All Too Human: A Political Education (29 page)

The joy of my job often bubbled up in unlikely moments. Like Saturday morning, the first time we practiced the handshake. This was just a dry run: four guys in jeans around my desk, trying to figure out how to make this diplomatic tango flow. First came the signatures, with multiple copies of the treaty, all needing multiple signatures. Then the president would turn to his left, shake Arafat's hand; turn to his right, shake Rabin's hand; take a half step back with his arms slightly lifted from his sides and hope that Arafat and Rabin reached across his belt for the picture of the decade. I had helped plan hundreds of photo ops before, but this time the stagecraft wasn't just spin. The handshake really would happen, and the whole world would be watching. And if we got everything right, and were lucky, the moment might have just enough magic to make a difference.

Monday morning the sun was shining. The Safire column was perfect. (“Why am I getting to see the president?” he had asked me. “I'm not going to bullshit you,” I replied. “We don't think you've been fair on Vince [Foster], but we're trying to build support for the agreement in Israel, so we have to build support among American Jews, and a certain segment of American Jews is going to take its cue from you.” ) A phone call from the president pulled me out of the staff meeting. “George, I feel really good about the speech. I've been up since three working on it, and I think I got it down. I'll be down in ten minutes with the changes.”

Which meant I had at least half an hour. In the final countdown meeting, Rahm and I thanked the team and tried to make sure everyone went out of the way to be deferential. “Imagine that you're ushering the guests into a church or synagogue,” I told them. Rahm, who had served as a volunteer in the Israeli army, went even further: “You have to understand that even if we do this perfectly, there will be a lot of people leaving this ceremony today whose feelings are going to be unfinished. This isn't pure happiness for all of them, and you have to respect that as well.”

The president entered the Oval in an effervescent mood with an iridescent tie — shiny gold horns against a deep blue background, a nod to the trumpet blasts that felled the walls of Jericho. He joked about how he liked Joshua because the only person he left standing in Jericho was Rahab, the prostitute. We finished editing the speech, adding an excerpt from the Koran suggested by Prince Bandar of Saudi Arabia, and I was happy that my one-line contribution — “Throughout the Middle East, there is a great yearning for the quiet miracle of a normal life” — had survived. Everyone was buoyant, but every few minutes Martin Indyk, our liaison to the Israelis, would walk in with a note signaling another diplomatic snag. (“The Israelis aren't coming if Arafat wears a uniform.” Tony replied on the back: “Tell him to take the medals off, say it's a safari suit, and see if they'll accept that.”)

By now, almost all of the nits had been picked. Arafat wouldn't wear a gun, or a uniform. Clinton was confident he could coax Rabin and Arafat into a handshake, but there was still the matter of the hug. What if, at the decisive moment, an exuberant Arafat upset the fragile diplomatic equilibrium by embracing the president? We had to show enthusiasm but not exuberance, and Clinton's a hugger by nature. The national security adviser devised a defensive strategy — a modified elbow block augmented by a bicep squeeze. Now for the implementation: Lake played the president; Clinton was Arafat. If Arafat leaned in for a kiss, Clinton would reach his left hand above Arafat's elbow, hook his thumb around his bicep, feel for an artery, and squeeze. If that didn't work, we joked, the president would resort to that time-tested, last best defense against an unwelcome advance — a knee to the groin.

We all laughed, but nothing was left to chance. The last thing I said to Clinton was, “Think about your face.” He knew enough not to have a big grin at the big moment, but if he overcompensated, it might look glum, and most people's faces in repose look blank, almost dumb. “The one thing you have to be careful of, I'm embarrassed to say it,” I said haltingly, “is your expression when you step back and they shake hands. It will be a permanent picture.” And I
was
a little embarrassed to bring it up, but I was even more worried that a perfect moment would be marred by a tiny oversight. We practiced a closed-mouth smile.

During the preceremony reception in the Red Room, I felt as if I were watching an elaborate quadrille in an intrigue-ridden Russian court. Little cliques revolved around the room, eyeing their counterparts, whispering under their breath, waiting to see what would happen when Rabin and Arafat arrived. Shimon Peres, the Israeli foreign minister, was the happiest man in the room, his dark and deeply lined face now brightened by a constant smile. Not Rabin. A warrior, more conservative than his foreign minister, he had the air of a man who wanted to be somewhere, anywhere else. When the Palestinian entourage approached, Rabin's scrum slid silently toward a corner of the room. The rest of us pretended not to notice by discussing Arafat's attire: safari suit or soldier's uniform? “I think it's a safari suit.” Hillary laughed. “Don't you?” But Martin Indyk was still nervous. He ran my way with the latest potential crisis. The single medal Arafat kept on his chest was the Jerusalem Insignia, a subtle reminder of the disputed Palestinian claims to the city. What if the Israelis demanded that he take it off?

They didn't, but there was one final snafu. Peres had promised the Palestinians that they could sign the document “for the PLO.” But the text said “for the Palestinian delegation,” and they wouldn't sign. Saying, “It doesn't really matter,” Peres offered to pencil in “PLO.” Then they went to clear it with a reluctant Rabin. More delay. But with the clock ticking toward eleven, with three thousand people waiting on the lawn and a billion more watching on television, there was no turning back. “For the PLO” it was. I scurried out to the lawn seconds ahead of the honored guests and took my seat next to Rahm in the back row.

The ceremony floated by like a dream. Rabin still looked fretful; his improbable partner, Arafat, was ecstatic, and at the climactic moment Clinton seemed more a president than ever — calm, confident, and fully in control as he took his half step back with his half smile in place and gently cleared a path. The crowd took a collective breath. Then Arafat and Rabin grasped each other's hands and pumped them up and down, and the entire lawn exploded — Arabs and Jews, Christians and Muslims, Republicans and Democrats, joined for a moment in joy.

Soon we were sober again, listening in silence to the eloquent pain of Yitzhak Rabin. “It's not so easy,” he said, almost to himself. But his scarred voice gained strength when he said, “Enough of blood and tears. Enough!” And as he accelerated through the seasons of Ecclesiastes to declare that “the time for peace has come,” I put my arm around my sobbing friend Rahm — and cried too, thinking of those who'd fought by his side and those who might not have to fight again, believing this moment might last. When the prime minister closed with a line from the Hebrew prayer book — “May He who brings peace to His universe bring peace to us and to all Israel” — we all exhaled our hope: Amen.

After church, my dad was always in a cheerful mood. He would pinch us altar boys on the cheeks as we threw off our robes, and laugh over a lunch of avgolemono soup before taking his nap. Some of it must have rubbed off on me, and I sensed the same mood in Clinton. As he ushered Rabin back to the private dining room by my door, I rushed through hugs on the lawn and worked my way back to peer through the peephole in my office. I almost never invaded the president's privacy like this, but now I couldn't resist. I had to see the two of them sitting there, statesmen at lunch. When they finished, I waited by Betty's desk to walk Clinton home for an hour's rest. He couldn't wait to hear the early reviews and invited me to elaborate: “Do you really think I did OK? I couldn't tell from up there.” He reciprocated with an anecdote from the moment before he was called to the lawn with Rabin and Arafat.

“You wouldn't believe it,” he said, setting the scene. “It was just the three of us.” Then he slipped into Rabin's voice and uttered a single word: “Outside.” Again, “Outside.” Arafat had reached over for a private handshake, but Rabin shook his head and said, “Outside,” which meant, I imagined, “
I know what I have to do, but I'll be damned if I'm going to do it until it's absolutely necessary
.” Rabin then softened the rebuke by filling the silence: “You know we have a lot of work to do.” Arafat answered in kind: “I'm willing to do my part.”

Clinton let me feed the press Rabin's and Arafat's final private words without the part about the refused handshake. It was a delicious detail, but it was too raw to use. Why risk misinterpretation? Not that anything could spoil this day. Official Washington's cynicism was suspended, and everyone was caught up in the spirit of reconciliation. On the way to the residence, we ran into Barbara Walters, who asked for a quick interview with Clinton. It was soft and brief, and when the cameras were off, she approached Clinton with one more request: “Is it proper to ask a president for a hug?”

Later that afternoon, we convened Jewish and Arab American leaders for an unprecedented White House working session. When Clinton finished his brief remarks, the dignitaries stormed the stage like teenyboppers, holding up their programs for autographed mementos. I relished calls from the same reporters who often ruined my day. Bill Safire: “The best speech Clinton's ever given.” Brit Hume: “I have no questions. You did a helluva job, and it's the best thing you've ever done.” Tom Friedman: “Today Clinton made me proud to be an American, and Rabin made me proud to be a Jew.” Ann Devroy: “Even I can't think of anything negative to say; it's just too good to be here.”
Yes, it is
.

It seemed like a day when all was forgiven and anything was possible. At the president's private reception on the Truman Balcony, I told former Secretary of State Cyrus Vance, “I hope we can do the same in Bosnia,” before Zbigniew Brzezinski, his Carter administration nemesis, interrupted: “George, why don't you go down and get some library books for me?” At Columbia, I had been his research assistant, an exalted title for someone whose two main duties were delivering library books (Napoleon's memoirs in French) and lunch (pastrami on brown bread with mustard). Now we traded war stories: “It takes two terms to learn how to do these jobs,” he said, reminding me one more time that the last three Democratic presidents hadn't had that chance. Colin Powell walked in. “Hey, superstar,” I said, a teasing reference to the general's cover photo on that day's
U.S. News and World Report
. “Give me a break.” He laughed. “I've only got sixteen days left in this business.”
Sure, until you run against us
.

Well, I'd almost made it — an entire day without a dark political thought. But as much as I admired the general, he was still the potential opponent I feared most. The
U.S. News
article, entitled “Colin Powell Superstar: Will America's Top General Trade His Uniform for a Future in Politics?” was the mother of all puff pieces:

Powell could become another Eisenhower, a military hero who floats above partisanship and taps into mankind's oldest myths about the virtues of the warrior-king. … Powell is a political tidal wave waiting to happen. … By almost 3 to 1, respondents think Powell … would do a better job than Clinton in foreign affairs. … By more than 2 to 1, Americans think Powell would do a better job than Clinton in fighting crime and drugs. … A Republican Powell would defeat Democratic President Clinton by 42 percent to 38 percent in a head-to-head election held today.

As Powell enjoyed his final days as chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, we engaged in a series of quiet talks on a “Colin Powell strategy” with Vernon Jordan, the Clark Clifford of the nineties, as our wise man. Though Powell had rebuffed earlier feelers from Jordan, we still held out hope that his role model was George Marshall rather than Dwight Eisenhower — that over time he wouldn't be able to refuse the chance to be America's first black secretary of state.

Our immediate concern was what honor to bestow on Powell as a retirement gift. Our goal was to offer a prestigious appointment that would show respect without signaling weakness or appearing to pander. Mack asked me to secretly research the procedure for awarding a fifth star to a general. What I discovered from the Pentagon pretty much ended the discussion. Only five generals in American history had achieved the distinction, and the last one was World War II hero Omar Bradley in 1950. Despite the Persian Gulf victory and his earlier service in Vietnam, it would be hard to argue that Powell had a comparable battle record. That obstacle, combined with the fact that the honor would require an act of Congress, was enough to kill the idea.

When I reported my findings to Clinton, he said that he had reached the same conclusion from a different angle. Had it been a clear-cut case, I'm sure Clinton would have recommended the award for Powell. But since it was a close call, Clinton reasoned that rewarding Powell would be a political trap. If Powell did challenge Clinton, the fifth star would forestall criticism of the general's military record. Instead, we discussed something politically innocuous, like asking Powell to chair the American Battle Monuments Commission, but nothing came of it.

In his more optimistic moments, Clinton convinced himself that Powell wouldn't challenge him anyway. We discussed it on the evening of Tuesday, September 21 — the end of another good day. That afternoon, the president had signed the Americorps national service program into law, and I had just handed him a draft of the health care address he'd deliver the following night. Betty Currie and the president's valet, Glen Maes, were standing in the outer office, hoping that I'd hurry him along so they could go home and he could get some rest. But on my second trip back, he was still packing up his desk. Without looking up from his open briefcase, he said, “I think things are starting to come together.” It was nice to hear, because despite a few good days, the president had been in a funk since August. Now he talked brightly about bringing in his old friend and our 1992 convention manager, Harold Ickes, to shore up our political operation. Next he brought up Powell. “You don't think he's going to run, do you?”