Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir (25 page)

I could see that she had stiffened up a bit, but as soon as our eyes met, she relaxed and held my gaze as if to say,
Thank you.

Along with the press, seven thousand local citizens had shown up to greet Mrs. Kennedy at the Shalimar Gardens when we arrived just before sundown. Covering more than forty acres, the exquisite seventeenth-century terraced gardens were built by Shah Jahan, the same Mughal ruler who had commissioned the Taj Mahal in Agra, India, and they were truly impressive. Marble pavilions stood like thrones amid manicured flower beds overflowing with countless varieties of trees, fruit-bearing plants, and seasonal flowers, all of which were watered by an ingenious canal system. It was truly an oasis on the outskirts of Lahore, with more than four hundred fountains, cascading water, and shallow pools mirroring the brilliant fuchsia, violet, and yellow flowering plants and well-tended lawns.

As the sun began to set, the trees lit up with thousands of twinkling lights, and the effect was magical. President Ayub Khan had walked with Mrs. Kennedy through the gardens and urged her to say something to the people who had come to see her. I was surprised when she obliged, and stepped up to a microphone that had been set up under one of the pavilions.

“I’m so happy to be here today,” she said. “All my life I dreamed of coming to the Shalimar Gardens. I never thought I’d be lucky enough to have it happen, especially after yesterday’s thunderstorms. I thought fate would never get me here, but it is even lovelier than I’d dreamed. I only wish my husband could be with me and that we had something this romantic to show President Ayub when he came to our country.”

The press was furiously taking notes and frantically setting up cameras as this was the first public statement Mrs. Kennedy had made since beginning the trip eleven days earlier. She seemed to be very much at ease as she continued to speak to the appreciative crowd that had gathered in the gardens.

“I must say I’m profoundly impressed by the reverence which you in Pakistan have for your art and for your culture and for the use that you make of it now. My own countrymen too, have a pride in their tradition so I think that as I stand in these gardens, which were built long before my country was born, that’s one more thing that binds us together and which always will. We’ll always share an appreciation for the finer things. Thank you.”

Later, at the dinner reception, Mrs. Kennedy couldn’t stop talking about everything that had happened throughout the day, and how it would always remain in her memory.

“Today at the horse show, I was so impressed with the daring riding which took place—all the qualities I have always admired, so daring and brave.” She seemed to be somewhat melancholy, and added, “I bring a message of esteem and friendship from my husband, and I hope I will be forgiven if I say that he has those qualities, too. I am only sorry that he is not here in your country, where he would feel so much at home.”

I was so proud of her. I knew how much she hated being in the spotlight. She would have much preferred to attend the horse show and walk through the Shalimar Gardens as an ordinary tourist, but she accepted her role graciously, and the result was that she had created a respect for America that hadn’t existed before. In the eyes of the Pakistani people, Jacqueline Kennedy represented all Americans. And they loved us.

We were all exhausted by the time we got back to the governor’s residence. But Mrs. Kennedy had one last request of me.

“Oh, Mr. Hill, wasn’t today just wonderful?”

“Yes, Mrs. Kennedy, it certainly was special.”

Her eyes were weary, and her makeup had all but been worn off.

“May I ask you to do something?”

“Of course. What do you need?”

“Can you please clear the schedule for tomorrow morning? I just want a day to sleep a little bit late, and more than anything I want to ride Sardar just once before I have to leave him. It’s all I can think about.”

“No problem, Mrs. Kennedy. I’ll take care of it.”

She grabbed my hands and said, “Oh, Mr. Hill, I haven’t had a chance to tell you this, but I’m so very glad you’re now the Agent in Charge. You understand me.”

“I just want you to be happy, Mrs. Kennedy. Happy and safe.”

“Good night, Mr. Hill.”

“Good night, Mrs. Kennedy.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, Mrs. Kennedy slept late, got dressed in her riding attire, and rode Sardar for the first time.

I had seen her ride many times, of course, on many different horses, but there was something special about the way she rode Sardar. It was truly like they had a unique connection. Sardar had captured her heart. They understood each other.

When she dismounted, she had a look of sheer joy on her face.

Rubbing his neck, she praised Sardar and kept telling him how wonderful he was.

Then she turned to me and said, “Mr. Hill, Sardar is mine, all mine. No one is going to be allowed to ride him except me.”

T
HE NEXT STOP
was Rawalpindi, the temporary capital of Pakistan. The scene in Rawalpindi along the six-mile motorcade route from the airport was literally wall-to-wall people. The four hundred thousand residents of Rawalpindi apparently had all turned out to welcome this American guest of honor. There were bagpipe bands, marching bands with drums and trumpets, and it seemed like every person along the route was waving an American flag. At various points people held up signs that said,
LONG LIVE MRS. KENNEDY
.

The welcome was warm, friendly, and
loud.
Her only other activity for the day was a private dinner, a garden party, with President Ayub Khan celebrating Pakistan Day, similar to our Fourth of July.

The next morning, our gracious hosts—President Ayub Khan, his military aide who had been so helpful throughout the trip, and Ambassador McConaughy—accompanied us to the Rawalpindi airport as we departed for Peshawar.

I had come to really like the Pakistani president—he was gregarious, fun, and sincere. On the day of our departure, he was wearing a black fur cap called a karakul, also known as Jinnah cap, which was common attire for Pakistani men.

“I love your cap, Mr. President!” Mrs. Kennedy exclaimed as soon as she saw it. “Why haven’t I seen you in this before?”

President Ayub Khan took off the cap and playfully placed it on her head. “It’s yours, Mrs. Kennedy.”

She laughed and said, “Oh, thank you. I must get one for President Kennedy, too.”

“I’ll take care of it,” President Ayub said with a laugh. “We’ll have an assortment of karakuls sent to President Kennedy.”

W
E LANDED FORTY-FIVE
minutes later at an airport near Peshawar that was the same spot from which American Gary Powers had taken off for his ill-fated flight over the Soviet Union—the flight that ended with him a prisoner of the Soviets and the United States embarrassed into acknowledging flying spy planes over that country. It was an event that caused immense tension between our
two countries and resulted in Premier Khrushchev refusing to talk to President Eisenhower at a summit meeting in Paris in 1960. This piece of history was not lost on Mrs. Kennedy.

Once again there were large crowds upon our arrival, but in Peshawar there were noticeably fewer women in attendance. The people in this region tended to be far more conservative in their Muslim traditions, and many considered it inappropriate for women to be seen in public. Thus it was the men who came out in droves to welcome Mrs. Kennedy.

As soon as we got settled into our rooms at the governor’s residence, Mrs. Kennedy came to me with a look of grave concern on her face and a piece of paper in her hands.

Ever since President Ayub had presented Sardar to Mrs. Kennedy, Ambassador McConaughy had a staff of people working on the necessary arrangements to get the horse to the United States as soon as possible with as little muss and fuss as possible. To make matters more complicated, I also learned that just prior to Mrs. Kennedy’s departure from India, she had been given two tiger cubs, courtesy of Air India. According to the ambassador, she envisioned keeping them on the White House lawn.

Tigers roaming freely on the White House lawn. I hadn’t yet broached that subject with her or anybody back in Washington.

“Mr. Hill,” she said as she handed me the paper with her handwritten notes on it. “I need to get this message to the president—I think he is in California, in Palm Springs. I don’t want anyone to know about it, but I need him to get it as soon as possible.”

“Sure, Mrs. Kennedy, I’ll take care of it right away.”

I went straight to the embassy, found the ambassador, and requested he send the secure message to President Kennedy immediately.

FROM: THE FIRST LADY
TO: THE PRESIDENT
///SECRETEYESONLY///

DEAR JACK,

IT SEEMS SO RUDE TO PAKISTANIS TO SUGGEST THAT THEIR BEAUTIFUL HORSE HAS HOOF AND MOUTH DISEASE WHEN OBVIOUSLY HE HASN’T A GERM IN THE WORLD.

HE IS SO BEAUTIFUL AND HIGH STRUNG IT WOULD BE CRUEL TO QUARANTINE HIM IN NEW YORK FOR THIRTY DAYS. CANNOT BEAR TO BE PARTED FROM HIM THAT LONG AS COULD SHOW HIM THIS SPRING AND START SCHOOLING HIM IMMEDIATELY.

COULD YOU NOT HAVE VETERINARIAN EXAMINE HIM IN NEW YORK AND SAY HE WAS FREE FROM ALL DISEASE AND HAVE HIM GO STRAIGHT TO GLENORA.

IT WOULD BE LIKE LEAVING LEE IN QUARANTINE TO PART WITH HIM – ESPECIALLY AS HE HAS BEEN SO FRIGHTENED PAST FEW DAYS BY PHOTOGRAPHERS – AND PLANE TRIP WILL UPSET HIM.

YOU CAN LEAVE TIGER CUBS IN QUARANTINE AS THEY ARE TOO FEROCIOUS TO PLAY WITH – SO WARN CAROLINE. PLEASE GET ORVILLE FREEMAN TO LET HIM IN QUICKLY – THEY HAVE PRINCE PHILLIP’S POLO PONIES. PHILLIP TOOK THEM RIGHT HOME – SO REALLY THINK THERE WOULD BE NO CRITICISM AND IT WOULD BE (UNFAIRLY) CRUEL TO ANIMALS IF YOU LET HIM BE LOCKED UP IN NEW YORK FOR THIRTY DAYS. HE WILL GET SICK THERE. ALL PRESS WILL SAY YOU WILL LOSE ASPCA VOTE FOREVER IF HE CAN’T COME STRAIGHT TO GLENORA.

LOVE JACKIE

I could just picture President Kennedy getting this message. He would read it and by the end he’d be laughing hysterically. Leave it to Mrs. Kennedy to find a political reason to convince the president to intervene on behalf of her beloved horse. He would read the note again, shaking his head in comic disbelief, and then he would do exactly what she wanted. There was no doubt in my mind that Sardar would be grazing at Glen Ora within a week. Hell, the damn horse would probably be in Washington before I was.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, we were off to the legendary Khyber Pass. We traveled from Peshawar up to the pass with a motorcade convoy of about ten cars occupied by staff and press. Riding in one of the cars near the back was Mrs. Kennedy’s
personal assistant, Provi Paredes. Poor Provi had a difficult time with heights, so when we began traveling up into the mountains on primitive roads with sheer thousand-foot drop-offs, she panicked. I was told later that she was screaming and carrying on so badly that the driver had no choice but to turn the car around and return her to Peshawar. She never saw the Khyber Pass.

Mrs. Kennedy, on the other hand, thoroughly enjoyed the thirty-four-mile thrill ride through the rugged mountains. Accompanied by the governor of West Pakistan and President Ayub Khan’s military aide, she was in a cheerful mood as we carefully navigated the hairpin turns. She thought it was a fantastic adventure.

We first arrived at the mud-walled Jamrud Fort, where bearded tribal leaders, wearing gun belts and daggers, greeted Mrs. Kennedy. Our two advance agents had worked out the details of our short visit with the Pakistan government representatives and the tribal leaders, and had agreements as to exactly what would happen. In honor of Mrs. Kennedy’s visit they had erected a large, multicolored tent at the point where the tribal territory began, and had a traditional welcoming ceremony in which they presented Mrs. Kennedy with some special gifts.

Agent Ron Pontius was one of the agents I had assigned to advance this portion of the trip. He was from the south side of Chicago, tough as nails, and I figured his previous experience was as good as any for dealing with these tribesmen. Just as the gift presentation was about to begin, Pontius pulled me aside.

“Clint,” he said. “We have a bit of a problem.”

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Well, they had told me they were going to present Mrs. Kennedy with some gifts. They’re going to give her an antique dagger in a decorative case . . . and a lamb. A baby lamb.”

“Oh crap. Not another damn animal to get back to the United States,” I said.

“Well, that’s what I thought. But I just found out that they’re going to present her with the lamb and then sacrifice it in front of her.”

“Oh, God.
Kill the lamb in front of her?
”

“Yeah. That’s what they said. They consider it an honor.”

If that happened, I’d be on the next plane to Washington, following in Jeffries’s footsteps.

“Ron, listen. We absolutely cannot let that happen. You’ve got to tell them they can present the lamb to her, but they cannot kill the damn thing until after
we leave. You guard that lamb with your life, and do not let her know what is going on.”