Tulsi Gabbard, now serving as director of national intelligence, is once again under attack — this time courtesy of a “whistleblower” complaint so secretive that its contents supposedly cannot even be disclosed. The complaint was reviewed and closed for lack of credibility by Tamara Johnson, a career official who served as acting inspector general of the intelligence community during the Biden administration. That should have ended the matter right there.
Instead, the secrecy itself has been transformed into the story. No evidence? No problem. The absence of proof is now being marketed as proof.
Enter The Wall Street Journal. In a dramatic piece published this week, the paper reported on the existence of this ultra-sensitive complaint and strongly implied that its classified nature alone suggests wrongdoing. To add flair, the article compared the situation to a John le Carré novel. At that point, the reporting crossed into unintentional comedy.
In Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, le Carré’s most famous work, the entire plot revolves around fake “sensitive” intelligence planted to send investigators chasing a threat that does not exist. The secrecy is not evidence of truth — it is the tool of deception. The classified intelligence is the hoax.
So yes, the comparison fits — just not in the way the WSJ intended.
By invoking le Carré, the paper accidentally described its own method: inflate something supposedly sensitive, make the classification itself the headline, and let readers assume guilt from secrecy alone. This is not journalism. It is narrative laundering, where insinuation replaces facts and classification substitutes for proof.
The WSJ never establishes that Gabbard did anything wrong. It does not even claim to know what she supposedly did. The entire “scoop” is that a classified complaint exists. Even worse, the only truly relevant fact — that the complaint was closed as not credible — is buried deep in the article. Judging by the outrage it triggered in left-wing media, most readers never made it that far.
There is no scandal here. What exists instead is a familiar political script.
The playbook is simple and has been used for years.
First, make an allegation against a political target. Evidence is optional. Coherence is negotiable.
Second, wrap the allegation in extreme secrecy. Label it “super sensitive,” hide it in an annex, or make sure no one can see it.
Third, leak the existence of the allegation and let secrecy do the work. The lack of detail creates intrigue, classification becomes a proxy for seriousness, and seriousness is then treated as proof.
This is exactly what happened in 2017 with the Obama-ordered Intelligence Community Assessment. CIA Director John Brennan, DNI James Clapper, and FBI Director James Comey embedded the discredited Steele dossier into a classified annex, giving a known fabrication the appearance of official intelligence. CNN then leaked its existence just days before President Trump took office, ensuring his presidency would be buried under a manufactured Russia-collusion narrative from day one.
The Ukraine impeachment followed the same pattern. A “whistleblower” complaint about a Trump phone call was treated as damning because it was labeled sensitive, not because it was accurate. When President Trump released the transcript, it became obvious no misconduct had occurred. By then, the damage was already done. Not coincidentally, the same lawyer behind that complaint is now tied to the Gabbard complaint — proof that the recycling business is thriving.
The Steele dossier itself collapsed the moment BuzzFeed published it. Anyone who read it could see it was riddled with errors and absurd claims. CNN’s Jake Tapper even complained privately that releasing it ruined the power of the innuendo. Unfortunately for them, the narrative had already taken root.
Compare that with the Justice Department’s recent handling of a complaint against D.C. Chief Judge James Boasberg. DOJ relied on a Fox News clip instead of evidence, and the complaint was quickly dismissed. It was public, loud, and embarrassing.
