The Secretary (42 page)

*   *   *

The Libyan rebel leader looked nothing like a revolutionary. No beard, no camouflage,
no bandana on his forehead. Short with glasses and wearing a suit, the fifty-nine-year-old
business management consultant had come to Paris to find out what America had to offer.
The gulf between perception and expectations—he knew all about that. It was at the
heart of his PhD thesis on the U.S.-Libyan relationship at the University of Pittsburgh
years ago. He had written about the influence of images and perception in the very
rocky U.S.-Libyan relationship from 1969, the year Gaddafi took power, when Libya
was still an American friend, until 1982, when Libya had moved from being an agitator
against the United States to being firmly in the camp of the enemy.

“We tend to see that countries we like do things we like, and to see our enemies pursuing
policies that would harm our interests,” Jibril had written in 1985.

Now again, America’s perception of Libya changed depending on what its own objectives
and interests were in the region. Jibril needed to get Clinton to like him and convince
her that a no-fly zone was in America’s interest, but in real life, perceptions and
expectations could not be neatly charted the way they had been in his thesis.

On the top floor of the Westin Hotel, Clinton welcomed Jibril into the living room
of her presidential suite. The Eiffel Tower was lit up, shining through the corner
window. The tasteful purple and gray couches and settees and the checkered armchairs
had been rearranged into a more formal meeting setting. Clinton asked a few questions,
but she mostly listened. In his perfect but heavily accented English, Jibril eloquently
explained that without a no-fly zone, without U.S. intervention, there would be a
massacre in Benghazi. His plea was passionate but delivered calmly, his bushy eyebrows
only barely moving up and down under his dark rimmed eyeglasses. Clinton said America’s
vital interests were not at stake. America, he replied, had to be coherent in its
foreign policy; it could not speak of the defense of democracy and abandon the Libyan
people. Clinton asked very detailed questions about the Transitional National Council,
its composition, how representative it was of all of Libya, his vision for the future
of the country. She also asked him for an update about the military situation on the
ground as well as the humanitarian aid needed.

After forty-five minutes, the meeting came to an end. Clinton walked Jibril into the
hallway. They shook hands, and he thanked her for the meeting. She smiled, he bowed
slightly, looking relieved it was over. Clinton conferred very quickly with Cretz
and Stevens. She added what she had heard to the information she’d gathered all day.
She had checked all her boxes, and she could make her case to President Obama about
what she believed should be America’s next move.

Jibril left the hotel through the back door again. He had been pleasantly surprised
by how attentive Clinton had been and how much time she had given him to make his
case. But she had made no commitment to him either way. He had given it his best shot,
but he didn’t know whether he had convinced the American secretary of state to help
his country. Was the cavalry coming? Perhaps the Arabs and the French, but he wasn’t
sure about the United States. Libya could be on its own, but he was hopeful.

*   *   *

The day wasn’t over. At half past midnight, we were called to a background briefing
with three senior officials from the delegation. There was no filing center, where
we usually held those briefings, so we agreed to meet up in the hotel bar. It was
a Monday night, but the Tuileries Bar was crowded. The hotel was in the heart of Paris,
in the first arrondissement, between the place de la Concorde and the place Vendôme,
lined with the world’s finest jewelry shops.

We tried to huddle away from indiscreet ears in a nook in the back of the bar. The
large, plush black chairs kept us well apart from each other, two tables separating
us from the officials sitting together on the red velvet banquette. Why weren’t they
ready to take more definitive steps? Were they simply in the dark about what was going
on in Libya? Were the divisions about what to do next simply too big? The first official
tried to answer our question, walking a fine line as he described the discussions
at the G8 dinner.

“I wouldn’t claim that all eight who were at the table tonight are exactly in the
same place. As you know, the French have already recognized the opposition, some were
more forward-leaning about a no-fly zone or the use of force than others, there’s
no doubt. But at the same time they all shared a sense of urgency. The ministers spoke
very passionately about what is happening and the need for us to move as quickly as
possible to accomplish these goals.”

“But this has been going on for weeks!” Matt from the AP interjected.

“But there’s another set of principles that’s also very important to have on the table,”
the official replied, “which is not to act without regional support.”

“But you have regional support!” Matt said. “You have the Arab League, you have the
GCC. It may not be spelled out exactly the way you would like it but…” A loud, nasal
American female voice from a table nearby drowned out the rest.

“That’s precisely why the secretary asked for clarifications,” the official butted
in. “So that when the Security Council takes this up, we understands exactly what
it is we’re talking about.”

A chorus of voices interrupted him, all talking over each other but all saying the
same thing.

“It sounds like nobody wants to do this.”

The first official paused, a frustrated look on his face. The second one pursed his
lips. The third stared at his two colleagues.

“People don’t want to take action based on a misunderstanding,” volunteered the first
official. He explained it was important to have more than just vague regional support.
But what did that support actually mean? What were they not telling us? These briefings
were key to helping us understand the context of what was happening behind the scenes
but also to get a sense of where things were going. For the officials, it often seemed
like agony, worse than the daily grilling at the lectern in Washington. They wanted
to make sure they gave us their version of history in the making, but there was only
so much they could tell us. Diplomacy didn’t flourish in the limelight. Their guarded
statements left big blanks that we filled with our own conclusions. In this case,
it made the Americans look reluctant to do anything for the Libyans beyond issue statements
and wait for someone else to deal with Gaddafi.

“Well, this sense of urgency you talk about doesn’t seem to exist,” said Matt. “No
one is going to do anything about this, except talk more about it and stay in nine-hundred-euro
hotel rooms in various world capitals.”

It was almost one thirty in the morning—dinnertime in Washington. We ordered more
drinks, got more salted almonds, and prodded further.

“Why are you still trying to figure out what a no-fly zone entails. Isn’t that obvious?”
asked Elise Labott from CNN.

“What would constitute clear support from the Arab League?” I asked. “They have never
called for any sort of military action against another Arab country. What more do
you want? Do you want Arab military involvement?”

There was a long silence filled by the bar chatter, which suddenly sounded deafening.
Twenty seconds passed.

“Whatever action is taken we are asking them to take the lead in carrying it out,”
replied the second official. “For the United States or NATO or France to carry out
any military action without clear regional support poses significant risks that everyone
in this room fully understands,” he went on. “Past no-fly zones have required significant
military action.”

A no-fly zone, they explained, had to be enforced. If anyone sent planes over Libya,
Gaddafi would try to bring them down, so you first had to take out his air defenses.
Nonanswer answers were a classic play by American officials. He hadn’t confirmed they
were seeking Arab military participation, but he hadn’t denied it either. So we were
onto something. But why did the United States want Arab military involvement? To do
what?

*   *   *

Just as we were sitting down with the officials in the bar around midnight, high up
on the secure floor, past the marines standing sentry in the hallway, Molly and Andrew
were putting the final touches on the daily briefing book for the secretary’s meetings
for the following day in Paris and then Cairo. Thirty mini-schedules had been printed
out, cut, and stapled. The two hungry young officers had had enough of eating beef
jerky; it was time for real French food. They headed out to Montmartre, betting they
could find late dining in the lively, artistic neighborhood. A couple of steak frites
and a few glasses of wine later, back at the Westin Hotel, Molly collapsed in her
bed at two in the morning and closed her eyes for the first time in thirty-eight hours.
Ten minutes later, she half opened them, brought her BlackBerry closer to her face,
and glanced at her e-mails. She closed her eyes again, her BlackBerry still in her
hand. No one ever slept deeply on these trips. Half an hour later, with her thumb
she clicked the scroll button, lighting up the screen of her mobile device. All was
quiet.

At four in the morning, the dim light shone again on Molly’s face. Her eyes opened
wide. A cascade of OPS alerts, with bad news from Japan. There had been a third blast
at a reactor of the Fukushima plant, the U.S. Navy was repositioning ships after detecting
airborne radioactivity, the United States was considering evacuating thousands of
American citizens, and a fire had broken out in a cooling pond at one of the reactors.
Molly called Andrew. Five minutes later, they were back in the office. Clinton was
meeting the Japanese foreign minister at eight thirty in the morning at the Hotel
Le Meurice, a short walk around the corner from the Westin. The daily Book had to
be redone.

The United States had been very sensitive about the guidance it was giving to citizens
and military personnel so as not to offend Japan, which was downplaying all the risks.
Now it was clear how overwhelmed Japan was. No one was really in charge. The United
States wasn’t going to wait to be asked for help, it was time to step in. The dangers
of a nuclear catastrophe were too big, the consequences dire for hundreds of thousands
of people in Japan and beyond. In the morning, Clinton went to the Meurice and had
her meeting with the Japanese foreign minister. In public, all the statements were
about total support for Japan and its people. In private the message was tougher:
get your act together.

Off we went to Cairo.

*   *   *

At the Egyptian foreign ministry, Clinton was meeting the new man in charge, Nabil
Elaraby. The last time we had been in Cairo, Clinton had stood next to Aboul Gheit.
She had just met Mubarak, and they had talked about peace and settlements in front
of a small crowd of journalists. This time, around a hundred journalists were crushed
into a room, and cameramen were pushing and shoving trying to set up their tripods.
The wait was long and the room overheated. I headed out for some fresh air.

Outside, inveterate smokers were lighting up cigarette after cigarette.

“How come so many people are attending this press conference?” I asked one of the
Egyptian reporters. “Do you still care what America has to say?”

The man stared at me, incredulous. “It’s America!”

Inside, on an improvised desk, the advance line officer for the Cairo stop had set
up a laptop and printer to print out the latest version of the remarks Clinton would
be giving shortly. He was waiting for final clearance from Washington—everyone with
a say on Egypt had to sign off on the document. The Wi-Fi Internet was acting up,
and the e-mail just wasn’t landing. The remarks had to be waiting for her on the lectern
as she walked out of her meeting. She was going to praise the Egyptians for what they
had achieved in Tahrir Square and tell them repeatedly that this moment in history
belonged to them, that they had broken barriers and overcome obstacles to pursue the
dream of democracy—and the United States stood by them.

*   *   *

There was still some convincing to do. A number of democracy activists who had been
part of the uprising had been invited to meet Clinton at her hotel and a handful had
refused, still resentful over her January 25 comment about Egypt being stable. The
revolution had started long before that date in their hearts, and they couldn’t forgive
America for weighing interests and values before speaking out. Clinton asked those
in the meeting, including Asmaa Mahfouz, the woman who had spurred mass demonstrations
with her YouTube video, how they were preparing for the upcoming parliamentary elections.
She was stunned when they told her they were revolutionaries; they “didn’t do politics.”
They believed that the momentum and emotions of the revolution would win the day at
the ballot box. On this occasion, Hillary’s instincts as a politician were the right
ones, and the naive activists would soon find themselves outmaneuvered by the well-organized
Muslim Brotherhood and even the remnants of Mubarak’s ruling party.

*   *   *

In the morning she had more meetings, with the army generals, the defense minister,
and civil society representatives, and she took a walk around revolution central—Tahrir
Square. The crowds were gone and traffic was back, but Hillary still found it emotional
to see the square with her own eyes. She then had to deal with Pakistan. An agreement
had been reached with Islamabad, and CIA contractor Raymond Davis was being released
from jail. Then interviews. On every trip, Clinton gave interviews to the television
reporters with her on the plane. Sitting in a hotel room that had been transformed
into a makeshift television set, Clinton would subject herself to the interviews back-to-back,
with barely a few minutes to spare between them.