I think what he's - what he believes, and he may be correct, I

Host:
The room was dim, half-shadow, half-memory — the kind of government lounge where the walls were lined with books no one read anymore, and the air smelled faintly of coffee and consequence. Outside, the city of Washington D.C. moved like a living equation — cars humming, streetlights flickering, power whispering through corridors.

Through the tall window, you could see the reflection of monuments, half-drowned in mist, their light trembling on the glass like ghosts of ideals.

At a round table near the back, two figures sat — Jack, his tie loosened, his eyes cold grey and tired, and Jeeny, calm but intense, her dark hair pulled back, her notebook open, as though she were taking notes on the soul of the evening itself.

Between them lay a printout, its ink slightly smudged, carrying the words they had been dissecting in silence:

“I think what he's — what he believes, and he may be correct, I don't know, that we have some intelligence information that leads us to know some things about what's going on in Iraq that we haven't revealed to others.”
— Lawrence Eagleburger

The quote hung between them like cigarette smoke — heavy, evasive, and full of what wasn’t being said.

Jeeny: reading softly “It’s the stammer that gets me. The hesitation. ‘He may be correct, I don’t know.’ It’s not denial. It’s fear — the kind that lives between truth and permission.”

Jack: leaning back “It’s diplomacy wrapped in uncertainty. Eagleburger was an expert at that — saying something without saying it. That’s how governments confess.”

Jeeny: meeting his eyes “Confess? That sounds cynical.”

Jack: dryly “It’s realism. You never admit what you know. You admit what people already suspect — then you decorate it with plausible doubt.”

Host:
A clock on the wall ticked steadily, like a heartbeat growing impatient. The sound of rain outside tightened against the windowpane. Somewhere in the building, a door shut quietly — the soft punctuation of bureaucracy in motion.

Jeeny: after a pause “You really think that’s what this is about? Decorated truth?”

Jack: “Of course. Look at the phrasing — ‘we have some intelligence information that leads us to know some things.’ That’s not language, Jeeny — that’s camouflage. It’s a way to imply certainty while hiding the source, the scope, and the sin.”

Jeeny: frowning “Or it’s caution. Maybe he’s just acknowledging the weight of classified knowledge. You can’t reveal everything. Sometimes secrecy is safety.”

Jack: snapping slightly “Safety for who? For soldiers on the ground, or for politicians in suits?”

Host:
The tension thickened, the room seeming smaller now, the air more deliberate. The rain’s rhythm shifted, faster now, more urgent.

Jeeny: firmly “You can’t equate intelligence with deceit. There’s a difference between keeping a secret and telling a lie.”

Jack: quietly, dangerously calm “No, there isn’t — not when lives hang on the withheld information. Iraq was built on secrets, Jeeny. ‘We know something we can’t show you’ — that’s how they start wars.”

Host:
The lamp between them flickered, as though it, too, were uneasy. Jeeny took a breath, her hands trembling slightly but her voice steady.

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe they used intelligence as a weapon of persuasion. But sometimes, intelligence is just incomplete, not corrupt. Maybe Eagleburger was admitting that — that they didn’t know enough, and that’s the problem.”

Jack: leaning forward “And yet they acted anyway. That’s the tragedy of it. Every justification sounds righteous when it’s made in real time — until the graves fill.”

Jeeny: softly “And what’s the alternative, Jack? To do nothing? To sit back because the truth is still forming?”

Jack: bitterly “Yes. Sometimes doing nothing is the bravest thing a government can do. But that’s not how power works — it’s allergic to hesitation. It thrives on urgency. On fear. On the illusion of knowing.”

Host:
Her eyes softened, but her words came sharp, deliberate.

Jeeny: “You talk like a man who once believed in certainty and lost it.”

Jack: with a quiet, humorless laugh “I used to work with intelligence reports, Jeeny. You know what they all have in common? The phrase ‘with moderate confidence.’ Do you know what that means?”

Jeeny: whispering “It means you could be wrong.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Exactly. And yet we treat those words like scripture.”

Host:
A silence fell. Not the calm kind — the kind that holds too much between two people. The sound of rain softened, but the echo of their words lingered, heavy as guilt.

Jeeny: finally, gently “Maybe that’s what Eagleburger was really saying. That intelligence isn’t a weapon or a warning — it’s a burden. You carry it knowing it’s imperfect. And still, you have to act.”

Jack: his voice low, softened by her certainty “And when you act wrong?”

Jeeny: quietly, meeting his eyes “Then you answer for it. That’s what separates judgment from arrogance.”

Host:
The clock ticked louder, each second a reminder of all the moments in history when hesitation could have saved lives — or cost them. Jack ran a hand through his hair, the light catching the lines in his face — regret etched next to understanding.

Jack: murmuring “So that’s the irony. Intelligence is supposed to guide judgment. But judgment always comes before intelligence catches up.”

Jeeny: softly, almost like a prayer “Maybe the only real intelligence is humility — the kind that knows how little it knows.”

Host:
Outside, the rain stopped, leaving behind a thin mist that made the city lights glow like secrets trying to confess. Inside, the two of them sat quietly, the storm replaced by something deeper — a stillness threaded with fragile truth.

Jack: quietly “Eagleburger said, ‘we know some things we haven’t revealed.’ But the real tragedy is always the same — not what they don’t reveal to others, but what they can’t admit to themselves.”

Jeeny: nodding “And maybe that’s why the world keeps spinning between trust and doubt. Because knowing too much — or too little — both make us dangerous.”

Host:
They sat for a long moment — two silhouettes framed against the city’s glow, their words hanging like the ghost of history in a room too small for certainty.

The camera of conscience pulled back — through the window, over the slick streets and shining domes of power.

And the narrator’s voice, quiet but certain, spoke into the still air:

That intelligence is not wisdom,
and secrecy is not strength.

That the greatest flaw in human power
is our belief that knowing something
means we understand it.

And that perhaps Lawrence Eagleburger’s hesitant words
carried a deeper confession —
that even in the rooms where decisions are made,
truth arrives too late,
and understanding —
if it comes at all —
comes only after the cost is counted.

Host:
And in that dim Washington room,
Jack and Jeeny sat in silence —
two souls, two sides of history —
bound by the oldest paradox of all:
the burden of knowing,
and the danger of believing you do.