by Clint Hill
The president and Mrs. Kennedy flew from Vienna to London to participate in the christening of Lee and Prince Radziwill’s firstborn daughter, Anna Christina, and then the president returned to Washington. June 7, Mrs. Kennedy finally arrived in Greece.
Mrs. Kennedy, her sister, Lee, and Prince Radziwill had flown by commercial jet from London to Rome, and then from Rome to Athens, where I was waiting at Ellinikon Airport to greet them upon their arrival. The weather in Athens was much warmer than it had been in Vienna, and even at six o’clock in the evening it was about 80 degrees.
“Welcome to Athens, Mrs. Kennedy,” I said as she stepped out of the plane.
She looked around somewhat timidly, and then smiled and said, “Hello, Mr. Hill.”
“Prime Minister and Mrs. Karamanlis are here to greet you, along with a representative from King Paul and Queen Frederika,” I said. “We have a car waiting to take you and the Radziwills to the villa in Kavouri.”
“That sounds wonderful,” she said. “I’m looking forward to some relaxation.”
When we arrived at the villa, Mrs. Kennedy was upbeat and excited. The villa had a beautiful view of the Mediterranean, and on this summer evening, the water was calm and the color of azure.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Mrs. Kennedy remarked to her sister as she looked out to the sea.
Prince Radziwill approached me, reached out his hand, and said, “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Stash, Mrs. Kennedy’s brother-in-law.”
“I’m Special Agent Clint Hill, sir,” I replied as I shook his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Prince Radziwill.”
“Please, call me Stash,” he said with a smile. Stash Radziwill was about five foot ten, had short dark brown hair, and a well-trimmed mustache that accentuated his smile. He spoke with a slight British accent, and although he was quite distinguished, he was very informal. I liked him immediately.
I turned to Lee and said, “It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Radziwill.”
She nodded and smiled.
Mrs. Kennedy walked over to me and said, “It was so nice to arrive in Athens without all the press around.” She glanced at Agent Jeffries and said, “It was awful in Rome. There were photographers everywhere and all I could hear was”—she changed to a higher-pitched voice with an Italian accent—“‘Jack-ie, smile! Over here Jackie! Smile!’”
I could tell the incident bothered her, and the indication was that Jeffries hadn’t done enough to protect her from the overzealous paparazzi.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Kennedy. We’ve made the Greek officials aware that this is meant to be a private visit for you, and we’ll do our best to keep the press at bay.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hill. I do appreciate that.”
I proceeded to another area of the villa to confer with Agent Jeffries about the incident, and to give Mrs. Kennedy and her guests some privacy. Jeffries explained the incident, much as Mrs. Kennedy had, without making any excuses. Mrs. Kennedy was unharmed, and that’s what mattered.
I walked outside to the front of the villa, and ran into Ken Giannoules.
“Clint, you won’t believe what just happened.” He had a look of bewilderment on his face.
“What? Is everything okay?”
“Yes, everything’s fine,” Ken said. “I was standing in the doorway when Mrs. Kennedy came up to me and asked, ‘Mr. Giannoules, is the lorry coming soon?’ I assumed she meant the truck bringing the luggage so I said, ‘Yes, Mrs. Kennedy, the luggage is on its way and will be here shortly.’”
“Did she seem upset that it was taking too long?” I asked.
Ken laughed. “No, not at all. She was just questioning. What I don’t understand, and can’t believe, is that she knew who I was, and she called me by name, and pronounced it perfectly. I’ve never met her before.”
“I think I may have mentioned to her that I would be assisted on the advance in Greece by an agent named Ken Giannoules whose family came from Greece,” I said. “But that was before I left for Paris. It is rather remarkable that she would remember.”
That really made an impression on Ken, and from that moment on, he had a newfound respect for Mrs. Kennedy.
Agent Jeffries remained at the estate, along with another agent who stood post overnight, while Giannoules and I returned to our hotel in Athens.
We got up early the next morning and drove back to the villa. The sun was just rising, but as we got to a point where we could see the bay below Nomikos’s villa, I could hardly believe my eyes.
“Oh crap,” I said. “What the hell is going on?”
The Northwind was anchored just offshore, and surrounding it were dozens of fishing boats, small sailboats, and other small craft. The boats were filled with tourists and press, eager to snap a photograph of Mrs. Kennedy. Fortunately, the Greek navy was well aware of the situation.
The navy boats were patrolling the area, forcing the tourist boats farther and farther away from shore. We could hear them yelling, “Not stop here! Not stop here! Mrs. Kennedy!” I was pleased that they were doing their best to deny access to the boats, but dismayed that, by announcing Mrs. Kennedy’s name, they were confirming that she was indeed in the residence at the time.
At one point, one of the boats containing members of the press tried to ignore the navy’s orders and the navy boat responded by ramming into the press boat. Later, members of the press complained to me about the “excessive aggressive behavior” by the Greek security forces.
I was pleased with the way the Greek navy had handled the situation and responded to the press, “Don’t try to enter areas in which you are not wanted, and you won’t have any more problems.”
They were not so pleased with my response.
By the time Mrs. Kennedy awakened, the navy had pushed the intruding boats a mile away from shore. She and her guests were able to relax at the villa, sunbathing and swimming in privacy, before it was time to board the Northwind.
The 130-foot Northwind was a magnificent motor yacht with polished teak decks and five staterooms for its onboard guests. Ten crew members took care of the yacht and the needs of the guests. Agent Jeffries would remain aboard the yacht with Mrs. Kennedy, while Giannoules and I would travel on the mainland by car on this portion of the trip to ensure the security of the area to be visited.
The first stop was Epidaurus, on the Peloponnesus, and which had the best-preserved open-air theater in Greece, dating back to the fifth century B.C. Epidaurus was just thirty-five nautical miles from Kavouri, but by car it was close to one hundred miles, along windy, seaside roads. It was a beautiful drive, but both Giannoules and I would have much rather been on the yacht.
We arrived at the harbor to find the mayor of Epidaurus and the entire village waiting for Mrs. Kennedy’s arrival. Even though Mrs. Kennedy would only be in Epidaurus for a few hours, the villagers had whitewashed all the buildings and had strewn flowers throughout the streets to welcome her.
A special rehearsal of a Greek tragedy had been arranged for her and her guests. We were just a few small figures in the enormous amphitheater, which could hold more than fourteen thousand people. Mrs. Kennedy seemed awestruck as she sat on the 2,400-year-old stone bench absorbed in the play, while I sat nearby, not understanding a word that was being said.
Later, as we walked back to the yacht, Mrs. Kennedy said, “What did you think of the play, Mr. Hill?”
“Well,” I laughed, “I must say I didn’t understand one word, Mrs. Kennedy. Did you enjoy it?”
She laughed and said, “Oh, I loved it. I couldn’t understand a word, either, but I’m familiar with the play, and just being able to see it in that ancient theater, of which I’ve read about since I was a girl, was just so special.”
“That’s what matters, then,” I said. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
Agent Jeffries and I boarded the Northwind with Mrs. Kennedy and the Radziwills, and we prepared to depart Epidaurus. Ken would now have some free time, while we were on the yacht wi
th Mrs. Kennedy for the rest of the trip. Ken’s grandmother had recently died, so he was able to attend her fortieth day memorial service. The Greek government was so willing to do anything to help us, that they provided Ken with a Renault convertible with royal license plates to attend the service.
We had mapped out an itinerary prior to Mrs. Kennedy’s arrival, but she had her own ideas. I got the feeling that she and Jeffries were often at odds, largely due to the difference in their personalities. He was a rigid, play-by-the-rules fellow, and she was free-spirited and spontaneous.
She came to me and said, “Agent Hill, you told me that the job of the Secret Service is to allow me to do the things I want to do.”
“Yes, Mrs. Kennedy, that is correct.”
“Well, not everyone seems to understand that.”
I knew what she was trying to tell me, yet it wasn’t my place to tell a supervising agent how to do his job.
“Mrs. Kennedy,” I said, “as long as you let us know what you want to do, we will make sure you are safe. If you want to change your plans, we will adjust.”
“I’d like to go water-skiing.”
“Then, Mrs. Kennedy, if you want to go water-skiing, you will go water-skiing.”
And that is what she did. For nearly an hour, Mrs. Kennedy water-skied off the back of a small motorboat, expertly weaving back and forth across the wake on a single ski, while I sat in the back of the boat, hoping I didn’t have to go in after her. Having learned how to swim by being thrown into the Missouri River at the age of six, I had never water-skied in my life, nor had I seen anyone do it up close.
The Greek navy ships managed to keep the press boats far enough away so she was able to water-ski in relative privacy, with no photos.
She had a constant smile on her face, her eyes squinting from the sun and spray, and when she finally had had enough, she simply let go of the rope and slowly sunk into the water. The Greek crew member that was driving the small craft steered the boat around quickly and pulled alongside her.
She was slightly out of breath, and dripping wet, as I helped her into the boat and handed her a dry towel.
“Thank you! That was so much fun!” she exclaimed as she wiped her face with the towel. Her eyes were sparkling with amusement as she added, “Mr. Hill, why don’t you have a go?”
I laughed. “No, thank you, Mrs. Kennedy. I’d need a few lessons before I could compete with you.”
She laughed and we sped around, back to the Northwind, where Stash and Lee had been watching from the deck. Mrs. Kennedy seemed so relaxed, and I was happy we had been able to accommodate her desires to water-ski in the Aegean Sea.
Despite Ken Giannoules’s concern that his formal Greek wasn’t up to par, the Greek government couldn’t have been more cooperative, even going so far as closing off to tourists the tiny island of Delos, where according to Greek mythology, Apollo was born, so Mrs. Kennedy could wander the ruins in privacy. We sailed to the charming island of Poros, and on to Hydra, where enthusiastic crowds waved and church bells rang as the yacht entered the quaint harbor.
We had planned to sail from Hydra to Mykonos at 6:00 P.M., but Mrs. Kennedy and Prince and Princess Radziwill were having such a good time at a local taverna that they decided they wanted to stay. Jeffries and I sat at a table nearby, trying to remain as unobtrusive as possible.
A group of locals in native costume were singing folk songs and the entire restaurant was clapping and singing along, Mrs. Kennedy included. As they started to dance the kalamatianos, Mrs. Kennedy jumped out of her seat and joined the circle, laughing, and singing and dancing. We finally left Hydra at midnight, bound for Mykonos.
The next morning, we awoke at anchor in the picturesque harbor of Mykonos, where the turquoise sea and the cloudless azure sky framed the freshly whitewashed buildings stacked on the hillside like an exquisite painting. Mrs. Kennedy was enchanted. Finally, the yacht and the small flotilla of navy ships returned to the villa in Kavouri.
After four days on the yacht, Mrs. Kennedy was eager to see the sights for which Athens was so well-known—the Parthenon and the Acropolis. With the prime minister’s wife, Mrs. Karamanlis, as her tour guide, Mrs. Kennedy walked up the rugged rocks and steps that led to the Parthenon, the classic Greek temple that was built in honor of the goddess Athena. As the late afternoon sun cast a warm glow on the Doric columns, Mrs. Kennedy smiled graciously for the tourists and press who snapped photographs constantly during her hourlong visit. I followed closely behind her, barely noticing the historic ruins as I scanned the swarm of people, looking for anybody or anything unusual. When somebody would get just a bit too close, I’d reach out my arm as a barrier, ready to push someone if needed, but fortunately, the people were friendly and we had no problems at all.
“I hope these sights are retained forever,” Mrs. Kennedy remarked to Mrs. Karamanlis. I could tell that she was sincerely impressed, and despite the curious onlookers, she had truly enjoyed herself.
On Tuesday, June 13, Mrs. Kennedy and Prince and Princess Radziwill went to the Tatoi Palace for a private luncheon hosted by King Paul and Queen Frederika. The ten-thousand-acre royal summer residence was located just outside of Athens. After an exchange of gifts, we were preparing to leave the estate when Prince Constantine, the twenty-one-year-old heir to the Greek throne, drove up in his brand-new, dark blue convertible Mercedes sports car.
“Would you like to go for a ride, Mrs. Kennedy?” he asked.
“I’d love to!” she said. She glanced quickly at me, and without saying anything, hopped into the car, and the prince sped off.
Oh God.
Ken Giannoules had rejoined us for the mainland security portion of the trip and was waiting near the follow-up car. “Get in the car,” I said calmly to Giannoules, as I strode to the car. Nick Damigos was already in the driver’s seat with the engine running, so I jumped in the passenger seat, while Giannoules climbed into the back.
The king’s military aide, a colonel, had been standing nearby, and shouted, “I’m coming with you!”
The colonel jumped in the back and Nick stomped on the gas.
“Whatever you do, don’t lose him,” I said. The prince was driving so fast that we had already lost sight of the blue convertible, but we finally caught up just as he was turning onto the main road outside the palace.
I could see Mrs. Kennedy laughing as the car turned and the prince once again put it into high gear.
We had no idea where the prince was taking her, so we simply followed the racing blue car around the curving roads toward the port of Piraeus. Fortunately, Nick Damigos knew these roads well and was able to keep up with the prince and Mrs. Kennedy, so they were never out of our sight.
After stopping at the Royal Yacht Club to show her his sailboat, in which he had won a gold medal in the 1960 Olympics, Prince Constantine drove Mrs. Kennedy back to Nomikos’s villa at Kavouri.
We pulled up behind the convertible and Mrs. Kennedy had an enormous grin on her face. She knew she had put us to the test, and she loved it.
The colonel, however, was furious. He stormed over to Prince Constantine and bawled him out. I couldn’t understand the exact words in Greek, but there was no mistaking the message he was sending to the young man. Sheepishly, the prince got out of the car and said good-bye to Mrs. Kennedy as the colonel got into the passenger seat of the sports car, the veins in his neck still bulging. I felt sorry for the poor kid and was quite sure his ride back to the palace wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.
I knew it wouldn’t be the last time she tried something like this. She despised schedules and loved to live spontaneously. For the agents who protected her, it was our job to react to whatever situation developed.
On June 15, we all boarded a commercial flight back to Washington and as the wheels went up, I finally breathed a sigh of relief. We had managed to keep the press at bay, the gawkers were kept under control, and I would be able to report to the president that Mrs. Kennedy had not crossed paths with Aristot
le Onassis. Not yet, at any rate.
Mrs. Kennedy and Prince Constantine of Greece
7
A Summer in Hyannis Port
President and Mrs. Kennedy leave church in Hyannis Port, escorted by Clint Hill (right)
In the seven months since I had been assigned to Mrs. Kennedy, I had spent eighty percent of the time away from Washington, D.C., and from my family. Palm Beach, Middleburg, Paris, Greece. Now I had to tell my wife, who was pregnant with our second child, that I would be gone all summer, with Mrs. Kennedy, in Hyannis Port. This did not go over well.
I had come to realize that the Kennedy family had a regular routine when it came to holidays. Christmas, New Year’s, and Easter were always in Palm Beach; May 29, the president’s birthday, was usually celebrated in Hyannis Port, marking the beginning of the summer; Labor Day weekend was often spent at Hammersmith Farm in Newport, Rhode Island, the home of Jacqueline Kennedy’s mother and stepfather; then, Thanksgiving it was back to Hyannis Port.
The summer months were all about Hyannis Port. For the extended Kennedy family, this was home, and this was where all the activity took place. And boy was there activity. Rose and Joe, their children, and God knows how many grandchildren—the number was always rising—were gathered together, and there was always something going on. Touch football, waterskiing, swimming, tennis, golf, sailing. I had never seen such a close family, or a family with so much energy and competitiveness. Their laughter and cohesiveness was contagious, and there I was, right in the middle of it all.
Hyannis Port is a sleepy village on the south side of Cape Cod, about seventy miles from Boston. President Kennedy’s father owned a large, rambling, white shingled house that was the centerpiece for the family’s gatherings. Located at the very end of Marchant Avenue, overlooking the entrance to Lewis Bay off Nantucket Sound, the home was three stories, plus a lower basement level that opened to the expansive lawn leading down to the beach. A covered porch wrapped around the house from the front door to the ocean side of the house, providing an outdoor living area with a great view of the frequent family football games, sailing, and beach activities. There was a circular driveway with a tall flagpole in the middle, where the American flag was proudly displayed, constantly flapping with the ocean breeze. When the president was in residence, the presidential flag was also raised. Alongside the driveway was a large, flat piece of lawn that was ideal for landing the presidential helicopter.