"On November 22, 1963, the Beatles’ second British album, With the Beatles, was released to precedent-shattering advance orders. In Dallas, some seven thousand miles away, a dynamic young President John F. Kennedy was felled by an assassin’s bullet. Suddenly, though neither knew it yet, America did, after all, need the Beatles."

Nicholas Schaffner, The British Invasion. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1983.

November 22, 1963

The doctor examined the face-down body of the President of the United States, prodding with an instrument and noting the way the areas touched reacted. He continued to do so a number of times over various parts, making notes in his log as he did.

The First Lady was there, looking on, showing concern. Normally, the doctor did such procedures alone, but she insisted on being with her husband.

He finished the last probe, then noted the official time for the log: Oh-Three-Four-Two hours, Eastern Standard Time.

"So give it to me straight, doc," said President Kennedy, his voice very grating especially at this hour of the morning. "just what the hell’s wrong here?"

"Well, sir," said the doctor as he straightened up, "you’ve managed to pick up a bronchial infection, with the resultant coughing you’ve done for the last few hours managing to aggravate your back problems. In short, one bad thing led to another."

"Aw crap," the President cursed. "So what’s the nex--" President Kennedy interrupted himself with a cough, followed by a moan as he reached for his back.

"I think between the First Lady," the doctor nodded to Jackie, "and the White House staff, you can probably get all the care you need right here in bed. Try not to overdo it too much for the next few weeks, get plenty of naps between business, and if the pain becomes overpowering I can prescribe a mild sedative, which will give you a little help in sleeping but won’t knock you out fully in case of an emergency."

"Maybe with those," said the President, "I can catch some sleep on the way to Dallas this morning."

"Mr. President," said the doctor with measured sternness, as he put his army uniform jacket back on, "as your physician I have to insist on bed rest. You are just going to have to let Andrews know that Air Force One is not going to Texas, at least not with you."

"Not that I don’t trust you," said President Kennedy as he rolled over, wincing at the pain but trying not to yelp, "but I’m not about to hand Texas to the Republicans next year. This trip’s pretty vital for this administration."

"I would think the health of the chief executive would also be vital for the administration," the doctor said, realizing afterwards how he might have said things in a way that were not good for his career, being so tired.

"Now Jack," said the First Lady, "can’t Lyndon go on alone? It’s his state, and he could probably do what he’d have to for you there."

"Oh sure," said the President, "if I put the whole thing in his hands I may as well have Dick Nixon stumping for me. I need to go on to Texas, and that’s—"

The pain got to be too much for him. Despite every effort not to do it, President Kennedy gave a cry.

The silence after the cry seemed entombing, before the President reached for the phone and started to cancel his plans.

By the time the arrangements were made, Jackie was smiling. President Kennedy just looked at the doctor and said, "Give me the goddamned pills."

February 9, 1964

Brian Epstein did not like the looks John Lennon was giving him.

Ringo Starr and George Harrison noticed this and tried to get Brian to look elsewhere, but with all the screaming girls on the other side of the curtain they had to actually go over to him to save their manager.

Paul McCartney, too practiced by now at this, went over to John. "Cor," he said, "you’re not going to start in with that now, are you?"

"Not now, Paul," replied John, "but soon, aye."

"Aw man, listen to yourself. He’s doing a fab job, getting us these gigs. Me old man would have sold his soul to Jack Scratch himself if he could have played where we’ve been."

"Yeah, Paul," sneered John, "your dad always did come cheap."

"Oooh! Now hold it right there. No reason to go off on ‘im now. Just stay mad at one person, or at least at someone who’s here."

"That’s just it. I don’t want to be ‘just here,’ mate."

"Oh Christ, not another bit about America."

"All that talk about the advance men not building it up, how it’s just not quite the time. The crap’s fast and heavy, Macca. I hope yer willies are up to it."

Paul rolled his eyes. "Look, you git, listen. Listen! Most of Munich is out there in that audience, and someone told me most of West Germany was shut down tonight to catch this on the telly. That’s a good bit of the Continent wanting to see us."

"Vunderbar," John said with a near spit.

"Hey, if it’s any comfort, things this big in the west, Voice of America usually sends it over the wall, so we’re getting the other Germans too. And it is, though technically, true that it’s America that’s listening to us."

"Oh aye, America, but not Americans."

"Haben einen gut timen?" the announcer warming up the crowd shouted, and the screams increased.

"Sounds like their getting ready for us," said Paul. "If you’re going to get ugly, at the least wait until after the show."

John gave a grimace, but went for his guitar. Paul waved, and George and Ringo took to their spots on stage.

"Dammen und Herren... Der Beatles!" the announcer got out. The screams were intense, but got only louder when the band opened with "Sie Liebt Dich."

February 18, 1964

Dean Rusk never could get the hang of these occasional State Department briefings, but as Secretary of State his job required he perform such hazardous assignments on behalf of his government, such as the occasional feeding frenzy with the press.

"...and so until the situation in South Vietnam has stabilized," he said in response to a question from the Washington Post, "we feel that the advisers are still necessary for the support of the government." He looked around for someone who wasn’t a regular, someone who’d stop talking about Southeast Asia...

"You there," he said to a young woman. "I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure."

"Maureen Cleave," she identified herself, "London Evening Standard."

"How are you enjoying the States so far, Miss Cleave?"

"Just fine, thank you. Secretary Rusk, how do you respond to Pravda’s claim that you used Voice of America two weeks ago as a means of corrupting the peoples of Eastern Europe with what it called ‘decadent dehumanizing noise passing as music, a cloaked sonic attack of our peoples?’"

Rusk took a breath and got ready to give a pat answer. "Now Miss Cleave," he said, "let’s be honest. Pravda, despite its name, is actually an organ for the Soviet government and is not likely to be giving their own people the truth about life in Communist-dominated countries."

"So you believe that Voice of America’s beaming of German TV’s coverage of the Beatles was not a provocative gesture?"

"Now really, here. I’m sure you’re aware that VOA’s mission is to not only provide the truth to all peoples able to tune into its signal, but to showcase some of the best entertainers who deserve recognition. And the fact that there was a quality entertainment that deserved to be shared with the people of Europe as a whole is what VOA’s mandate is all about, to bring such talent that is the best our system can produce to all peoples. I want to thank you for your questions, and good day, ladies and gentlemen…" And with that, Rusk left the State Department briefing room.

His aide met him on the other side of the door and offered some encouragement.

"Another good one, sir," he said with a tight smile. "I think you helped explained our continued presence in Southeast Asia eloquently."

"Thanks," said Rusk. "By the way..."

"Yes, sir?"

"Who the hell are the Beatles?"

"I have no idea, sir."

"If VOA beamed them to the Reds," Rusk said with a resigned sigh, "they must have something going for them, I guess."

March 13, 1964

Brian Epstein was not a happy man that morning. Four days of bickering over going to Asia, Australia, and Canada were starting to wear thin. It was bad enough that John was sniping about the direction of things, but now George was starting to pick up the tune. Brian suspected that Paul might have his sympathies for this rebellion brewing in the group as well, though nothing certain could be seen yet.

"Good morning, Mr. Epstein," said his secretary, drawing out her vowels like most Midlanders did.

"Morning, Enid," Brian sighed. "Have we gotten word yet on how the boys’ new single’s doing?"

"It’s still very good," she said. Her lack of enthusiasm for the Beatles was exactly what Brian needed; he counted his blessings to find good help in someone not overrun with Beatlemania.

However long this’ll last, he thought to himself.... "Anything from America this morning, Enid?"

"No, Mr. Epstein, nothing from any of the telly producers."

Brian wanted to say something nasty about the lack of attention he’d gotten so far from his letters to Dick Clark and Ed Sullivan, but his proper upbringing held him very tightly.

"The papers came in with the morning post, though," Enid said as she handed them to Brian.

Brian massaged his temple; the strife with the boys was not doing wonders for his health.

"Maybe I should see to those first. Would you be a good girl, Enid, and bring me a cup of tea?"

She went to see to her task as Brian gave a quick scan of the morning papers, starting with the London presses. Gerry Marsden’s group was certainly making a good run for ink, and the Times was starting to take more notice of the other Liverpool groups making an effort. Most of which were managed by NEMS, of course.

Not entirely up to the last day of the week’s tasks, Brian dawdled a bit and read the International Herald Tribune after Enid brought him his tea. He got a few pages into it before he nearly spit out his drink at a small article in the interior:

VOICE OF AMERICA MAKES ENGLISH GROUP UNDERGROUND SENSATION

A concert beamed to the East a few weeks ago on Voice of America has quietly taken hold in the hearts of its dedicated listeners and started an underground trade in the artists’ music.

Unexpectedly, this is happening in the United States itself.

An appearance on VOA by the English band the Beatles brought them to the attention of some of the armed forces stationed in Europe, who brought records of the act available in the United Kingdom back home. Disk jockeys in Washington and Omaha who got their hands on these records started giving them air play, and their music has started to take root from there.

Brian started to make a phone call. "Operator," he said, "transatlantic, please..."

March 27, 1964

The ‘War Room’ seemed pretty glum this afternoon, both among the official planners of the re-election campaign and the real powers. While Kenneth O’Donnell had the seat opposite Jack Kennedy and the staff deferred to him when he gave orders, the presence of Robert Kennedy, quietly in the corner reading the paper, hung over them like the fog in the opening of Hamlet.

"So why the hell isn’t Hubert leaving me alone?" said Jack as he looked at the poll numbers O’Donnell had commissioned.

"Humphrey thinks he has a chance," said O’Donnell, "especially among the more liberal voters. Southeast Asia’s starting to become a real drag on your image, especially since Diem’s successor’s not someone we can be proud to stand next to."

"If I may," said one of the pollsters O’Donnell had brought to the meeting, "it seems the same factors influencing the Democrats are also working against the Republicans. Every time Vietnam comes up in the papers, Rockefeller takes some of Goldwater’s supporters for himself."

The rustle of the paper in the corner from the Attorney General drew stares from the table.

"Tell me you can use your office to outlaw the Republican party," said Jack to his brother.

"Seems you and Barry have the same problem," said Bobby. "You’re becoming out of touch with the younger generation."

Jack made what sounded like a gagging noise. "Me?" he said, half in shock and half smiling. "Confused with Goldwater?"

"Old wine in young bottles," said Bobby. "Same position on standing up to the Commies, same position on civil rights, both gung-ho for business. Your accent’s the only thing that’s keeping you two apart."

"And the glasses," said the pollster before he realized that treading on a Kennedy’s speech was very bad form.

"What are you, telling me I’m doing something wrong in this job?" Jack asked.

"Is what you’re doing a good job?" Bobby asked. "Do you believe in what you’re doing?"

"Hell yes," said Jack. "So what’s your point?"

"What you need’s a way to show you’re different. You need to find some way to get yourself in touch with the younger voters, let them know that what you’re doing is worth their vote. And before you can prove yourself to them, you have to prove you’re on their plane."

Jack’s face showed that he didn’t know whether to laugh or scream at the remark. "So what the hell do I do, huh? Start inviting Bob Dylan to the Oval Office?"

"Dylan may not be the right association," said O’Donnell.

"Next thing you’ll say, I have to have the Mouseketeers playing here," said Jack.

"Aren’t they off the air?" asked the pollster.

"Maybe they can work for the campaign if they’re out of work," said O’Donnell.

The people O’Donnell brought in with him started to laugh.

"Maybe they can, Ken," said Bobby.

The laughter stopped.

April 17, 1964

Brian’s worries started to dissipate as the door to the plane opened and he heard a few screams.

Despite the horrid rain, there were still a few girls in the gallery over the tarmac to give a welcome as his boys deplaned at Idlewild Airport. Mal Evans had brollies at the ready to keep the boys dry. He allowed his nerves to decompress ever so slightly as the Beatles started their first American tour-

A hard wind tuliped and ripped away the brollies just as John got to the bottom of the gangway. A nasty gust and the lack of traction from having his foot in a puddle knocked him on his arse, his cap taking flight and disappearing into the swamps of Queens.

Mal and Paul helped him up as Brian heard a diminution of the screams; he hoped that the reason for that was the wind drowning them out…

"I think there were more of us than them," said John as the limo rolled them into Manhattan.

"The press or the fans?" asked Ringo.

"Were there any fans?" asked George. "After John got down and kissed the ground, I was too busy picking me way to shelter."

"A few," noted John. "They looked a pretty ragged lot."

"But loyal," noted Paul. "They did stay on after that."

"How much you think Eppie paid them?" asked John. "All the cocoa they could drink, you think?"

"The press seemed pretty nice, though," said Ringo.

"Right, they did seem a decent bunch," said Paul. "Not a big crowd, maybe, but all right."

"They looked bored to be there," said George.

"It’s a rough start to it, aye," said Ringo. "But we had worse in the beginning.

Remember when I joined, the way the Cavern crowd wanted to rip me nose off? At least here, they’re paying attention to us."

"And Hamburg," said Paul. "I think this time we each have our own bed at the hotel when we get in."

George nodded. "So it’s not the worst it’s been, fine. It’s not like we should expect the world to just open up at our feet, like."

"Would that it were," said John. "I keep thinking, now, that with America, we’ve really arrived. I just hoped it’d be other than through the back door."

"I’d watch it, John," said Paul. "You have a look in your eye like you’d kill someone to make this a better trip."

"I would."

"Oh, cor," said Ringo.

"Aye, I would. The bastard who designed that runway, for one."

The other three laughed, and only then did John smile.

"So we ready for some time in New York City, then?" John asked.

"Hey," asked Paul, "anyone ‘eard of this Sullivan chap we’re doing on Sunday?"

"He’s suppose to be pretty big here," said George.

"Which is why Eppie was so annoyed," said John. "Sullivan’s only giving us one set of three songs."

Paul and Ringo rolled their eyes and shook their heads.

"The other one’s pretty big, so we could make a bigger set with him," said George. "Dick Clark, I mean, the show we’re doing next week."

"Is this Clark fellow in Washington?" asked Ringo.

"No," said Paul, "in Philadelphia, I think. According to Brian, it’s ‘ere in New York on the telly and the gig at the Paramount, then it’s Washington, then the ‘American Bandstand.’" Paul gave some playful emphasis to the name, "before we go on to Toronto."

"Better keep me eye on what’s out the window," said John, "I might miss something otherwise."

April 19, 1964

Brian’s worry lines were so deep Mal had to ask him, "Eh up, what with you now?"

"Sorry," Brian said sheepishly, looking at the Beatles from stage right at the CBS Studio but scanning his eyes over the audience nervously.

"You look like you’d been found wit your ‘and in the collection plate taking instead of giving, Bri."

Brian gave Mal a shocked look.

"Oh, sorry, right. Not your temple, sorry, stupid thing to say."

"No, not really," said Brian as the band finished their first number, "All My Loving."

John said something to the rest of the boys as he was looking out over the crowd, which was clapping enthusiasticly. "I just...." Brian started to say.

"What, man?"

The band broke into a spirited rendition of ‘Hold Me Tight.’ Brian thought that that one wasn’t one of the songs they’d rehearsed earlier, then sighed and said, "I wonder if I did the right thing. Before we came, back in March, there was this bloke who offered to put ‘plants’ in our appearances."

"Plants? To do what?"

"Scream, go mad, do what the girls do back home. I told him flat out no, that the boys are better than that, but--"

The screaming started as Paul did his solo. It was one girl, in the balcony, and she drew everyone’s attention. Everyone but the boys, who kept playing.

"Is that one of ‘is, Bri?" asked Mal.

Another girl started screaming, and a few more were getting excited as the song came to an end. Unfazed, John, Paul and George started singing the opening of ‘When I Get Home,’ which drew more screams and confirmed for Brian that the boys decided to change the lineup on their host.

Brian was amazed to see a few of the cameramen struggling to get their bulky equipment to turn around and look at the audience, where there were plenty of young girls who needed no lessons to do what their European counterparts did during a Beatles appearance.

For the first time since arriving in the States, Brian started to feel much better.

The boys finished their allotted three songs which Brian had fought hard to get from Mr. Sullivan, and took their bows as the curtain came down hard.

"OK, we’re at commercial," a voice said over the speaker as Ed Sullivan came out on stage. The screams if anything just got louder.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," said the host of the big show, "I don’t think I need to remind you, that the Columbia Broadcasting System expects--"

"We want the BEATLES!" someone shouted.

"Now young lady," said Sullivan sternly, "I may have to ask you to leave the theater if you don’t behave. The young men have come, done their bit, and have to make way for the other talent. We still have Topo Gigio’s act to come when we’re--"

The screams drowned out Sullivan’s effort to bring order to his show.

"Do you want me to have you escorted out of here, now?" Sullivan threatened.

"We-want-the–BEAT-les! We-want-the-BEAT-les! We-want-the-BEAT-les!" the crowd chanted.

"Now, now see here-"

"We-want-the-BEAT-les! We-want-the-BEAT-les! We-want-the-BEAT-les! We-want-the-BEAT-les!"

"They’re ready to come back to us in five," the booth announced.

"We-want-the-BEAT-les! We-want-the-BEAT-les! WE-WANT-THE-BEAT-LES! WE-WANT-THE-BEAT-LES! WE-WANT-THE-BEAT-LES!"

Brian thought he saw a red light go on on one of the cameras, and for the briefest of moments saw a flash of panic across Sullivan’s face. His sympathies went out to the man whose show was being hijacked.

"Folks," Sullivan tried to shout over the crowd, his professional showmanship granting him a great dose of composure, "when I heard about this act a few weeks ago, I had no idea they’d be as beloved and warmly received as this. The response from our audience has just been, amazing, I--" He allowed the crowd a few more chants before giving in to the inevitable; "Ladies and gentleman, back by popular demand, the BEATLES!"

"Cor," said Paul, not believing they’d gotten another set.

"Once more into the breach!" John shouted with a grin as they came back out before the crowd, which was now screaming like mad.

April 20, 1964

President Kennedy gave a long, contemplative stare at the newspapers Bobby had laid out on his desk. The pictures in them alternated between the four musicians who’d burst onto Sullivan’s unsuspecting audience and the young ladies who surrounded the CBS Studios after the show and the Plaza Hotel that night, trying to get to their new-found obsession.

"Are you sure these young women aren’t plants these boys paid off?" Jack asked Bobby.

"Got a call from Hoover himself," said Bobby. "The son of a bitch says his sources tell him that this is no radio promotion gig, that those birls showed up all by themselves."

Jack picked up the New York Post and looked at a photo of some young teenagers who looked to be shouting and moaning at the same time. "Must be a hell of a gift, getting them to just show up like that. Think we can get them to send a few our way?"

"Hey, Jack, remember what we said about being on our best behavior until November? Put it and your dirty mind away for now."

"Forgive me my sins, Father," Jack said with a knowing smile. To take his mind off his dirty thoughts he looked around the Oval Office, admiring the redecoration of the room Jackie did back in December as a way to remain faithful to his wife.

"Anyway," said Bobby as he sat on a corner of the desk, "you want to know the real kicker about these Beatles? They owe us."

"How you figure that one?"

"Back in February, VOA carried one of their shows over the Berlin Wall. SAC flyers in England saw them, went off base for the records, brought them back here. Hell, Dean even gave them a plug at a news conference. If it weren’t for us, they’d have been playing cocktail lounges when they got here."

"So what you’re saying," said Jack as he got up from the desk and headed for the rocking chair, "is that we can take credit for giving America the biggest heart attack since Presley."

"And who did Presley woo before he went into the army? And how many of them are now of voting age, and maybe still looking for the next big thing since the Pelvis?"

"Dirty thoughts, Bobby…."

"Crap, Jack, focus a little here. If Presley had wanted to be governor or senator instead of a goddamned movie star, he’d have had it. And if he’d stumped for anyone, the King would have anointed that person. That’s a good deal of raw charisma that can be focused on your behalf."

"So why not go get Presley to stump for me?"

"Seen Presley lately?"

Jack rocked back and forth, letting the motion calm his back spasms. "You do know, Bobby, that these kids are from England."

"All the better. Shows you to be less xenophobic than Goldwater. We can grab some of their spotlight in a brief op and use that for a while. Their first trip here’s only for a week, so we see what kind of reaction the five of you in one picture gets, and when they come back before the election we try and make sure you and they are in the same city."

"If they come back before November."

"They probably will. Their work entry visas indicated their desire to come back later on, possibly September."

"Perks of office, I see," said Jack knowingly.

"Smart idea of Roosevelt’s, having INS report to the Justice Department," said Bobby without a hint of any chicanery ever being done. "If the tour’s good, they’re going to come back. Considering how they did on Sullivan, I can’t see Bandstand being a big problem for them."

"So how do we get them to have a picture with me? What city do I have to be in to… drop in on them, to get to them?"

"That’s the real beauty. They’re coming here, tomorrow. Train into Union Station late, suites booked at the Hay-Adams. Play the Coliseum the next night before they head from there straight to Philly. Won’t take much to have them come on over here. We could say something like, wanting to wish America’s newest entertainment sensations to our country, they jump at the chance for the publicity, we get the photo to use during the campaign whenever you two are in the same city."

Jack smiled, then laughed as Bobby smiled. "Maybe Dad made the wrong boy go for the brass ring."

"Hey, I have no complaints. Except one," Bobby’s smile started to fade. "That damned Marina Oswald. Sent another letter to the papers."

"This is the woman who’s husband got arrested in Dallas for something?"

"He got into a fight at a girlie club back in December, shot the owner, Jack Ruby. Texas wants us to send him out of the country because he’d once lived in Russia if it’s another hung jury in his second trial, and she’s making a big stink out of it, trying to call it a goddamned ‘human rights’ issue."

"Maybe we can send both of them to Ho Chi Minh," Jack laughed.

Bobby smiled. "Let me work on the Beatles first, give me a break from the Oswalds."

April 21, 1964

"I am terribly sorry, sir," the bell captain at the Hay-Adams Hotel said to Brian as the boys and Mal went into a rousing set of Liverpudlian curses, "but your reservations have been cancelled."

"May I ask why?" said Brian.

"Sir, the advanced word on your party of ‘businessmen,’ here," the bell captain sneered the word, "reached us after their appearance on Mr. Sullivan’s program, and frankly we just do not care to have any of the problems experienced by the Plaza Hotel visited upon us."

"Are you telling me," said Brian with rising agitation, "that because my clients are musicians, you’re denying them accommodations? Is this what you’re trying to tell me?"

"I am not trying to tell you, sir, I am telling you. We have heard how your ‘clients’ aroused the people of New York both on the television and in person into a frenzy that required the police to hold the crowds back after their shows, and frankly we wish to avoid that at this establishment."

"If you refuse us," said Brian in very measured tones, "then the least you can do is make good on our reservations by helping us to find proper accommodations elsewhere."

"Actually sir, we are under no such obligation. If I may, sir, it would take divine intervention to have me do anything on behalf of your--"

Brian’s apoplexy was in danger of swallowing him whole as the bell captain’s station phone rang. The bell captain’s face seemed smug as he took the opportunity to ignore Brian with vigor.

"Bloody wanker," said John in low tones. "Bet ‘e’s got a closet ‘e keeps ‘em in to bugger all ‘e wants, all the victims ‘e’s collected."

The bell captain seemed taken aback. At first Brian thought he was reacting to John’s insult, until the bell captain said, "Mr. Kennedy! This is indeed an honor, sir."

The use of the Kennedy name shut down the curses as the group looked on. The bell captain’s face went from ruddy with pride to ashen with shock before he handed the receiver to Brian and said, "It’s for you. Sir."

"Brian Epstein here," said Brian, unsure what was unfolding around him. "Mr. Kennedy? THE Mr. Kennedy... Oh, the other one, terribly sorry. Why, yes, it is an honor to receive your call… I see, yes… The White House, you say? Tomorrow morning? Why, that sounds marvelous. I’m sure the boys would love to see it... And him, too? Well, that is something of a, um, rather large surprise… Our plans tonight? Well, I’m sorry to say that they’re terribly fluid right now… You see, our reservations have been etched out. At this late hour, this puts us in a terribly difficult situation... I say, if you could help, that would be smashing... Why yes, he’s right here," and Brian handed the phone back.

"Sir?" said the bell captain. "Well, there were concerns, regarding these gentlemen staying here. We were terribly afraid for… Well, yes, I have been told there are a few young women outside. We have tried to keep them from the lobby… Well, yes, we have called the police, although there is concern that they might not be enough. You must understand, Mr. Kennedy… Federal marshals? Well, that is, I must say, very generous, although it might be a shock to… Discreet, you say? On their floor and the lobby in plain clothes? Why yes, I think that would allay any concerns here… Oh, you are indeed generous, Mr. Kennedy. We always do try and serve as best we can, thank you."

"At least when you got the bloody boot up yer arse," John muttered.

The bell captain hung up the phone and dinged for the bellhops. "The Presidential Suites," he said, indicating the Beatles’ bags.

"Now that’s what I call service," said George as the bags were whisked cleanly off the floor and the Beatles’ entourage were ushered to the elevators.

Brian was surprised how things had turned so suddenly, how in half an hour his group had gone from being barred at the desk to having complementary champagne and shellfish sent up by the staff.

The Federal Marshal at the front door poked his head in as the latest tray of crab was being delivered. "Mr. Epsen?" he mispronounced Brian’s name for the fifth time.

Rather than correct him again, Brian just nodded and asked, "Yes?"

"Sir, there are a few members of the local press here to speak with your people. They’re all known by us, their credentials are legit."

"Oh, well, do show them up, please." From the door Brian went to get the boys together in the common room.

The press and the Beatles came into the room at the same time, the four musicians in stark contrast to the nine reporters and photographers who were older, more buttoned-down and straightforward than their subjects. Both knew their jobs by heart, the Beatles giving the photographers a few moments to shoot pictures before the questions started.

"Are you concerned by the reaction you’re getting from some of your fans?" one of the reporters asked. "Some women have been fainting and coming close to rioting wherever you’ve shown up here."

"It’s not like anyone’s tried to kill us," said John.

"I think it’s not that bad," Paul said quickly. "It may be something of a surprise, here, but back home we’re used to it, and no one’s really gotten hurt or done something wrong because of it."

"But how do you feel about it?" another asked.

"It’s always a surprise to us," said Ringo. "They just go mad with it, and we have to be careful."

Another asked, "Have you yet finalized what the Beatles’ movie is going to be about?"

"Movie?" George asked, as the other three looked over to Brian.

"Took a call on that only this morning," said Brian, "before we left for Washington."

"An announcement was made in an ad in Variety today that United Artists is doing a feature film starring the Beatles," the reporter followed up.

Brian’s eyes widened slightly. "Have you a copy of that, sir?"

Mal handed him a copy of Variety from the reporter, and he and Brian found the full-page ad. Brian chuckled and said, "I must say, they work fast. It’s still very preliminary, the details, and something we will be able to look at more closely once we finish our brief stops here and our tours of Canada and Japan."

"I hope it’s a Western," said George.

"How have you found America?" another asked.

"Turned left at Greenland," said John.

"Are you ever going to get a haircut?" one of the older reporters asked.

"We did in New York," said Paul, "right before the train pulled out."

"Did Dean Rusk help your career?" asked a reporter.

"What station did he play us on?" George asked.

"Voice of America," the reporter replied.

"The US Secretary of State," said Brian to remind the band, adding quickly, "was very gracious in his appreciation of the Beatles. He certainly did get the word out about them."

"Some people don’t know what to call your music," a reporter said, "claiming it’s not like anything out there now. What do you call it?"

"Maurice," said John.

Brian was feeling a slight bit of tension as the reporters seemed as hardened as they were when they came in, not laughing at any of the jokes, which seemed to make John especially edgy.

"Were you boys ever in trouble as children?" another reporter asked.

"You looking to rat on me to me mum, now?" asked Ringo.

No laughs, Brian noticed, just hard scribbling.

"Supposedly, you, you wrote a book," one of the reporters asked John with a pointed finger.

John tried not to bite his lip as he said, "Supposedly it’s been in print for a while."

"Does that have any special messages to the fans in it," he asked, "anything that’s not in your music?"

"It’s actually the Communist Manifesto written sideways," said John.

"Oh sod it," said Paul. "Can’t take you out at all."

"I’ve got a book," said George, "it’s called Wuthering Heights."

"I think ‘e’s asking about ones you wrote, guv," said Ringo.

"Oh, well then."

"Are you a Communist?" the reporter asked John.

John gave a slight laugh. "I thought you all got bloody sick of asking that one."

"It’s a concern for some of us over here," said the reporter.

"Well, I don’t see why, if it’s such a big thing to go after the red menace, you’re asking me. I’d think going over to Saigon and asking them would get you your answer. You’ve got the Marines so gung ho to go, they’ll outnumber the Vietnamese before you know it."

"Are you saying you don’t support our efforts on behalf of the South Vietnamese?" and other reporter asked.

Brian felt a wave of panic as he watched the situation start to turn ugly. "I think that’s all for tonight, gentlemen," he said as he raised his hands. "I’m sure the boys will answer plenty more of your questions tomorrow during the day. We’ve been invited to the White House and will be taking in the sights before tomorrow’s concert at the Coliseum, and there should be plenty of opportunities for further questions then."

When the last of the reporters had left, Brian came over to the couch as John got up. "Is it me, or did that seem very dicey?" he asked them in trepidation.

John gave a weary sigh. "Christ, I’ve never seen a more stuck-up bunch in me life, the way they just plodded along like an Inland Revenue clerk over a ledger sheet."

"You were a bit flip, John," said Paul.

"And they were a bit stodgy," he replied.

"I’m just saying, we have to play it cagey with ‘em from now on while we’re ‘ere. I’d hate to see me name used with some horrible adjective in front of it."

"You think they were out to get us?" asked George.

"I’d be surprised if they even bother with what I’d said," said John. "You see the way the one of them with the glasses kept looking at ‘is watch, like he was trying to get a pint before last call?"

"All the same," said Brian, trying to keep calm, "from now on, try not to antagonize anyone."

John exhaled through partly closed lips with defiant nonchalance and went off to bed with everyone else.

April 22, 1964

BEATLES AGAINST FIGHT VS. REDS, screamed the article in the Washington Times.

President Kennedy felt his molars nearly going into his brain, the anger he felt making him bite down hard.

"The good news," said Bobby as he looked at the Post, the New York Times, the Boston Globe and Wall Street Journal, "is that they’re the only ones picking up on the angle. Looks like the usual right-wing saber-rattling stuff the Times does. No one else who covered the story made much mention of the remarks."

Jack said nothing, still glowering.

"I’ve got O’Donnell’s kids doing a crash poll this morning, see what people think about our advisors. We can delay the Beatles a few hours while we wait for the info to come in-"

"Bobby," said Jack slowly, "I don’t need a goddamned poll."

"Jack-"

"You want me to pose with someone who’s trying to undermine American policy. I may as well be having Castro over to watch the Senators play the Red Sox."

Bobby sighed. "Jack, you may not agree with the little bastard, but he’s got a few things that might help come November."

"Am I supposed to sell out? Do I put aside my principles for the sake of being popular?"

"Do you not take any advantage you can in order to win?"

Jack looked again at the headline and Lennon’s quotes, and had to look away before the tension broke his jaw. "This is a big principle here. I don’t need some… some long-haired singer telling me how to run the country."

"Sorry he couldn’t put it on the table before he showed up," said Bobby as he removed the paper from Jack’s hands. "I’d hate to cancel the visit at the last minute."

"I’d like to do just that. I’d like to…" Jack stopped and then shook his head, "Yeah, yeah, you don’t have to say it, Bobby. All the reasons for not canceling, I can see that."

"Presidents get busy, you know," said Bobby. "Something could come up, they’d have to miss meeting you."

"And what about your picture of the five of us?"

"If you feel that strongly against it, I’m not going to force you. I may be watching your back, Jack, but I care how you feel, too."

Jack looked at the other papers. Their coverage was geared more towards the girls camping out on Pennsylvania Avenue and the coming show at the Coliseum than anything said in the hotel last night.

"I don’t know," said Jack. "Right now, I have to think about it."

"We can stall them, give them a VIP tour of the whole White House, give them a delay. Buys you an hour or two."

Jack looked back and forth between the Washington Times headline and the other papers. He sighed as he gave a nod.

"So what’s the ‘old up?" John asked, looking out the window of the limo as they continued to sit at the White House gate.

"Sorry about that," said the driver. "Occasionally they up the security check levels and they have to go through extra layers to clear."

George looked out the other window. "The tourists there seem pretty unhappy about it, too," he pointed to the line of people waiting to get in.

"They don’t look dangerous to me,’ said Ringo.

"What ‘bout that one?" George pointed to an aging heavyset man at the head of the line.

"That camera he’s got could be trouble."

"You think ‘e might be a henchman for some reject from a James Bond film?" Paul asked.

"We won’t know unless we ask ‘im, will we?" said John.

"Um, I don’t think-" the limo driver barely got to say before George rolled down the window and said to the man, "’Ey, mate, what’s with you?"

The man had his camera close to his eye as he scoped out the car’s occupants, but as he took a few steps closer he started to lower the camera.

"Not much of a paparazzi if you don’t shoot, are you?" George asked.

"Sorry boys," he said with a distinct Texas twang, "but I thought you were somebody else."

"Who you expecting, then?"

"I was hoping to get some footage of the President himself. I’m a big supporter of his."

"I wish you luck with it," said George as he held out his hand through the window. "If we see Mr. Kennedy, we’ll let ‘im know you’re looking for ‘im. Who should we tell him has the camera?"

"Abe," he replied a little stunned. "Abe Zapruder. Came all the way from Dallas. I- I’m in the dry cleaning game."

"George. George Harrison, from Liverpool. I do a bit with music."

"You a musician?"

"All of us. Except the driver of course."

"Really? You boys ever meet Hank Williams?"

Before George could answer, the driver got authorization from the marines at the gate and hit the gas hard to get them onto the White House grounds quickly.

"That was sudden," said John.

"May I ask you, for the return trip," said the driver, "not to roll down the windows, as we don’t want to incite a riot."

"I think Honest Abe back there was pretty harmless," said John.

"But not them," said Paul as he noted the photographers outside the White House Press Room, who noticed the car coming to a halt and started moving as a pack towards them. "Keep it to yourselves, lads, we don’t want some muck up on us."

The Marine guard opened the door to the limo and the Beatles smiled and waved as they went up the steps, avoiding the questions the pack of reporters was giving them as they entered the building.

Dean Rusk wasn’t sure why the President looked the way he did; the last time he saw smoldering anger in his boss’ eyes like that was at the beginning of that terrible time in October of ’62.

The cabinet meeting was all said a fairly light affair today. Bob McNamara had the floor to talk about the necessity for more personnel in Vietnam, holding to the troops’ view that more firepower is better the way the Secretary of Defense should. Abe Ribicoff’s presentation on why the administration should move to provide some sort of prescription assistance for the elderly got forgotten almost immediately. He wondered briefly if Abe’s tenure as Secretary of Health, Education & Welfare was going to end by January, whether or not Kennedy won the election.

He tried to look like he was enrapt in Bob’s presentation as he gave surreptitious glances at President Kennedy’s seat. The look in his boss’ eyes seemed unfocused; whatever it was that was annoying him didn’t have any real connection to what was going on in the room.

Dean noticed Bobby passing his brother a note. He leaned forward a little to try and catch a glimpse of what he’d written on the paper.

The note had on it in Bobby’s handwriting Well? Tell them what?

President Kennedy scribbled back Still Thinking and passed it to him as Bob finished his presentation.

"Dean," the President asked him, "how will new advisors going to Saigon play in Moscow and Peking?"

Dean promptly put aside any curiosity the note generated as he presented the State Department’s view that more personnel would strain relations with the other two major nuclear powers and test commitments with our allies outside the region; like Bob, he had his own turf to stake out for his boss.

Ringo had already tuned out the guide way back at the East Room. He had no reference frame for any of the presidents before Franklin Roosevelt who were being given great detail with every single piece of furniture they were pointed to.

Ringo thought that if this room wasn’t called the Blue Room, it should have been. The paint on the wall, the drapes, the tablecloth on the long table, made for a nice parlor this room. The thing that impressed him was the size of it, bigger than the flat back in the Dingle, a lot more impressive than the bloke who got the table.

"…during James Madison’s administration," droned the guide, a chap in his twenties with a New England inflection that seemed to be a job requirement here. "The table is a period piece, as the original was burned by the British when they sacked Washington in 1814."

The guide seemed to be waiting for a reaction after mentioning that. Ringo noticed that even John, who could find something to thrown in here and there before, had been lost, and like the other three tried to nod without yawning and wanting to run screaming out the window.

Ringo looked out there anyway, just in case. The drop to the ground was pretty high, and the lawn went on a ways before they got to a high iron fence. Desperate to fill the silence, he pointed and said, "That’s one of the monuments, is it? The dome?"

"Yes," said the guide, "the Jefferson Memorial is visible through all the south facing windows. He was, as I said, the second occupant of the White House, and the first one to serve his whole term in this residence-"

Ringo felt a slight jab and saw George giving him a look, which looked to be upset for setting him off again. As the drone continued, Ringo wanted to give himself a small kick-

"Well?" Bobby asked Jack.

Jack was looking over the materials McNamara had handed him from this morning’s briefing. Notes were all over the desk, showing forces in the region and projections that Defense thought would meet their objectives. Jack called it "Bob’s Wish List," and was too wrapped up in it to give Bobby what he wanted right away.

Jack knew that Bobby could be persistent. He also knew that Bobby was aware of the fact that he could keep him waiting as long as he damn well pleased when he wanted too.

Jack concentrated on the Vietnam briefing materials.

Ringo wasn’t sure how long the young woman who was peeking at them from behind a door had been there, but the way she and Paul were giving faces to each other it seemed like she’d been there a while. He couldn’t exactly see what Paul was doing, and if he tried to get a good look, he would have tipped off the guide.

He watched as she straightened out her dress with her hands, patting it down, and then strode right into the Blue Room. "Excuse me, Pete," she said to the guide.

"Lisa?" he asked her.

"Yes, I was told downstairs that they were having a few problems with some of the tour groups. There’s a pretty big crowd that’s been waiting a while."

"But… But I have a VIP group here."

"Now Pete," she batted her eyes, "we both know that you’re one of the best people on staff to see to problems that come up. And I could keep these four gentlemen entertained until you resolve the problem. Besides," she said in a low voice, "I would be very, very grateful if you could clear up that awful mess."

"Um…" he thought about it long and hard for two whole seconds, "one minute, please. This is Lisa, Lisa Knight, who works on the White House staff," he said as he backed away to meet the problem.

"Please miss," John begged, "I can’t take any minutiae on any of your presidents before Ike."

"Did he start to bore you?" she asked with a smile.

"I must say," said Paul, "I am very, very grateful you came through when you did. I thought we were going to die of sheer boredom before we met the President."

"You’re going to meet Mr. Kennedy?" she asked.

"That’s what we were told yesterday," said John.

"I don’t suppose," said Paul with his soft smile and a twinkle in his eyes, "that you could find it in yourself to see us the rest of the way, could you, luv?"

"I didn’t know Mr. Kennedy was expecting you. I just heard you were in the building and I wanted to see you…"

Paul gave her another soft smile; Ringo finally realized what Paul had been doing before when he noticed her.

"Well," she said slowly, "if they are expecting you, then…"

"Ah you’re a sweet," said Paul, ratcheting up the charm a few notches. "We could just finish up and get on our way, that would be so much the better."

"Actually, we’re not that far from the West Wing here. I’m sure I could see you to Mr. Kennedy’s office if he’s expecting you."

"Far as I know, he is," said Paul. "That’d be ever so keen."

Ringo noticed whatever hesitations in her manner that had been there when Paul brought up meeting the President were now gone as she said, "This way, gentlemen."

An aide entered the Oval Office and said to the Kennedy brothers, "The Beatles are here to see you, sir."

"What the hell?" Jack asked as he shot a look over to Bobby. Bobby had a stunned look on his face before he went to the door, looked out in the hall, and came back in.

"Seems one of the staff who didn’t know about the full press tour led them in," he told his brother.

"Aw, sweet Jesus," Jack said as he put MacNamara’s briefing into the folder it came in and on the side of the desk.

"Sometimes the whole thing can be fouled up by one lone nut who pops up out of the woodwork," offered Bobby.

"Christ, Bobby, I didn’t want to see them yet."

"Yet? You mean you were leaning towards yes, then?"

Jack put his jacket back on and straightened his tie. "Now or never, I guess. Let them in."

Bobby went to the door and signaled to the aide to let them in. Jack recognized the woman with them, Lisa Knight, part of the White House staff, from Iowa or Missouri. He remembered his first thoughts of when he met her, how she had nice legs, and that it was too bad that she was part of the staff.

"Ah, thank you for bringing them in, Lisa," Jack said. "If you want to, ah, wait outside, to accompany them back when we’re done here."

She smiled and walked out, and the aide closed the door.

"It really is an oval," said Ringo as he looked at the ceiling.

"Yes, it is," said Jack.

"Watch it, son," said John, "you might be starting the bloody house tour up again."

"I take it you didn’t think much of the White House," said Jack, his ire starting to build again.

"Oh, it was nice," said Paul. "I have to admit, though, American history isn’t my strong suit."

"They do go a bit overboard, sometimes," said Bobby with a smile and a side glance towards Jack. "Can we offer you boys something, a cigar perhaps?"

"I could use a fag," said John as he reached for the inner pocket of his jacket.

Jack looked over at Bobby, watched him trying to be diplomatic, and reached for a cigarette in the drawer of his desk for himself.

"I’m honored you wanted to meet us," said Paul to Bobby. "I didn’t realize you’re fans, here."

"Well, we do try and keep on top of the latest music, listen to what everyone else is listening to," said Bobby.

"Do you like it, then?" asked George.

"Which song in particular?" John asked.

There was an awkward silence in the room.

"Bet you don’t even know what we sound like," said John.

"I suppose if you want to give us a few bars," said Jack. "Go on."

Paul tried to give a nervous laugh and Bobby did his best to offer one to, but Jack’s eyes had already started to lock with John’s. Jack did not like what he was seeing in them.

"So what kind of music do you like, eh?" asked John.

"Ever heard of Frank Sinatra?" Jack replied.

John weaved his head a little. "S’all right, a bit."

"Not that we’re against anyone else," said Bobby.

"Oh, I like Sinatra," said Paul. "Good voice, his."

"Ever ‘eard of Buddy Holly?" John asked.

Jack nodded. "Texan, like Lyndon."

"Less stiff, maybe," said Bobby in a low voice.

"Bit of an age difference, eh?" said Ringo.

"Different expectations," said John.

"From them or of them?" asked Jack.

"Jack-" said Bobby.

"And what’s that all?" asked John.

"Sinatra’s generation did a lot more for the world," said Jack.

Paul, George and Ringo started to stare a little more at the President. John said, "Well, they did, yes."

"And what did they get for all of that?" Jack continued. "Someone coming along and telling them where to get off."

"’Ere up, now," said John.

"I have to admit, Mr. Lennon," said Jack, "what you said last night was not taken well here."

"Look, I just said what I said, and if you took it wrong.…" John’s reply faded as Jack’s hostility started to bubble up and wash over the room.

"How am I suppose to take it? How do I take that you don’t support the South Vietnamese?"

"I never actually said that," said John as he stood up. "I may ‘ave been a bit flip with it, but did I actually say something against it? No."

"So where are you as far as going in to stop Communism?"

"Look, if it were up to me, I’d say let them choose their own way about it--"

Jack stood up, doing his best to keep a level tone. "So we should just give them over to the Reds, then?"

"Look mate," Jack watched the surprise in John’s face turn to anger, "you were all so high-bloody-minded ten years ago with the Suez, and if someone wants to say ‘Ey hold up!’ on you for this, we’re all so bad, now? If you want to ‘ave one of your boys play fucking Gordon of Khartoum for you, that’s your own business, isn’t it? I just do music, I--"

John stopped as Paul and George’s hands took him by the arms. "Look," said Paul, "can we have a moment? Internal band matters, here."

Bobby showed them the antechamber for the Oval Office, and the four Beatles went through the door before Bobby closed it. Jack headed straight over to his rocking chair.

Ringo hadn’t seen Paul give John a push like that against the wall since he’d subbed for Pete Best a few times, back when the gear was leather and the crowds a lot rougher.

"You fucking git!" Paul hissed. "What the hell was that?"

John glowered before he said, "I didn’t care much for ‘im."

"He’s a head of state! He’s not some damn sod at the pub staring at Cynthia all wrong."

"Then why’s he going on about what I said last night? And they’ve never ‘eard any of our music. They’re not fans."

Paul said sternly, "We meet plenty of blokes who don’t know us from Adam. That Abe chap at the gates probably never ‘eard of us either. Maybe that Lisa bird who got us in here’s the only one in the whole place who’s ever listened to us."

"It’s more than that," said John, a lot calmer. "I smell something wrong."

"Wrong how?" asked George.

"I mean the way they all seem willing to have us here, but at arm’s length, and why the big thing about me politics. It’s like they have some purpose for us, and it’s not a thing to do with music."

"And you’re only now realizing this?" said Paul.

"You’re not offended by them wanting to use us?"

"They want to use us, we want to use them, we’re both using each other ‘ere. I can’t believe that you’d be so damn stupid to not see that."

"Who’re you calling stupid, Macca?" said John.

"You, you fucking wanker. I can’t believe you didn’t see this one coming."

"So what’s with the politics?" Ringo asked.

"Aye," said George, "he did take that part of it all very personal."

"When did we get political?" asked John.

Paul’s eyes widened. "The bit at the end of the talk last night."

"He took it that seriously?" John sighed. "You can’t expect me to believe that that man in there is holding a few throw-away comments I made to his breast like that?"

"Yes," said the other three in unison.

"Oh crap," said John.

"What are we going to do, then?" asked George.

"We could explain ourselves to ‘im," said Ringo. "Or more correctly, you could explain yourself," he said to John.

"If ‘e’d have us back in there," said Paul.

"Which I doubt," said John. "He got the wrong idea from something I said to the press, right?"

Ringo nodded as he saw the realization of where John was taking this light first Paul’s face, then George’s.

"So who do we go to?" asked Ringo.

John noticed the side door out of the antechamber. He opened it up and when he saw her asked, "Oh Lisa, love, how can I make a statement to the press ‘ere?"

"The arrogance," said Jack as he continued to rock. "The sheer absolute arrogance in that - that…."

Bobby nodded.

"And his backbone, and the way he held himself up, and his own goddamned cigarettes."

Bobby waited until the chair had rocked eight times before he said, "But?"

Jack sighed. "Yes, there is too damn much of him in me."

"And that’s what’s really gotten to you, isn’t it?" said Bobby. "That maybe there’s more than one of you out there."

"And that’s what you saw in them in the first place, isn’t it? Enough qualities shared by both of us that the folks who like them would transfer that admiration onto me, especially come November."

Bobby smiled. "Dad didn’t tell the wrong guy to go for the ring."

"I see why you think the picture’s worth doing then."

Bobby smiled and started to walk before he realized that Jack was still sitting. "So what else is there?" he asked his brother.

"What he said. The Lennon kid, about Vietnam."

Bobby looked puzzled. "What? What did he say? I thought he said he hadn’t actually criticized us for going in."

"No, the other stuff, before he got hustled out of here. About Suez, and Gordon."

"Now I can see what he meant about Suez, but that was Ike’s problem, how we reacted to the Brits going into Egypt. I don’t think it’s quite the same game here."

Jack got up from the rocker. "That was a small thing, compared to Gordon of Khartoum. You went to the same classes at Harvard I did, Bobby, you should remember that one."

"1880s, British colonel in the Sudan who stayed on and fought, died at the hands of the natives, right?"

"Yes. He was a martyr for the British empire, made a big impression on everyone to go on and carry on the good fight. The British version of the USS Maine."

Bobby’s brow furrowed as he thought about it. "And this is a problem how?"

"The British back then wanted to go overseas, they wanted to build an empire. After Korea and all we’ve done with that bastard Castro, this country’s not exactly ready to canonize some poor guy in the field who’s going to have his name connected with where he was martyred for the cause."

"What brought about this apostasy, Jack?"

"Him. The Lennon kid. If anyone can speak from experience about how an instant impression is formed, how image is everything," said Jack as he went back into the Vietnam folder, "it’s him. The way people are drawn to those four, the way they connected so quickly; you were right about the charisma, but there’s also something new here, something about mass hysteria and quick impressions. And the last thing we need in Vietnam is someone whose mission could result in just the sort of mass hysteria and quick impression that makes our ability to support the South Vietnamese impossible to explain at home."

Bobby looked worried as Jack read the file. "And you think… Jack, are you saying that we’re giving up the fight because you see a public relations disaster here?"

"Who said the fight was being given up?" Jack found the papers he was looking for.

"We have this many advisors in South Vietnam, which is so far keeping Ho quiet. Maybe that will or won’t impress them in the north, having individual advisors in the field. If, on the other hand, we made our point about the South Vietnamese a little more directly… See this?"

Jack handed the report pages to Bobby. "The USS New Jersey and the Theodore Roosevelt," Bobby read.

"Exactly. If a battleship and an aircraft carrier are in the area, say, the…" Jack read the name off the map provided, "the Gulf of Tonkin, on station for a while, that might let them know we mean business."

"And the ground support?"

"The carrot we give them while we threaten them with the stick. The number of our people who are in direct danger go down because there’s fewer of them in the field to get shot at, and Ho would have to be crazy or stupid to go after the big ships off his coast."

Bobby smiled. "Which, of course, we make a big announcement of when we pull out the advisors, and let Ho and Kruschev and Mao know through channels about the ships." Bobby added, "Of course, DoD is going to think you’re favoring the Navy over the other branches again."

"They know where my loyalties lie." Jack smiled as Bobby opened the door to the antechamber.

The two blinked and looked around, noticing that the room was empty. Bobby went through the other door and asked the aide at the front, "What happened to the Beatles?"

"Miss Knight took them to the Rose Garden a few minutes ago," said the aide.

Bobby asked with increasing agitation, "Did she say anything to anyone when they left?"

"She did send word to the press corps, sir."

Bobby gave a tense snort. "Her ass is so finished," he said in a low voice.

Jack thought about that, and all the potential consequences thereby….

By the time Jack and Bobby got to the Rose Garden, the Beatles were the center of attention for the press corps assembled there. Jack noticed that Lennon was about to speak to them, and he slowed down and put a hand on Bobby’s elbow.

"Hold on a sec," said Jack, "I have a feeling about this."

"Ladies, gents," said John. "I have a few words to say. I think there’s been a few things spread about, about me views on what’s going on overseas. I think it should be made clear that I’m no politician, and that me main business is music, not politics. I think a few people took some of what I said and made it seem like I didn’t care for what was going on in Asia, and whatever you can say about it, there’s a number of people who are in the middle of it. There’s probably a lot of our fans who have fathers, brothers and boyfriends there, and I don’t mean any disrespect to them for what they’re doing. It’s their business that they’re over there, and I don’t want to make it that much harder for them to do their job."

Jack smiled. He said in a low voice to Bobby, "It just doesn’t get much better than this," and before the Beatles could answer questions from the press he strode out and got their attention.

"Fancy seeing you ‘ere," said Paul in a low voice.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Jack, "I have a brief statement to make. I want to thank the Beatles for taking some time from their preparations for tonight’s appearance at the Coliseum to visit the White House, and I hope that they have a successful appearance tonight. We hope that America is willing to be as gracious to them during the rest of their tour here as we have been here at the White House."

Jack thought he saw John fight to roll his eyes as a reporter asked, "Are you familiar with Mr. Lennon’s comments regarding advisors in South Vietnam?"

"Funny you should bring that up," said Jack. "I will be giving an executive order to withdraw four hundred advisors from South Vietnam over the next month."

Jack watched as amazement went over the faces of the Beatles and the frenzy for a story overcame the press. As the cameras popped, John said in a low voice, "Was it something I said?"

Jack sang very softly, "Rule America, America rule the waves."

Jack started to smile as John’s eyes widened in surprise.

The sound of popping accompanied a bright flash….

Last Week Thursday

Neither John Lennon nor Jack Kennedy would ever admit that they had made a face in the picture, no matter how many times you’d show it to them. Throughout hundreds of interviews after that day, they both maintained that there was nothing behind their candid expressions. Surprisingly, both men would claim independently that Roosevelt, Churchill and Stalin were busy posing when they took their "Big Three Summit" picture at Yalta in 1945, and that they were just being natural in their shot.

None of the other people around them who were in the picture, Bobby, Paul, George, Ringo or Lisa Knight, claimed they saw the expressions. None of the five would add any further light on the subject, even though both John and Jack’s looks were far more telling than that which passed between Richard Nixon and Nikita Khrushchev in the shot from their "Kitchen Debate" photo of 1959, or between Dr. Martin Luther King and George Wallace in their "Southern Summit" photograph at the White House from 1969. Their faces are even more expressive than the ones worn by President Dole, Prime Minister Livingston and Israeli Prime Minister Sharon in the "Finger of Shame" photo from the emergency UN session, and the crisis caused by using nuclear weapons over Baghdad and Damascus warranted a lot more emotion than a rock combo’s visit to the White House 23 years earlier.

But everyone else saw something. Both Carole King and Don McLean wrote songs about the photo. Norman Mailer wrote a whole novel about the picture. Even Robert Zemeckis directed an entire film around the shot. Each of them, of course, had different explanations for what was passing between those two men.

There is an official catalog number for this picture, but because there are over 800,000 requests for it per year, the staff at the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library will know exactly what photo you’re requesting when you ask for "the Beatle shot." You can even get it on a coffee mug for sale at the gift shop if you wish.

James Ryan won the Beatles Embassy Imagination Award: Best Fan Fic for his story "I Read the News Today." Yes, believe it or not, you can still hold a vote with a surprise winner without a media circus ensuing or legions of lawyers running around your capitol.... For his birthday, he has hopes of actually being recognized as a writer; hey, weirder things have happened.... His work has appeared in such places as Dragon magazine, Lacunae, the Urbanite, the New York Times, and some of the better men's room walls across the state of New York. Until he gets the chance to follow the program for disenfranchised neurotic writers, he's doing the regular job and grad school schtick. His wife Susan and son Jamie just nod and smile when he starts to rant, which, all said, makes things that much easier.