Resident Fellow David Frum

It's nice when a big Washington scandal works out pleasantly for somebody. For most of the participants, even the most remote, the Valerie Plame CIA leak case has inflicted severe harm. Journalists like Time's Matt Cooper and NBC's Tim Russert have been called before grand juries to disclose confidential conversations. New York Times reporter Judy Miller languished in jail for 81 days rather than divulge her sources. Lewis "Scooter" Libby, former chief of staff to Vice-president Dick Cheney, faces a possible prison sentence of up to 30 years. Even if acquitted, his defence will cost him US$6-million he did not have.

On the other hand, the person at the centre of the scandal, Valerie Plame, has just signed a US$2.5-million book contract, which Warner Brothers has announced it will develop into a movie. Her husband, former ambassador Joe Wilson, had previously made a not so small fortune out of his own book, telling more or less the same story.

This fable would be a good deal more comforting if the losers had done wrong or if the beneficiaries appeared even a little less eager for their rewards.

The story goes that Valerie Plame's secret identity as an undercover CIA agent was viciously exposed by high Bush officials in retribution for her husband's courageous truth-telling. But on later examination, Wilson turned out to have told precious little truth.

Wilson first denied that his wife had recommended him for a controverted 2002 mission to Niger in the run-up to the Iraq war. The U.S. Senate committee that investigated intelligence failures in Iraq later discovered that this statement was false; his wife had indeed proposed his name.

Wilson joked that an unpaid mission to Niger did not represent much of a junket. At the time of the mission, however, Wilson earned his living as a Washington consultant. And few things do more to enhance a consultant's value than the ability to murmur into a phone: "Sorry, your highness, I will be out of town that day. I cannot give you any details on this, but I have been asked by the vice-president's office to depart immediately on a highly sensitive mission. I'll be back next Tuesday."

Wilson insisted that his family's life had been blighted by the violation of his wife's privacy. In October, 2003, Wilson was awarded the Ron Ridenhour Award for Truth-Telling. His wife accompanied him to the banquet. The Washington Post reported his speech: "Wilson was most emotional when addressing his wife's exposure. 'I'm sorry for that,' he said, looking at her and fighting back tears. 'If I could give you back your anonymity? I would do it in a minute.'"

The following week, Wilson and Plame posed for a lavish photo feature in Vanity Fair. Plame wore sunglasses and a kerchief in the shot, Wilson explained, so as to protect her ability to continue her ostensibly secret work. In fact, Plame had returned from her last foreign mission at least four years earlier.

Perhaps most remarkably, Wilson misreported his own findings. Again according to the Senate intelligence committee, Wilson's report did not debunk rumours of uranium sales to Iraq, as he'd claimed; in fact, some of his details actually bolstered those rumours. In any event, the CIA never shared Wilson's information with the vice-president's office or the White House.

While Plame and Wilson collect their rewards, Scooter Libby awaits a jury's verdict.

Yet Libby was the source for none of the stories that disclosed Plame's name. Nor would he have broken any law even if he had disclosed it. It is illegal to disclose an agent's name only if that agent has what the law calls a "protected identity." Plame did not.

Plame's name first appeared in a July, 2003, column by the syndicated columnist Bob Novak. The leaker was former undersecretary of state Richard Armitage. (Armitage also leaked to Bob Woodward of the Washington Post.)

Did Armitage leak to punish Plame for her husband's outspoken opposition to the Iraq war? Hardly. In fact, Armitage doubted the war himself. Armitage's motive: pure delight in gossip--he is one of the capital's most notorious talkers.

Special counsel Patrick Fitzgerald learned this truth on his very first day on the case. But rather than charge Armitage--or drop the case--Fitzgerald urged Armitage to keep silent while he kept investigating. After talking the matter over with his boss, secretary of state Colin Powell, Armitage agreed. As their colleagues were questioned, hauled before grand juries and threatened with indictment, Armitage held his tongue and let others pay the price for his actions.

Armitage, who lied to his colleagues, now runs a successful consulting firmof his own. He is quoted in stories, goes to parties.

Joe Wilson, who lied to the nation, is the toast of Hollywood.

Libby has been charged with lying to investigators about a secret that was not a secret and a disclosure he did not disclose. His fate will be decided next week.

David Frum is a resident fellow at AEI.