piano. Need to leave in a hurry? Lower the helicopter to the proper position and have a pleasant flight. And just to make sure you have absolutely everything you need or want, a seaplane is available to act as a courier bringing the latest newspapers, mail, and any provisions needed for the cruise. It also acts as a taxi, ferrying people leaving or joining the cruise. But beware, the standard trick is to fly over the Christina upside down after taking off, leaving the passenger somewhat ill, as Prince Radziwill would find out upon his early departure.

Paul and I were led to the cabin he and I would share. Located in the bowels of the yacht, as part of the crew area, it was small and somewhat cramped, but we each had a bunk and our own head. Not bad for two government employees.

“What do you think, Paul?” I asked as we stood on deck looking back at the shore. “Think you can handle this for the next two weeks?”

“It is unreal,” he said. “I think you could live on this yacht and never have to get off.”

It was true. The Christina even had its own laundry and dry cleaning facility. I had been given a copy of the manifest, which listed the names, nationalities, and passport numbers for everybody aboard the ship. Thirteen passengers, and a crew of forty-eight, which included hairdressers, chefs, electricians, and engineers. From a security standpoint, it was ideal—a self-contained city with very few people to deal with.

The crew weighed anchor and the Christina began to move away from the Greek mainland toward the coast of Turkey, slicing through the water with hardly an indication on deck that we were moving. Paul remained in proximity to Mrs. Kennedy while I went to the bridge to check with the captain and obtain as much information as possible about the immediate itinerary.

We were on our way to Istanbul, Turkey. But the captain didn’t know what, if any, activities were planned upon arrival.

I found Mrs. Kennedy coming out of her stateroom. She had changed into a pair of lightweight trousers and a thin blouse. Her hair was pulled back with a scarf, and she had a pair of oversized sunglasses propped on top of her head.

“So, Mr. Hill, what do you think of the Christina?”

“It’s a very nice yacht,” I said as my mouth curled into a smile. “Not bad.”

She laughed. It was wonderful to see her laughing again.

“Mrs. Kennedy, can you tell me what your plans are for the rest of the day, and what you think you might do tomorrow?”

“Oh Mr. Hill,” she said as she grabbed my hands. “Will you please stop worrying about me and just try to enjoy yourself? This is so pleasant.” She gave my hands a quick squeeze and added, “I want you and Mr. Landis to have a good time.”

“Thank you Mrs. Kennedy, I appreciate that, but I do need to know your plans. I know we are on the way to Istanbul, but can you give me some more specific information?”

“I want to see the Blue Mosque in Istanbul and one of the national museums. You’ll have to check with Mr. Onassis—he knows where I want to go.”

“Okay. Thank you, Mrs. Kennedy, I’ll do that.”

I guess Mr. Onassis and I are going to get to know each other.

I went back to the bridge and told the captain I needed to talk with Mr. Onassis. He used the intercom system to connect with Mr. Onassis.

“Tell Mr. Hill to come to my suite,” Onassis said over the intercom.

The captain pointed me to Onassis’s suite, which was located just behind the navigation bridge.

I knocked at the door, and he immediately opened it.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Hill?” he asked. He spoke fluent English, with just the slightest hint of an accent. I had been surprised to see that the manifest listed his nationality as Argentine.

“I need to understand the immediate plans, and Mrs. Kennedy suggested I talk to you regarding the specific details.”

“Well, Mr. Hill, we are on the way to Istanbul, as you know.” He stared at me with his beady brown eyes, speaking slowly, in a somewhat condescending tone. “We will be going up through the Bosporus into the Black Sea and then come back out so Mrs. Kennedy can visit the Blue Mosque and the Topkapi Palace in Istanbul.”

He stared at me with intensity as he spoke. Was he trying to intimidate me? It wasn’t going to work.

“I see, Mr. Onassis. I’ll have to go ashore ahead of Mrs. Kennedy to make sure it is safe for her and that everything is ready.”

“Fine, I’ll arrange for you to do that,” he said. “I’ll let you know as soon as I talk with my people onshore.”

“Thank you, Mr. Onassis. And just so you are aware, this will be the case everywhere we go, so the more information you can provide me in advance, the better.”

With that I left the suite and went back to the bridge. I scanned the horizon, looking for one of the U.S. Navy ships that I knew were surveilling us. I never did see one, but I knew they were there.

That evening Mr. Onassis approached me and said, “Mr. Hill, the local authorities will send a launch to pick you up tomorrow morning as we pass the area on our way to the Black Sea. They will take you ashore to meet with Mr. Brown, the U.S. consul general. Will that be satisfactory?”

“Yes, sir. That will be fine.” I was certainly glad that he was cooperating, and even helping facilitate our security activities.

Paul and I kept a watchful eye on Mrs. Kennedy, but gave her plenty of space. She enjoyed dinner with the other guests and a relaxing time in conversation, while soft strains of music wafted throughout the yacht. Shortly before midnight, she retired to her stateroom. Alone.

The following morning, as the Christina, escorted by two Turkish gunboats, passed through the Dardanelles into the Sea of Marmara in the area off Istanbul, a launch pulled alongside. An external ladder had been lowered so that I could make the transfer between the two boats. It was a windy day, and there was a steady chop in the water, with such a strong current that the operator of the launch could not keep his craft very close to the bottom of the ladder. The gap between the two vessels was about five feet, and there was no choice but for me to jump.

The launch was bobbing up and down, a constantly moving target. I knew if I jumped and didn’t make it, I would be sucked under the Christina and that would be the end.

I knew Onassis was watching from above, probably with sinister delight. It was my first test.

I gathered all the energy I could and hurled myself across the gap with one giant leap. The Turkish crew grabbed me as I plopped into the launch. It wasn’t graceful, but I made it. All in one piece.

I heard a whistle from above, and there was Paul standing on the top deck, smiling, giving me two thumbs up.

The launch whisked me ashore, where I met with Turkish authorities and the U.S. consul general, Ben Brown. While the Christina cruised through the Bosporus into the Black Sea, across which are Ukraine and Russia, and turned around, I got a quick tour of the area.

A few hours later, Paul Landis accompanied Mrs. Kennedy and a few of the other guests as they came ashore on one of the Christina’s tenders. Consul Brown and I were there to meet them with several cars, and a low-key police escort. Meanwhile, scores of plainclothes and uniformed Turkish police scattered throughout the tourist areas we were about to visit.

As we approached the Blue Mosque, the wailing sound of the muezzin calling the Muslim faithful to prayer sounded from high up in the minaret. Mrs. Kennedy dutifully placed a pair of loose slippers over her shoes, as did everyone else, before entering the mosque. A guide had been arranged to explain the history of the mosque, and Mrs. Kennedy listened with rapt attention as she admired the intricately tiled walls. At one point, she sat cross-legged on the Persian carpeted floor, along with rows and rows of Muslims who were praying, as the guide explained the religious rituals.

Even though the trip was unannounced and so spontaneous I had only found out about it a few hours earlier, word spread fast, and soon there were mobs of people clamoring around our little entourage. I was surprised at the number of American tourists there, and they seemed to be the most aggressive in terms of trying to get close to her. The Turkish police didn’t put up with any nonsense, though, and they did a great job of keeping the people from crowding us too much.

From the Blue Mosque, we went to the museums within the Topkapi Palace and the St. Sophia Byzantine church, the Hagia Sophia. Still more tourists swarmed around us, but Mrs. Kennedy largely ignored them, focusing instead on the exquisite pieces in the collections—emeralds and rubies the size of eggs, a two-foot solid gold elephant, and a throne of solid gold encrusted with emeralds. Needless to say, she was impressed.

The three-hour shore visit was capped off with Turkish coffee in a private reception room, and then we were back to the Christina via the Hacker tenders.

I was relieved this little sojourn was over, but I also realized this was probably how it was going to be wherever we went. Too many people, too little time for preparation, too many of them, too few of us. At least when we were aboard the Christina, there were no unknown outside influences.

We traveled through the night in heavy rain through the Dardanelles, down the coast of Turkey, and anchored off the coast of Lesbos. By morning the storm had passed, and Mrs. Kennedy went for a swim in the crystal clear sea. A short time later we were moving again, this time on the way to Crete, some three hundred miles away. Everybody was in a relaxed mood, and the daylight hours on board were spent sunbathing, reading, and enjoying lively conversation. Mrs. Kennedy spent most of the time chatting with her sister and Princess Irene.

Onassis kept largely to himself in his suite near the bridge. I spent a lot of time on the bridge with the captain, and it seemed that Onassis was constantly on the phone. I couldn’t understand a word he said, but even through the closed door, you could tell that he was rattling off orders to somebody. He would emerge for lunch and then again at cocktail hour, and would intermittently be on the phone barking orders and spending time with his guests, paying no more attention to Mrs. Kennedy than to anyone else.

We arrived in Crete under a cloudless sky and blazing sun. Mrs. Kennedy wanted to tour the Palace of Knossos, so I quickly went ahead to make arrangements. Viewing the frescoes and exploring the ruins of this ancient Minoan civilization, Mrs. Kennedy listened intently to our personal tour guide, and barraged her with questions. It was clear that Mrs. Kennedy knew much about the history already.

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.

KEN GIANNOULES 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.

THE 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.”