When you know that the Pentagon and White House leak like an old rowboat, you know nothing is safe, no communication secure. Which is why, in this age of WikiLeaks, we have a new profession: confidential communications consultant.

So, I tracked down a CCC and had this conversation. Or, if you prefer,
non-conversation.

Me: I know you can’t tell me exactly what you do, but can you give me an idea of how you operate?

CCC: Gladly. As long as you realize that we have never met, never had a conversation, never left a record and never sent a cable.

Me: Of course.

CCC: Fine. Now, take off your clothes.

Me: Huh?

CCC: Take off your clothes. I have to make sure you have no recording devices.

Me: My word’s not good enough?

CCC: You gotta be kidding.

(There is a pause here for grunting and groaning and the sound of zippers.)

Me: OK. Now, how do you operate?

CCC: Let’s say you are a Grade 1 teacher. You’re in charge of 22 six-year-olds. It’s report-card time. You write down: “Jason could share more” and “Brittany should not be allowed to play with scissors.” Then, you stop. Right in front of your eyes is damning evidence. Leakable information. It could go viral in the neighborhood.

Me: What do you do?

CCC: First, the obvious — burn all the report cards. Flush the ashes down the toilet. If possible, burn the toilet.

Me: How do you report to the parents?

CCC: Simple. You meet them one by one at night on a windy hill and give them details. Verbally. No record. It would help if they were naked. So, you need good negotiating skills.

Me: Who else consults with you?

CCC: All kinds of people. For example, doctors and hockey scouts.

Me: Surely, with doctors, it’s all confidential.

CCC: That helps, and there’s rarely a problem with taking off the clothes. But there can be no written record that could be retrieved and bruited about the city or country. Certainly, no X-rays. I mean, would you want your gall bladder on the Internet? Of course not.

Me: What about prescriptions?

CCC: At the moment, those of us in the CCC profession recommend that the doctor whisper in your ear and you whisper to the pharmacist. And the pharmacist makes up a package and leaves it at the counter under your secret alias. Either that or you go organic.

Me: OK. What was all that about hockey scouts?

CCC: Think on it. You’re a hockey scout. You go to a minor-league game in Russia and there’s a guy with blazing skills but he can’t cut to his left and he telegraphs his shot. You put that in a cable and, half an hour later, it’s top of the news in Saudi Arabia. There is no security in communications.

Me: So, what do you do?

CCC: Once again, it’s the windy hill, the dark of night and off with the clothes. And, believe me, hockey scouts are no beauties.

Me: There’s more?

CCC: Tons. Every private conversation can be published across the world.

Me: So, what happens?

CCC: There are solutions. No more cables. No more emails. No more memos. No more phone calls. That would be a good start. No more records.

Me: And this conversation?

CCC: We have never had a conversation. And, before you go, put on your clothes while I pound your laptop to pieces and stomp on your cell phone.

Me: Thank you.

(Just let me say this conversation has been recreated from memory, as no recording devices were allowed. And should you ask me, I simply would reply: “What conversation?” Now, kindly burn this column before reading.) IE