In 2005, Clinton and the man who once called him a bozo3 went to the Super Bowl together. The former rivals went golfing together. Bush’s chief of staff told a visitor to Bush’s Houston office that when Clinton underwent a follow-up heart surgery in March of that year, Bush was “deeply, deeply, personally disturbed by it.” The visitor, who did not know Bill Clinton well, insisted, “That wasn’t for show. I mean, the old man was just pacing, and it was like a family member had gone under the knife.”
Like a true member of the Bush family, Clinton spent part of his summer vacation that year with his new friend at Bush’s compound in Kennebunkport, Maine. He even took up Bush’s habit of letter writing—at least in his own way. Ever the ribald, Clinton sent Bush a cartoon depicting the younger Bush making a statement opposing gay marriage. The next frame showed Clinton and Bush 41 sitting on a couch holding hands. In the cartoon, Clinton says, “George, maybe we’d better cool it.”4
Pope John Paul II, eighty-four, was nearing the twilight of his historic papacy, one that hastened the end of the Cold War and left him a reputation as one of the most influential figures of the twentieth century. He had survived two assassination attempts, battles with cancer, and other illnesses, and time was finally taking its toll. He had slowly been dying for years.
It was early 2005, and Jim Nicholson, a trim, mustachioed Coloradan, was ending his stint as the U.S. ambassador to the Vatican, a position to which he had been appointed by George W. Bush in 2001. The low-key ambassador, a West Point graduate and highly decorated Vietnam veteran, had been recalled to Washington to serve as Bush’s secretary of veterans affairs.
But before his departure, Nicholson made a final visit to the frail pontiff at the Apostolic Palace, which housed the pope’s luxurious private apartments in the Vatican. The palace, construction of which began in 1589, consists of a series of buildings that house the pope and his offices, as well as other administrative staff.
“It was a really personal visit,” Nicholson tells me, clearly moved. “To thank me for the work I’d done there.” As they met in a sitting room adorned with soft green high-back chairs, the Holy Father experienced trouble breathing. Suffering from Parkinson’s disease, he barely spoke above a whisper. Nicholson would be the last U.S. ambassador to be acquainted with the legendary pontiff.
On April 2, 2005, in that very apartment where he met with Nicholson, the Holy Father died. Ever cognizant of the Catholic vote—an obsession among Bush political advisors like Karl Rove—as well as deeply respectful of the pontiff’s contributions in the Cold War, the president himself decided to attend the pope’s state funeral. As the most recent U.S. ambassador, Nicholson was an obvious choice to accompany Bush, and he boarded the flight along with the First Lady, the prolific Catholic writer Michael Novak, and Bush’s two immediate predecessors: Bill Clinton and George H. W. Bush. Jimmy Carter chose not to accompany the delegation aboard Air Force One. This was all for the best, since both Bushes and Clinton had little personal regard for the Georgian.
For Nicholson, a devout Catholic, the trip undoubtedly conjured a wealth of emotions. It was almost incidental that the flight also offered Nicholson his first encounter with his onetime nemesis, Bill Clinton.
From 1997 to 2001, the entirety of Clinton’s tumultuous second term, Nicholson had served as the Republican National Committee chairman. In that time, on radio and television, the Colorado lawyer was the chief Republican spokesman against the Clinton administration. And the mild-mannered westerner had taken to his job with relish. With the 2000 election approaching, Nicholson took memorable aim not only at Clinton, but also his would-be successor, Vice President Al Gore.
One of the more famous encounters occurred after Nicholson authorized advertising on a massive billboard situated across the street from Gore-Lieberman campaign headquarters in Nashville, Tennessee. The billboard displayed a giant photograph of Gore embracing Clinton beneath a Gore quote that had labeled Clinton “the greatest president ever!” In 2000, at the nadir of Clinton’s personal popularity and as the Monica Lewinsky scandal continued to be a drag on Gore’s fortunes, the billboard proved a major irritant to Gore campaign staffers, who were greeted with it every time they drove into work. It also outraged the famously petulant vice president, who was offended and embarrassed by Clinton’s private behavior and longed to keep his distance. “[Gore] was just so upset about the Lewinsky matter and angry about it,” Joe Lieberman tells me in an interview, “not just because he disagreed with it, but because I think he felt that it was going to hurt him in the campaign.” The billboard was just another reminder of the scandal and the toll it might have on Gore’s personal fortunes.
“[Gore] tried to use the muscle he had in Tennessee to have it taken down,” a grayer Nicholson remembers, when I visited recently with him in his law office in downtown Washington, D.C. “The outdoor advertising company said they were getting a tremendous amount of pressure.” Nicholson finally relented, knowing that the removal of the sign would lead to another burst of publicity, and more fury from the Gore campaign. In addition to harassing Gore, Nicholson had at one point or another accused Clinton of dishonesty, corruption, shamelessness, pursuing “a legacy of vengeance,” and of “practicing the politics of personal destruction.”
Now, in the spring of 2005, aboard Air Force One as it jetted toward Rome, Nicholson and Clinton met eye to eye. To those who haven’t been on the presidential plane, it might seem like a vast fortress in the sky. Large it is, but not so large that VIPs don’t cross paths rather easily. This was exactly what happened with Clinton and Nicholson as they made their way down the narrow, tan-carpeted corridor.
“Ah, Nicholson, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” said the former president. He looked trimmer than he did during his time in office. His hair, overdue for a cut, was almost completely white.
“Hello, Mr. President,” Nicholson replied.
“For four years you did nothing but beat me up,” Clinton said, with a chuckle. He remembered specifically a vacation with Hillary in the summer of 1999. “Every time we turned on the TV or the radio, I had to hear you beating up on me.”
Nicholson is not a visibly emotional man, and he took Clinton’s ribbing in stride. “That was my job, Mr. President.”
“I know,” Clinton replied with a smile, as if to say, That’s politics. All part of the game. Always eager to forge a connection, Clinton referred to a close mutual friend who lived in Denver. “[Jim] Lyons is always telling me you’re a good guy.”
“Good to know,” Nicholson replied.
“Anyway,” Clinton added, leaning in toward the former ambassador, “you can make all this up to me by telling me who the next pope’s going to be.”
“Oh, Mr. President,” Nicholson said, with a slight turn of his head, “the Holy Spirit’s not talking to me about that.” Which, in fact, was not wholly accurate.
Nicholson did have thoughts on the matter, detailed ones. As part of their duties, every ambassador regularly assesses candidates who might replace the current head of state. And Nicholson, a seasoned political operative and a committed Catholic, had a keen sense of the politics and intrigues behind a papal succession. But he saw no need to share any of this with Bill Clinton.
“Aw, come on,” Clinton pressed.
“Sorry,” Nicholson replied. Shortly thereafter, the two parted company. At least for the moment.
A few hours later, Nicholson found himself in a senior officials’ compartment aboard the plane with Clinton, both the current and the former Presidents Bush, and a few other very senior aides.
Clinton and the Bushes were chatting amiably when seemingly out of the blue, Clinton turned to his successor. “George, make Nicholson tell us who the next pope’s going to be.”
George W. Bush, in his usual blunt, to-the-point way, quickly put his former envoy on the spot. “Do you have anything on that?” he asked Nicholson.
“Yes, I do, Mr. President,” he replied, addressing his boss and no
w giving a straight and forthcoming answer.
“Well, what do you think?”
“I think it’s going to be Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger.”
“Really?” Clinton interjected. His tone betrayed surprise—and skepticism. “It won’t be Ratzinger; he’s a German. They’ll never elect a German pope.”
The ambassador doubled down, insisting it was his best guess from what he’d been hearing.
“No,” Clinton said, although he seemed to be dwelling on the possibility in his head. “Why do you think so?”
“Because he is the dean of the College of Cardinals. He is a very highly respected, well-known theologian. He’s been in the job as the keeper of the faith, in the Dicastery for the Propagation of the Faith in the Curia. He’s known worldwide. He is very respected. He doesn’t want the job, he wants to go to Bavaria and play the piano and read and take walks and pray. He’s also going to preside over all these ceremonies that we’re flying to this morning.”
Clinton maintained a look of skepticism. But as the conversation in the room turned to other matters, the former president disappeared.
“I didn’t think anything of it at the time,” Nicholson recalls now, though he soon learned where Clinton went.
The former president wandered down the corridor of the presidential plane and, as if by happenstance, soon found himself in the small compartment in the back of the plane reserved for the press corps. The reporters aboard Air Force One pay for these cramped quarters, where the communication equipment is poor and actual news rare—but they do it for quality time with high-ranking officials. And on this trip, they were lucky. Clinton was happy to glad-hand them, stroke their egos (and his), and take part in his favorite pastime: political gossip. When the conversation turned to the successor for Pope John Paul II, Clinton held forth with a knowledgeable gaze.
“I think it’s going to be Ratzinger,” Clinton predicted, making it seem like all along his own thoughtful analysis had led him to what would be a prophetic conclusion. “A German. He’s got a lot of momentum.”
Reporters started scribbling. Many undoubtedly were dazzled once again by Bill Clinton’s legendary political acumen. And they would be even more impressed when the prediction soon turned out to be correct.
Nicholson shakes his head as he recounts this. “Typical Clinton,” he says. And soon he and others among the delegation would get other glimpses of the former president, with whom they’d spend the next two and a half days.
First, of course, was the talking. “He talks all the time,” said one of the passengers aboard that flight. “He just wears you out.”
“He tells a lot of stories,” a Clinton intimate tells me. “Some of them I’ve heard four hundred, five hundred times, but it is what it is. I think that’s why people cycle through. It’s kind of enjoyable for the first six months and then, you know . . .”
“He would dominate the conversation on all sorts of topics,” Nicholson says. “Sometimes we’d be in a conversation that would trigger a thought of his, and he would start talking about something that was related to that, either related to an experience of his, or somebody that he knew, or something . . . and he would just go on with that, even though the other conversation might continue as well. It was odd to me. It was like he was sitting over there, and you and I were having a chat about the Nationals, and if there was something else on his mind, he’d be talking about it.”
Clinton talked so much, one Bush official said, that he’d exhaust the attention of both of the Bushes. “You could see Dubya’s mind drifting off,” the official said.
Clinton’s now-famous bond with the Bush family—and the larger BushWorld in general—was a key element in the rebuilding of the Clinton “brand.” Indeed, it may well rank as one of Bill Clinton’s most ambitious and personally rewarding achievements, one that not only had been a decade in the making, but was in effect a master class in Clinton’s ability to win friends and influence people. Despite the glossy spin now put on the relationship, the Arkansan had had a steep hill to climb.
On November 3, 1992, after an economic recession and a hard-fought three-way race for the presidency, Arkansas governor Bill Clinton defeated incumbent George H. W. Bush by a margin of 43 percent to 37 percent (with 19 percent for third-party candidate H. Ross Perot). The defeat was seen as an embarrassing rebuke to the sitting president, who had earned acclaim only a year earlier for the liberation of Kuwait from Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein. At the time, it also seemed to place a period on the Bush family’s political fortunes. Looking back on his father’s defeat years later, George Walker Bush remembers no ill will. “Dad had been raised to be a good sport,” Bush wrote in his bestselling memoir, Decision Points. “He blamed no one; he was not bitter.”5 As Bush writes, his father called Clinton that evening to offer a gracious concession—which began, as George W. Bush put it, “one of the more unlikely friendships in American political history.”6
“What a lot of people don’t realize is we’ve never really been hostile,” the elder George Bush once said to an interviewer. “You get into a campaign and there’s understandable hostility. But I’ve always had a rather pleasant personal relationship with him. . . . So it’s not surprising to us. But it is surprising to everybody else.”7
Although there is significant evidence today that the senior George Bush and Bill Clinton have moved beyond their 1992 election and become close friends, the sunny version of that pairing—that the two grew to appreciate each other almost as soon as the smoke cleared in 1992—is not consistent with the facts. The real story is more complicated, more interesting, and far more revealing.
The 1992 loss was understandably painful for the hypercompetitive Bush family. Indeed, it was so painful that it might well have altered history. For much of the next decade, family members lashed out in very personal terms at the man who had vanquished their beloved patriarch. George W. Bush, in particular, was said to be furious over his father’s defeat—“the better man lost,” he seethed on election night—and lashed out at the media for its bias. He was not alone. His mother, Barbara, recalled writing in her diary “over and over again that Bill Clinton did not have a chance.” She was sure that “The American people would never vote for him.”8
In Houston on election night in 1992, while most of the Bush clan received news of election returns together, Mrs. Bush spent much of the time reading a romance novel in another room, as if refusing to consider the possibility of defeat.9
“We saw a good man, and a great leader, brought down by distortion, innuendo, and fabrication,” said Bush’s daughter, Dorothy (Doro), who went on to compare Clinton to Richard Nixon.
George H. W. Bush apparently agreed. He considered Clinton a “sleazeball” who “dodged” the draft, as one Bush biographer put it.10 “I remember many conversations with President Bush when he was incredulous about Clinton’s lead,” the Republican Party chairman Rich Bond recalled. “He’d say, ‘How can voters support someone of so little integrity?’ ”
At Camp David, the presidential retreat in Maryland, a depressed Bush reached out to a visiting Colin Powell, then serving as chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
“Colin, it hurts,” Bush told him. “It really hurts. I never thought they’d pick him.”
“I know it does,” Powell replied. “It has to.”11
George W. Bush, who could be peevish and petty, made a point of saying at the opening of his father’s presidential library in 1997 that his father “left [office] with his integrity intact.”12 It was meant to be a poke at Bill Clinton, who was in attendance and did not miss any of the implications of Bush’s reference to integrity. “Of course,” Clinton later said, “he’s never forgiven me for beating his father.”13
The animus toward the Clintons extended all the way through George W. Bush’s successful 2000 presidential campaign. At one point, when Clinton mocked then-governor Bush’s qualifications for the job—“How bad could I be? I’ve been governor of Texas. My daddy was pre
sident. I own a baseball team. . . . Their fraternity had it for eight years, give it to ours for eight years”—the Bushes unleashed their not-well-contained fury.14 The elder Bush, for example, warned reporters that the attacks on his son might prompt him to tell Americans what he really thinks about Clinton “as a human being and a person.”15
A former high-level Clinton aide scoffs at the revisionism of the Bush-Clinton relationship. “George Bush Senior—he hated us,” he tells me. “The reason W. ran [for president] was to avenge the loss of his father to that trailer trash, Bill Clinton.”
There is, in fact, significant support for that assertion, and from Bush’s fellow Republicans. In 1999, for example, as George W. Bush mounted his campaign for the White House, California congressman James Rogan faced a tough reelection in his swing district, in part because of Rogan’s prominent and controversial role as one of the managers of Bill Clinton’s impeachment.
Knowing that then-Texas governor Bush was considering a White House bid, Rogan joined a small number of his colleagues to endorse him. Throughout 1999, Bush made a few visits to Washington, meeting with various advisors and fund-raisers—a group that included Rogan and some of the other early boosters.
Rogan recalled for me an unusual encounter with Bush while visiting with him in a private meeting room at the Library of Congress. “We had a whole bunch of congressmen in there—and, you know, I’m just one of four hundred and thirty-five members of the House,” Rogan, now a judge in California, tells me by telephone. “But [Bush] grabbed me by the arm and he was calling me ‘Jimmy,’ and he said in that Texas twang, ‘You know, Jimmy. I know your district. Glendale, Pasadena, Burbank.’ He named the cities in my district.”
Clinton, Inc.: The Audacious Rebuilding of a Political Machine Page 13
