installation, the death of a great head of state, the sinking of a battleship in the Persian Gulf, a devastating earthquake, flood, fire, pestilence. Anything else. But Christian, his face so pale, said, 'Yes.'
And it seemed to Kennedy that some long illness, some lurking fever, crested over. He felt his body bow and then was aware that Christian was beside him, as if to shield him from the rest of the people in the room because his face was streaming with tears and he was gasping for breath.
Then all the people in the room seemed to come close, the doctor plunged the needle into his arm, and Jefferson and Christian were lowering his body onto the bed.
They waited for Francis Kennedy to recover from shock. Finally, when he had regained some control over himself, he gave them instructions. To commence all the necessary staff sections, to set up liaisons with congressional leaders and to clear the crowds from the streets of the city and from around the White House. And to bar all media. He said he would meet with them at 7:00 A.M.
Just before daybreak, Kennedy made everyone leave. Then Jefferson brought in the customary tray of hot chocolate and biscuits. 'I'll be right outside the door,' Jefferson said. 'I'll check with you every half hour if that is OK, Mr. President.' Kennedy nodded and Jefferson left.
Kennedy extinguished all the lights. The room was gray with approaching daybreak. He forced himself to think clearly. His grief was the result of a calculated attack by an enemy and he tried to repulse that grief. He looked at the long oval windows, remembering as he always did that they were special glass, he could look out but nobody could see in, and they were bulletproof. Also the vista he faced, the White House grounds, the buildings beyond, were occupied by Secret Service personnel, with the park equipped with special beams and dog patrols. He himself was always safe; Christian had kept his promise. But there had been no way to keep Theresa safe.
It was over, she was dead. And now after the initial wave of grief he wondered at his calmness. Was it because she had insisted on living her own life after her mother died? Refused to share his life in the White House because she was far to the left of both parties and therefore was his political opponent? Was it a lack of love for his daughter?
He absolved himself. He loved Theresa and she was dead. But the impact had been lessened because he had been preparing himself for that death in the last days. His unconscious and cunning paranoia, rooted in the Kennedy history, had sent him warning signals.
There was the coordination of the killing of the Pope and the hijacking of the plane that held the daughter of the leader of the most powerful nation on earth. There was the delay in the demands until the assassin had been in place and captured in the United States. Then the deliberate arrogance of the demand for the release of the assassin of the Pope.
By a supreme effort of will Francis Kennedy banished all personal feeling from his mind. He tried to follow a logical line. It was really all so simple: a Pope and a young girl had lost their lives. Objectively viewed, this fact was essentially not terribly important on a world scale.
Religious leaders can be canonized, young girls mourned with sweet regret.
But there was something else. People the world over would have a contempt for the United States and its leaders. Other attacks would be launched in ways not foreseen. Authority spat upon cannot keep order. Authority taunted and defeated cannot presume to hold together the fabric of its particular civilization. How could he defend it?
The door of the bedroom opened and light flooded in from the hall. But the bedroom now aglow with the rising sun blotted it out.
Jefferson, in fresh shirt and jacket, wheeled the breakfast table through and prepared it for Kennedy. He gave Kennedy a searching look, as if inquiring whether to stay, then finally went out.
Kennedy felt tears on his face and knew suddenly that they were the tears of impotence. Again he realized that his grief was gone and wondered. Then he felt consciously overwhelming his brain the waves of blood carrying terrible rage, even a rage at his staff, who had failed him, a rage he had never known and which all his life he had disdained in others. He tried to resist it.
He thought now of how his staff had tried to comfort him. Christian had shown his personal affection shared over long years, Christian had embraced him, helped him to his bed. Oddblood Gray, usually so cool and impersonal, had gripped him by the shoulders and just whispered, 'I'm sorry, I'm goddamn sorry.' Arthur Wix and Eugene Dazzy had been more reserved. They had touched him briefly and murmured something he could not hear. And Kennedy had noted the fact that Dazzy as his chief of staff had been one of the first to leave the bedroom to get things organized in the rest of the White House. Wix had left with Dazzy. As head of the National Security
Council he had urgent work, and perhaps he was afraid of hearing some wild order of retaliation from a man overwrought by a father's grief.
In the short time before Jefferson came back with the breakfast, Francis Kennedy knew his life would be completely different, perhaps out of his control. He tried to exclude anger from his reasoning process.
He remembered strategy sessions in which such events were discussed. He remembered Iran, remembered Iraq.
His mind went back almost forty years. He was a seven year-old boy playing on the sandy shores of Hyannisport with the children of Uncle Jack and Uncle Bobby. And the two uncles, so tall and slim and fair, had played with them a few minutes before ascending into their waiting helicopter like gods. As a child he had always liked his uncle Jack best because he had known all his secrets. He had once seen him kiss a woman, then lead her into his bedroom. And he had seen them come out an hour later.
He had never forgotten the look on Uncle Jack's face, such a happy look as if he had received some unforgettable gift. They had never noticed the little boy hidden behind one of the tables in the hallway. At that time of innocence the Secret Service was not so close to the President.
And there were other scenes out of his childhood, vivid tableaux of power.
His two uncles being treated like royalty by men and women much older than themselves. The music starting when Uncle Jack stepped out on the lawn, all faces turning toward him, the cessation of speech until he spoke. His two uncles sharing their power and their grace in wearing it. How confidently they waited for the helicopters to drop out of the sky, how safe they seemed surrounded by strong men who shielded them from hurt, how they were whisked up to the heavens, how grandly they descended from the heights…
Their smiles gave light, their godhead flashed knowledge and command from their eyes, the magnetism radiated from their bodies. And with all this they took the time to play with the little boys and girls who were their sons and daughters, their nieces and nephews, playing with the utmost seriousness, gods who visited tiny mortals in their keeping. And then. And then…
He had watched on television, with his weeping mother, the funeral of Uncle Jack, the gun carriage, the riderless horse, the millions of grief-stricken people, and had seen his little playmate as one of the actors on the world stage. And his uncle Bobby and his aunt Jackie. His mother at some point took him into her arms and said, 'Don't look, don't look,' and he was blinded by her long hair and sticky tears.
Now, the shaft of yellow light from the open door cut through his memories and he saw that Jefferson had wheeled in a fresh table. Kennedy said quietly, 'Take that away and give me an hour. Don't interrupt me before then.' He had rarely spoken so abruptly or sternly and Jefferson gave him an appraising look. Then he said, 'Yes, Mr. President,' and wheeled the table back out and closed the door.
The sun was strong enough to light the bedroom yet not strong enough to give it heat. But the throb of Washington entered the room. The television trucks were filling the streets outside the gates and countless car motors hummed like a giant swarm of insects. Planes flew constantly overhead, all military-airspace had been closed to civilian traffic.
He tried to fight the overwhelming rage, the bitter bile in his mouth. What was supposed to be the greatest triumph of his life had proved to be his greatest misfortune. He had been elected to the presidency and his wife had died before he assumed the office. His great programs for a utopian America had been eroded by Congress. And now his daughter had paid the price for his ambition and his dreams. Nauseating saliva made him gag as it ran over his tongue and lips. His body seemed to fill with a poison that weakened him in every limb and the feeling that only rage could make him well, and at that moment something happened in his brain, an electric charge fighting the sickness of his bodily cells. So much energy flowed through his body that he flung his arms outward, fists clenched to the now sun-filled windows.
He had power, he would use that power. He could make his enemies tremble, he could make their saliva bitter in their mouths. He could sweep away all the small insignificant men with their creatures of. iron, all those
