the American public responded to Theresa Kennedy with affection, even when it became known she was living with an Italian radical in Rome. There were pictures of them strolling the ancient streets of stone, kissing and holding hands; pictures of the balcony of the flat they shared. The young Italian lover was handsome; Theresa was pretty in her blondness with her pale milky Irish skin and the Kennedy satiny blue eyes. And her almost lanky Kennedy frame draped in casual Italian clothes made her so appealing that the caption beneath the photographs was drained of poison.
A news photo of her shielding her young Italian lover from Italian police clubs brought back long-buried feelings in older Americans, memories of that long-ago terrible day in Dallas.
She was a witty heroine. During the campaign she had been cornered by TV reporters and asked, “So you agreewith your father politically?” If she answered “yes” she would appear a hypocrite or a child manipulated by a power-hungry father. If she answered “no,” the headlines would indicate that she did not support her father in his race for the presidency. But she showed the Kennedy political genius. “Sure, he’s my dad,” she said, hugging her father. “And I know he’s a good guy. But if he does something I don’t like I’ll yell at him just as you reporters do.” It came off great on the tube. Her father loved her for it. And now she was in mortal danger.
If only she had remained close to him, if only she had been more of a loving daughter and lived with him at the White House, if only she had been less radical, none of this would be happening. And why did she have to have a foreign lover, a student radical who perhaps had given the hijacker crucial information? And then he laughed at himself. He was feeling the exasperation of a parent who wanted his child to be as little trouble as possible. He loved her, and he would save her. At least this was something he could fight against, not like the terrible long and painful death of his wife.
Now Eugene Dazzy appeared and told him it was time. They were waiting for him in the Cabinet Room.
When Kennedy entered, everyone stood up. He quickly motioned for them to be seated, but they surged around him to offer their sympathy. Kennedy made his way to the head of the long oval table and sat in the chair near the fireplace.
Two pure-white-light chandeliers bleached the rich brown of the table, glistened the black of the leather chairs, six to each side of the table, and more chairs along the back of the far wall. And there were other sconces of white light that shone from the walls. Next to the two windows that opened to the Rose Garden were two flags, the striped flag of theUnited States and the flag of the President, a field of deep blue filled with pale stars.
Kennedy’s staff took the seats nearest him, resting their information logs and memorandum sheets on the oval table. Farther down were the Cabinet members and the head of the CIA, and at the other end of the table, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, an Army general in full uniform, a gaudy color cutout in the somberly dressed group. Vice President Du Pray sat at the far side of the table, away from Kennedy, the only woman in the room. She wore a fashionable dark blue suit with a white silk blouse. Her handsome face was stern. The fragrance of the Rose Garden filled the room, seeping through the heavy curtains and drapes that covered glass-paneled doors. Below the drapes the aquamarine rug reflected green light into the room.
It was the CIA chief, Theodore Tappey, who gave the briefing. Tappey, who had once been head of the FBI, was not flamboyant or politically ambitious. And had never exceeded the CIA charter with risky, illegal or empire-building schemes. He had a great deal of credit with Kennedy’s personal staff, especially Christian Klee.
“In the few hours we had, we’ve come up with some hard information,” Tappey said. “The
A news photo of her shielding her young Italian lover from Italian police clubs brought back long-buried feelings in older Americans, memories of that long-ago terrible day in Dallas.
She was a witty heroine. During the campaign she had been cornered by TV reporters and asked, “So you agreewith your father politically?” If she answered “yes” she would appear a hypocrite or a child manipulated by a power-hungry father. If she answered “no,” the headlines would indicate that she did not support her father in his race for the presidency. But she showed the Kennedy political genius. “Sure, he’s my dad,” she said, hugging her father. “And I know he’s a good guy. But if he does something I don’t like I’ll yell at him just as you reporters do.” It came off great on the tube. Her father loved her for it. And now she was in mortal danger.
If only she had remained close to him, if only she had been more of a loving daughter and lived with him at the White House, if only she had been less radical, none of this would be happening. And why did she have to have a foreign lover, a student radical who perhaps had given the hijacker crucial information? And then he laughed at himself. He was feeling the exasperation of a parent who wanted his child to be as little trouble as possible. He loved her, and he would save her. At least this was something he could fight against, not like the terrible long and painful death of his wife.
Now Eugene Dazzy appeared and told him it was time. They were waiting for him in the Cabinet Room.
When Kennedy entered, everyone stood up. He quickly motioned for them to be seated, but they surged around him to offer their sympathy. Kennedy made his way to the head of the long oval table and sat in the chair near the fireplace.
Two pure-white-light chandeliers bleached the rich brown of the table, glistened the black of the leather chairs, six to each side of the table, and more chairs along the back of the far wall. And there were other sconces of white light that shone from the walls. Next to the two windows that opened to the Rose Garden were two flags, the striped flag of theUnited States and the flag of the President, a field of deep blue filled with pale stars.
Kennedy’s staff took the seats nearest him, resting their information logs and memorandum sheets on the oval table. Farther down were the Cabinet members and the head of the CIA, and at the other end of the table, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, an Army general in full uniform, a gaudy color cutout in the somberly dressed group. Vice President Du Pray sat at the far side of the table, away from Kennedy, the only woman in the room. She wore a fashionable dark blue suit with a white silk blouse. Her handsome face was stern. The fragrance of the Rose Garden filled the room, seeping through the heavy curtains and drapes that covered glass-paneled doors. Below the drapes the aquamarine rug reflected green light into the room.
It was the CIA chief, Theodore Tappey, who gave the briefing. Tappey, who had once been head of the FBI, was not flamboyant or politically ambitious. And had never exceeded the CIA charter with risky, illegal or empire-building schemes. He had a great deal of credit with Kennedy’s personal staff, especially Christian Klee.
“In the few hours we had, we’ve come up with some hard information,” Tappey said. “The
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