I was an intelligence officer, not a policy-maker.

Host:
The rain fell in long, silver threads, slicing through the amber streetlights of the city’s old quarter. The café was nearly empty, save for the low hum of a refrigerator, the whisper of jazz leaking from an old speaker, and the soft clink of a spoon against porcelain.

At a corner table, Jack sat in his black coat, collar turned up, his hands clasped around a half-empty glass. The shadows carved his face into something sharper, older — the kind of face that had seen too much and believed too little.

Across from him, Jeeny stirred her coffee, her eyes deep and reflective, her voice quiet but alive with conviction. The conversation between them had already gone through politics, faith, war, and love. Now, it had narrowed down to something far more dangerous — responsibility.

On the table lay a folded newspaper, its headline bleeding through the damp:

“I was an intelligence officer, not a policy-maker.” — Cofer Black

The quote rested between them like a loaded confession — dry, precise, and trembling with ethical gravity.

Jack: lighting a cigarette, eyes cold “That’s it right there. The whole system summed up in one sentence — ‘I was an intelligence officer, not a policy-maker.’ Translation: I watched it happen, but it wasn’t my call.”

Jeeny: softly, but firm “Or maybe it means I did my duty. You can’t hold one person responsible for the whole machine, Jack. There are roles, lines, boundaries.”

Jack: bitter laugh “Boundaries are what cowards hide behind. ‘Just following orders’ — history’s oldest absolution.”

Host:
The rain tapped harder, a rhythmic percussion against the windowpane. The smoke from Jack’s cigarette coiled upward, a pale ghost that hovered between them, refusing to dissipate.

Jeeny: meeting his gaze “That’s not fair. Intelligence isn’t about morality — it’s about information. You gather, you report, you warn. You’re not there to decide what happens next.”

Jack: leaning in “And that’s exactly the problem. Knowing and doing nothing — it’s the same as consenting. You can’t separate your duty from its consequences just because someone else signs the order.”

Host:
The light flickered, painting their faces in alternating shadow and gold. Outside, a police siren wailed, distant, indifferent, swallowed by the storm.

Jeeny: “But you’re pretending there’s always a choice. There isn’t. You can’t rewrite the hierarchy just because you don’t like its ethics. The world runs on systems, not souls.”

Jack: “That’s exactly what they want you to believe — that the machine is bigger than the man. But it’s not. Every order, every policy, every war begins with a single conscience deciding to stay silent.”

Host:
For a long moment, the sound of rain filled the space between them. The café light dimmed; the jazz faded into static. It was as though the world itself had decided to listen.

Jeeny: quietly, almost pleading “You’re talking like a poet, not a soldier. Real life doesn’t work that way. You can’t carry the weight of the entire world’s guilt on your back.”

Jack: low voice “And yet someone has to. Or the guilt just becomes another classified file.”

Host:
His words fell like bullets in slow motion, each one finding its mark. Jeeny looked away, her fingers tightening around her cup, the steam curling between them like the last breath of something innocent.

Jeeny: “You think responsibility is simple, Jack. It isn’t. There’s duty, there’s survival, there’s the greater good. Sometimes the only way to protect people is by not knowing too much.”

Jack: bitterly “Ignorance as mercy. That’s the anthem of every bureaucrat and spy who ever lived.”

Jeeny: “It’s not mercy — it’s containment. Some truths can’t be handled by everyone. That’s what intelligence work is — to know, but to shield others from the knowing.”

Jack: gritting his teeth “And who shields you from the silence, Jeeny? Who protects the one who knows but can’t speak?”

Host:
The rain eased, falling now in thin silver lines. The air in the café had thickened — a pressure that made every breath deliberate.

Jeeny’s eyes flickered, a small crack of doubt. Her voice, when it came, was almost a whisper.

Jeeny: “You can’t live carrying every secret like it’s a sin. You’d never sleep. You’d never breathe.”

Jack: softly, almost tenderly “Maybe that’s what atonement looks like.”

Host:
Her eyes softened, sadness blooming behind them. The cigarette smoke hung between them — a fragile, fading metaphor for all the truths too heavy to hold.

Jeeny: “You can’t keep bleeding for the whole machine. Sometimes all you can do is report, and hope the world listens.”

Jack: shaking his head “The world never listens. It just documents.”

Host:
The clock above the counter ticked — steady, unfeeling. The barista, cleaning quietly in the corner, glanced at them with the curiosity of someone overhearing ghosts.

Jeeny: “You think moral purity is possible in a dirty system? It isn’t. Everyone who tries gets broken.”

Jack: his voice a whisper now “Then maybe being broken is the only way to stay human.”

Host:
She looked at him — long, unflinching, like she could see the whole history of his pain written in the lines around his eyes. The light shifted once more, casting his face half in shadow, half in truth.

Jeeny: “You sound like a man who’s still fighting a war that ended years ago.”

Jack: quietly, with a trace of exhaustion “Maybe for some of us, the war never ends. It just changes its uniform.”

Host:
Outside, the rain stopped. The windowpane gleamed, reflecting their faces, two halves of the same argument — idealism and realism, faith and fact, duty and guilt.

Jeeny reached across the table, placing her hand over his. The gesture was small, but it anchored him — a fragile act of mercy in a conversation about moral machinery.

Jeeny: softly “Maybe you were both, Jack — intelligence officer and policy-maker. Maybe we all are. We can’t control the world, but we can choose how deeply we understand it.”

Jack: after a long silence “And how much we’re willing to live with after we do.”

Host:
The clock struck midnight, its chime dull and tired, as though even time itself was ashamed.

They sat in the quiet aftermath, the truth between them too heavy for another word.

Then, slowly, Jack crushed his cigarette into the ashtray, the embers fading — a small, dying sun.

He looked up, his voice almost gentle now.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what he meant, Jeeny. ‘I was an intelligence officer, not a policy-maker.’ Maybe it wasn’t an excuse. Maybe it was a confession — the sound of a man who’s seen the machine, and still can’t tell if he’s part of it or trapped inside it.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “And maybe that’s what makes him — and you — still human. The fact that you’re not sure.”

Host:
Outside, the clouds broke, and a sliver of moonlight slipped through, silvering the table, the glasses, the tired faces of two people who’d spent a lifetime trying to distinguish duty from conscience.

The camera of the night pulled back, through the window, into the wet silence of the street. The café light flickered once, then steadied — a small lighthouse in a sea of moral fog.

Host:
And perhaps that was the real truth hidden in Cofer Black’s words —
that the line between knowing and deciding,
between observation and action,
is thinner than anyone dares to admit.

That every officer, every citizen, every soul
is both the intelligence and the policy,
the witness and the author
of the world we quietly allow to unfold.