Giancana’s shifty eyes wandered along the line of committee members and settled on their senior counsel as he turned over to the last page. There was no doubt he was a good-looking fellow, with a round face that reminded Giancana of those plump puzzi on the church ceiling back in Palermo. But he wasn’t as good-looking as his brother, the President. The older man had what the media called charisma. Giancana reckoned that he too had charisma even if he wasn’t as handsome as Jack Kennedy.
Then his lawyer’s elbow brought him back from his daydreaming. “He asked you a question, Sam.”
Giancana said loudly and with sincerity, “I respectfully decline to answer under the Fifth Amendment on the grounds that an answer might tend to incriminate me.”
Bobby Kennedy glanced briefly at the cameras then back to Giancana.
“Mr. Giancana. Do you realize that you have pleaded the Fifth Amendment in response to thirty-one questions from this committee?”
Giancana shrugged, smiling amiably. “If you say so, counsellor.”
Kennedy wasn’t smiling. “Would you tell us, if you have any opposition from anybody, that you dispose of them by having them stuffed in a trunk? Is that what you do, Mr. Giancana?”
When Giancana sat silent Kennedy picked up the next statement and started to read it aloud. And in that moment Sam Giancana had what he thought was an inspiration.
In the morning, before the Las Vegas sun was scorching the dusty city, the cavalcade went out to the Sahara Country Club, and the President drove the first ball off at the first tee and handed the driver to Frank Sinatra. It was a pro-amateur match in aid of charity and the driver was to be auctioned later in the clubhouse.
In the early evening the President spent almost an hour at the University of Nevada and then went on to Paradise Road and the Convention Center to start the basketball game. Two hours later he was back at the University campus, but this time in a tuxedo and black tie for the concert in the Judy Bayley Theater. It was an Aaron Copland and Samuel Barber programme, but the promoters had been aware of the fact that John F. Kennedy could be restive at orchestral concerts and they had included a lush piece of Korngold to go with the Adagio for Strings before the interval. But despite this, anxious eyes noticed that the President was paying rather more attention to the pretty, dark-haired girl sitting two seats along from him than to the all-American music.
In the interval one of his aides made the usual diplomatic excuses about the war injury to his back, and the President was driven to the airport where Airforce One was waiting for him. A different but equally diplomatic aide made out a press pass for the pretty, dark-haired girl who now sat with the secretaries and radio operators in the main cabin. She had been granted a half-hour interview with the President in his private quarters on the plane. She made no notes because she wasn’t a journalist, but in her handbag was a torn page from a diary, with the President’s direct-line telephone number.
For several months Boyd helped smooth out the routine snags that occurred between the two stylistically different intelligence organizations as they placed their differing emphases on one aspect or another of joint operations. And translated the objectives of one to the other when their intentions appeared to be in conflict. But it wasn’t until mid-April of the following year that a serious problem arose. Schultz called Boyd at his apartment and they met in the Washington Hilton for a drink.
“We need your help, Jimmy. You’ll have guessed what it’s about.”
“The newspaper headlines. Cuba.”
“Yep. It’s a total disaster. I saw the situation reports coming in during the night. Everything that could go wrong went wrong in spades.”
“I doubt if we can do much in that area.”
“That isn’t where we need the help. The President’s going berserk. Blaming it all on the CIA.”
“Wasn’t it a CIA operation?”
“Sure it was. Eisenhower gave the go-ahead and Kennedy had to pick it up when he took over. But he made it into a half-assed operation. Took away air-cover and resources. He knows that he’s got to carry the can in public but behind the scenes he’s gonna chop off heads. And most of them will be CIA heads. And the Kennedys aren’t just sticking to the Cuban mess. They’re gonna settle a lot of old scores with that as the excuse.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Tell your people that a good word for us in the White House right now will get London a lot of cooperation in the future. It’s raining blood in Langley and it’s gonna get worse in the next few days. Every country in the world is going to enjoy hauling us over the coals in the United Nations. OK, we can take it, but if somebody doesn’t stop what’s going on in the CIA at the moment the damage is going to take ten, maybe fifteen years to repair.”
“What exactly do you want?”
“A phone call to the White House from somebody right at the top in Westminster. No need to pull any punches, but just pointing out that life has to go on, and damage to the CIA is damage to the whole of the free world.”
“That’s hardly likely to make them stop putting Langley through the mincer.”
“I know that. All we ask is that the White House stop in their tracks for just five minutes and think about what they’ll do when they’ve carved up Langley.”
“I’ll see what I can do. But it won’t be the PM, he’s far too shrewd for that. Maybe Selwyn Lloyd or Lord Home could be
