The World as It Is

by Ben Rhodes

  Benghazi followed me around like an unseen shadow. When I met strangers, I wondered if they went home to Google me, only to find a litany of conspiracy theories. I was embarrassed by the idea that my friends might have to defend me when talking to other people. I was doing more television, and the guy who arranged those interviews and followed me, camera to camera, advised me to smile more. “You have a natural frown,” he told me. I had never thought of myself as unhappy before.

  In the days after we returned from Manila, the outrage over my email began to build. One weekday morning, I woke up around seven to get my dry cleaning. Mets hat on, plastic-wrapped shirts draped over my shoulder, this was the most normal I could feel during the course of a day. I came up the stairs of my stoop, pulling my keys out of my pocket, when I was suddenly surrounded by a camera crew. They were from Fox News, shouting questions about “the talking points” as I hurried into my apartment building.

  Ann, who was pregnant with our first child, could tell something was wrong when I came through the door. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “There’s a Fox News camera crew outside,” I said.

  “What?” she said. Her face started to dissolve in some kind of fear. “Oh, no, Ben. Oh, no, no, no.” There was panic in her voice, and I could see how much this was impacting her as well. We crept over to the window, pulling the blinds to the side, and looked out the window at a car that was parked illegally by the hydrant in front of our window. “What will the neighbors think?” she said.

  I ended up leaving through a set of basement stairs that spat me out into an alley. Any sense of cleverness I felt at shaking a tail was undercut by my shame at having to sneak out of my own apartment building through the back door where we deposit our trash.

  The White House Correspondents’ Dinner was just a few days later. My brother was in town, and we went on our usual run. We ran along the Potomac, Northern Virginia on one side, the Kennedy Center and Lincoln Memorial on the other. He went on about how annoyed he was by the conspiracy theory that he and I fixed the news. He mentioned that he’d met with Lindsey Graham that weekend—a man who had recently called me a “scumbag.” When the run ended, we stopped a couple of blocks from my apartment. In past years, my brother had stayed with me; this year he didn’t. In past years, I’d gone to the CBS News party before the dinner—my parents had a photo of the two of us, with our wives, smiling at this event on their mantel in New York; I was still out of breath when he said, “It’s probably a good idea if you don’t come by the CBS party this year.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “See you,” he said, jogging in the other direction.

  I stood there for a moment, catching my breath, trying to reckon with the realization that my brother didn’t want to be seen with me in public.

  Around the same time, John Boehner announced a new select committee to investigate Benghazi, and my email was cited as a leading justification. There was a video that went along with the announcement. It resembled a slick but cheap movie trailer, with each Republican member of the committee announced like a professional wrestler. “Trey Gowdy…Mike Pompeo…” Republicans sent out fundraising appeals citing the new committee. It was clear that the goal was to extend this charade into the presidential election in order to damage Hillary. It was the most politically motivated rollout imaginable, all founded on a theory that we had been the ones to politicize the deaths of four Americans. I felt I was living in an alternate reality that was in some way insane, unable to recognize hypocrisy or to separate facts from politics. The world around me seemed to have come unmoored. The truth had become irrelevant.

  That Friday afternoon, my deputy at the time, Caitlin Hayden, asked me to come to a meeting in the Executive Office Building. It was actually a surprise party. I walked in to find a room full of people who’d worked alongside me for years. We drank Scotch at a large oval table and talked ruefully about the controversy. At some point, everyone went around the room and told their own story about how much I meant to them. It was perhaps the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me—that sense of a family closing in around you, protecting you, no matter how bad it was outside. Each person spoke about something I’d done to boost their career, or a time when I’d done something funny or foolish; a younger guy said he decided to go into communications because of me; a former staffer sent a photo of her baby daughter wearing a shirt that read TEAM BEN. In a perfect snapshot of how incapable I was of handling what was happening to me, I had so much to drink that I don’t remember most of these tributes.

  I somehow made it home and slept in my clothes on a bare mattress in our guest bedroom, soon to be used by our unborn child. The next morning, Ann tried to shake me out of my sense of self-pity. “This isn’t a tragedy,” she said. “My dad’s scan was a tragedy.” She was right, but I didn’t know how to put that perspective into my daily life.

  A few days later, I got a call that Obama wanted to see me. I made the familiar walk down the hallway and up the stairs, a walk I’d made thousands of times, but this time I was filled with dread. I had a feeling this was about Benghazi. I walked into the Oval, where he was standing behind his desk.

  “I hear you’ve been a little upset about everything that’s going on,” he said, “this whole thing.” He gestured with his hand, not even saying the word “Benghazi.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry. I know it’s a fraction of what you put up with on a daily basis. It’s just an out-of-body experience, watching yourself be convicted publicly of a crime you didn’t commit.”

  “Did you do anything wrong?” he asked.

  It was, I realized, the first time anyone had ever bothered to ask me that question. “No,” I said.

  “Then don’t worry about it,” he said. “All you have is your integrity. And you have as much integrity as anyone I know.”

  * * *

  —

  THE DEEPER I SLIPPED into the abyss of Benghazi, the more focused I became on our discussions with the Cubans, determined to ensure that something positive came out of what felt more and more like an ordeal. But to get something done, we’d need some help. That spring, we found it.

  On a sunny morning in March, a group of White House staff trailed Obama as he made his way into the Vatican and stood in a large space with little furniture and huge paintings while he met alone with Pope Francis. For months, Ricardo and I had discussed involving the Vatican in our negotiations. It was an institution that had credibility with both the American and Cuban people, was neutral in foreign affairs, and supported a rapprochement. Our basic concept was that the Vatican could be a guarantor for any agreement, since it was hard for the governments of the United States and Cuba to trust each other. But we weren’t sure how to enlist the Vatican’s help, so we suggested to Obama that he discuss Cuba with the pope.

  As the time ticked on, there was a slight stirring among the Vatican officials present. “The Holy Father never meets with people for this long,” one of the priests said to me.

  After we were back at the U.S. ambassador’s residence in Rome, I pulled Obama aside. “Did you talk about Cuba?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “As long as we talked about any other issue. He was very interested, coming from Latin America. I told him we’d established a channel.”

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  “He was very supportive. He said he’d be helpful in any way he could. He seemed familiar with the fact that there is a dispute over prisoners.”

  When I asked if they’d discussed any other details—about our negotiations, or what the Vatican could do—he looked surprised. “He’s the pope,” Obama said. “He approaches things from a pretty high level.” Before I left, he told me how much he liked the pope, but also sympathized with him, given how much attention Francis had attracted since his accession. “I know a thing or two about high expectations.”

  * *
*

  —

  IN MAY, AT OUR next meeting with the Cubans, we proposed a formal role for the Vatican. They reacted a little cautiously—the Church had a complicated history in a country that had embraced Communism and restricted religious freedom. But when I mentioned that Obama and the pope had discussed it, they warmed a bit.

  “Papa Francisco?” Alejandro asked.

  “Yes,” I responded. “He and Obama spoke about how he could be personally involved in supporting what we’re trying to accomplish. His involvement could also help with the politics in the United States.”

  “Papa Francisco is a son of Latin America,” Alejandro explained. He was therefore viewed differently in Cuba from other popes, just as Obama was viewed differently from other presidents. With his involvement, they were open to it.

  The actual negotiations had reached an impasse. The Cubans still had not agreed to release the intelligence asset we had requested, and we had not agreed to release Gerardo Hernández. It didn’t help that we were meeting shortly after Obama had authorized a prisoner swap in which five Taliban inmates from Gitmo were exchanged for Bowe Bergdahl, a U.S. soldier who had been held in brutal conditions by the Taliban in Pakistan for five years. On the day that Bergdahl was released, we’d been elated—he was the only remaining U.S. prisoner of war, and safely completing the exchange with the Taliban suggested that some future effort at peace talks might be possible. By coincidence, Bergdahl’s parents were in Washington and were invited to come see Obama a few hours after the exchange was done. A few of us suggested that Obama make a statement in the Rose Garden with the parents. Pfeiffer and Podesta were skeptical, given that the exchange was with the Taliban. “The Republicans won’t go after a prisoner of war, will they?” I said.

  Podesta grimaced. “I don’t share your optimism.”

  I had rarely been more wrong. I knew that Bergdahl had walked off his base, but I didn’t know about the allegations that members of his unit had been killed looking for him. In the high of the moment, I’d failed to do my homework. Hostility toward Bergdahl from fellow servicemembers boiled over, and there were days of heated criticism of the swap, and of our decision to celebrate Bergdahl’s release. The Cubans read the Bergdahl episode the wrong way. “We have noted Obama’s determination to leave no man behind,” Alejandro told me. I had to explain that the Bergdahl swap actually made things harder.

  * * *

  —

  TO DESIGN THE VATICAN ROLE, Denis McDonough suggested we work through Cardinal Theodore McCarrick, who had once led the archdiocese in Washington. McCarrick was eighty-three and retired from his official duties, but he was still something of a troubleshooter around the world for the Vatican. He met us early one morning for breakfast in the White House mess—a dining room on the ground floor of the West Wing decorated like a 1950s country club, with large wooden chairs, wood paneling, and paintings of old wood-hulled Navy ships on the walls. As we sat picking at our eggs, I explained to McCarrick the outlines of what we’d been doing with the Cubans and how we wanted the Vatican’s help. I could see him turning the problem over in his head as I spoke, a kindly man with youthful Irish eyes. “The Holy Father,” he suggested, with traces of a Bronx accent, “would want to work through the cardinal in Havana,” Jaime Lucas Ortega y Alamino. I nodded—if the Holy Father wanted to work through Cardinal Ortega, then that’s what we were going to do.

  The way to initiate a formal role for the Vatican, McCarrick said, would be through a letter from the Holy Father to Raúl Castro and Barack Obama. The Vatican conducted diplomacy like this only in person, however, so the question was how do we get Cardinal Ortega to Washington to deliver it? Denis and I sat there without ideas while McCarrick thought this over, testing a couple of different ideas out loud, before arriving at a solution: “I can invite him to deliver a speech at Georgetown,” he said, “if you can assure him that Obama would be available for a meeting.”

  A few weeks later, Cardinal Ortega arrived in Washington. We arranged for him to enter the White House through a side entrance so he wouldn’t be seen by the press. Denis, Ricardo, and I met with him and McCarrick on the back patio of the Chief of Staff’s Office. He clung tightly to an oversized envelope that contained a formal letter from the Holy Father. He was eager, almost giddy, smiling broadly and making small talk until Obama arrived and sat down with us. At that point, Ortega shifted to formality. Holding up the envelope, he told us, “I have recently delivered the exact same letter to president Raúl Castro Ruz in Havana.” He paused to let that fact sink in. Then, instead of handing us the letter, he took it out and—with a sense of ceremony—read it aloud in Spanish, pausing so that Ricardo could translate.

  It was a simple message: an offer to help resolve issues related to prisoners and to improve the relationship between the United States and Cuba. When Ortega was done, he handed the letter to Obama like a sacred relic. Obama gave me the letter and I took it down to my office. I looked at the text and there at the bottom, in the tiniest handwriting I had ever seen—as if the signature itself conveyed humility—it read FRANCIS.

  Perhaps not coincidentally, the Cubans had just sent us a message that they would be willing to hand over the intelligence asset we wanted if we released Gerardo. Suddenly it felt as if the pieces were aligning. Ricardo and I asked for a meeting with Obama to see if we could get guidance on the final package we should pursue. Up to this point, he hadn’t been in the weeds. When I’d brief him after my sessions with the Cubans, he’d sit there with a look of mild amusement. “The report from our man in Havana!” he’d say. “Are you going to bring a Panama hat to the next session?” His instructions were always the same: “Go big.”

  Now, with a deal imminent and the Vatican involved, Obama got serious. He began our meeting by saying that we should set aside politics: “Politics is not something I worry about on this one,” he said. “The politics will catch up to what we’re doing.” His concern was making clear to the Cubans that if we released Gerardo, we’d have to get more than just Alan Gross and the intelligence asset in return. We suggested that the Cubans could release a large number of political prisoners and commit to expanding Internet access on the island. Beyond that, I explained, the mere fact that the Cubans were agreeing to restore diplomatic relations was a big deal—we would get the new beginning, even though the embargo remained in place.

  The Bergdahl debacle hung heavy over the room. Denis and others wanted us to press for the return of high-profile fugitives who were living in Cuba, including Joanne Chesimard. Chesimard is one of many bizarre subplots in the U.S.-Cuba relationship. A prominent Black Panther, she was riding in the back of a car on the New Jersey Turnpike in 1973 when the police pulled it over. In an ensuing shootout, a state trooper was killed. Chesimard escaped from prison and made her way to Cuba, where she was granted asylum. The FBI declared her a “domestic terrorist” and a $1 million bounty was offered for her return. She also happened to be Tupac Shakur’s godmother, and had deep pockets of support in the African American community.

  “We can try for Chesimard,” I said, “but I don’t think the Cubans will give her back.”

  * * *

  —

  A FEW DAYS LATER, Ricardo and I flew up to Toronto to meet the Cubans at an airport hotel. When we walked into the lobby, we noticed a conspicuous couple sitting at the center of the bar area staring at us—a tattooed man and a woman dressed like an extra in a 1980s Madonna music video. As we checked in, they walked over to where we were standing and stopped a few feet away; the man took out an iPhone, held it out in front of him, and took pictures of us. Then they walked off toward the elevators without saying a word.

  “Russians,” Ricardo said.

  “Why would they do that?” I asked.

  “They want us to know they’re watching,” he said. “They don’t like this.”

  In the meeting, we laid out the proposed package, notin
g that we still needed final approval from Obama on Gerardo Hernández. I urged the Cubans to release a list of political prisoners that Ricardo had given them; to agree to increased access to the Internet; and to announce additional steps related to human rights and economic reform. I also went through a list of fugitives we wanted back that included Chesimard. I noted that we weren’t trying to bury all our differences. “The day after we announce this,” I said, “Raúl Castro will still defend the revolution and the United States will continue to support multiparty democracy. We’ll have different views, but we’ll address them through dialogue.”

  It was a tough meeting. We argued around several issues. But the Cubans agreed to release almost all of the political prisoners, or—in the language they preferred—“individuals who had been arrested for nonviolent political offenses.” We hit a dead end on fugitives because it reintroduced the subject of Luis Posada Carilles, the Cuban who had blown up a plane flying to Cuba. But we were now just testing what additional items could be added to a transformative agreement. When we took a break in the late afternoon, Ricardo and I walked across a parking lot to get takeout from a cheap Mexican restaurant, then bought a few bottles of wine at a nearby gas station. We laid out trays of food in our hotel room and set a table with plastic utensils. When the Cubans arrived, they were in a jovial mood, as if it was a social occasion.