Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir by Clint Hil (love letters to the dead TXT) 📗

arrival and departure ceremonies. But, having just witnessed in Paris the intense outpouring of interest and affection for Mrs. Kennedy, and the large crowds that appeared wherever she went, I had to assume the same thing would happen in Greece.

The driver turned onto a side street that had a row of shops selling produce, meat, and seafood. People were walking everywhere with their shopping bags, purchasing fresh food for the evening meal. Outside one vendor, a row of pig heads hung from hooks, their eyes staring at the passersby.

“Oh God, Ken,” I said, pointing to the heads. “That is one thing Mrs. Kennedy will not want to see,” I said. “She is such an animal lover. I’m afraid that would sicken her.”

Ken laughed and said, “It’s not too appealing to me, either. Kind of reminds me of the meat markets on the south side of Chicago.”

“Reminds me of Seoul, Korea,” I said. “God, that was a mess.” I shook my head as the memories flooded back. “I was there with Eisenhower in 1960 and you could not believe the crowds. Since he played a key role in ending the Korean War, the Koreans revered him as a hero.”

I knew that Ken was new to the White House Detail and while he had just witnessed the huge crowds around President Kennedy in Paris, he hadn’t yet experienced how a peaceful and enthusiastic gathering can turn to chaos in an instant.

“We got there and I swear, every damn person in the city of Seoul was in the streets trying to get a view of Eisenhower as he rode by in the motorcade. It was crazy—seemed like there were millions of them crawling all over each other. We had taken an official car to a palace prior to the president’s arrival, but he never got there. We ended up having to change his schedule because massive crowds had blocked the streets, and when we came out—I am telling you the God’s honest truth—that car had been crushed flat by people climbing over it to get a better vantage point.”

“Geez,” Ken said.

“I’ll never forget that. That’s when I learned how unpredictable a crowd can be. After seeing how the French reacted to Mrs. Kennedy, I assume there will be a similar response here. We have to make damn sure the Greek authorities are prepared to manage their people.”

“I understand,” Ken said, nodding in agreement.

“I know Mrs. Kennedy wants to be able to wander freely, to get a feel for Greece and the people here,” I added, “but we have to create as safe an environment as possible for her to do that. And, I gotta tell you, Ken . . . I’m counting on you because this language is Greek to me.”

Ken laughed at my feeble joke, but at least I felt like I’d gotten the point across to him. Protecting a public figure is a constant struggle because safety and exposure are conflicting goals. Even though Mrs. Kennedy didn’t seek out the public, people were going to find her and try to get as close as possible. You never knew when someone might attempt to harm her and we had to make sure nothing happened.

The driver delivered us to our hotel, and as soon as Ken and I checked in at the reception desk, I said, “Ken, let’s meet in my room in about fifteen minutes. There’s something I need to discuss with you before we head over to the embassy.”

“Sounds like a plan, Clint. See you in fifteen.”

As soon as I got into the room, I put the suitcase on the bed and began to unpack. Suits and shirts hung up in the small closet. Underwear and socks in the drawers. Toothbrush and shaving kit went in the bathroom. I liked to make sure everything was in its place.

I took my two-and-a-half-inch Detective Special handgun out of my briefcase, where I had stored it for the flight, and placed it firmly into the holster on my hip. Carrying the gun had become so much a part of me that when I was without it, I felt like something was missing. I had never pulled the gun on duty, but I, like all agents, was required to practice shooting at least twice a month at the underground Treasury range. We were required to be proficient with the weapon we carried and I had qualified as an expert marksman.

Just then there was a knock on the door.

I looked through the eyehole in the door to make sure it was Ken, before opening the door.

“How’s your room?” I asked.

“Great,” Ken said. “I see you’ve got a nice view of the Acropolis, too.”

“Yeah, not bad,” I said as I looked at the window. It was a magnificent sight.

“What’s up, Clint?” he asked.

“Listen, Ken, before I left for Paris, the president called me into the Oval Office.”

Ken raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Yes, exactly,” I said. “Not an everyday occurrence. The attorney general was there, too. So the president said, ‘Clint, when you’re in Greece, whatever you do, do not let Mrs. Kennedy cross paths with Aristotle Onassis.’”

Ken’s eyebrows rose even farther. “Really? That’s interesting. What’s the reason?”

“I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me. All I know is that Onassis owns a shipping company. Mrs. Kennedy has never mentioned him, but believe me, the message was very clear. Keep her away from the guy.”

“Well, let me see what I can find out from my contacts here,” Ken said. “We should probably head over to the embassy now anyway.”

“I’m ready,” I said. “Let’s go.”

Upon arrival at the U.S. Embassy, we were introduced to Nick Damigos, a Greek national, who handled investigations and protective security matters for the embassy. Nick understood the politics related to Greek-American relations, had a great rapport with the local and federal officials, and spoke perfect English, with just the slightest hint of an accent.

“All of Greece is very excited about the arrival of Mrs. Kennedy,” he said. “I am at your disposal