THE NATION : POLITICS : If Information Is Power, ‘Anonymous’ Has Key

As you read this, powerful people in Washington are spending significant amounts of their time trying to guess the identity of “Anonymous”--the author of the new novel, “Primary Colors,” a barely fictionalized inside account of the 1992 Clinton primary campaign. Their effort, despite its vigor, has thus far been in vain: No one has been able to track Anonymous down. All this fruitless speculation is deeply satisfying.

Because “Primary Colors” so faithfully reproduces the voices of Clinton campaign aides, some commentators say the author must have been a campaign operative. Others note that the book is well written and entertaining and, therefore, the author could easily be a journalist.

Clinton advisor George Stephanopoulos is reported to be racking his brains trying to figure out the mystery. Campaign aide Paul Begala says he was “sort of hurt” when Stephanopoulos called even him to ask, “Et tu, Paulie?”

One Washington writer has invited a long list of suspects to a book party for Anonymous. A local bookstore owner plans another party, where various suspects will read from the book and guests will then vote on the identity question. Time has interviewed Anonymous on-line. Larry King devoted a show to the burning issue. So did PBS’s Charlie Rose.

Why the volume of the buzz? True, Congress is not in town. True, nobody wants to hear any more about the budget. Still, why do people care so much?

Maybe it’s because status in Washington politics--as in other activities, but more so--depends on information. The ultimate source of political status is, of course, power. But power around here is, by design of the founders, frustratingly diffuse. Money also counts in politics, but there are limits to the wealth anyone can openly display in this urban monument to democracy. Sexual liaisons can have political influence, but--in our neo-Puritan times--only narrowly.

So it comes down to who you know and what you know--whether it is the substance of a policy issue, a crucial piece of timing on the Hill or the details of a Cabinet officer’s political history and preferences.

Virtually everyone, naturally, drops names, gossip and arcane information. More interesting, the dropping is done not just by the pathetically insecure, who want to look knowledgeable, but even by insiders who really are knowledgeable. You’d think that these latter folks would keep their lips zipped, but by and large this is not so. First, Washington being a big place, they sometimes have to demonstrate their inside-ness in order to receive appropriate deference. Second, they can feel a certain obligation to name-, gossip- or data-drop to make listeners realize they have been judged worthy of being dropped on.

Some droppers are brilliant at the practice, subtle and elegant. Others, more numerous, consistently overplay their hands, dropping too blatantly and too often. Then there are those who err in the other direction. They’re no more virtuous than the rest, but just never mastered the art form. They’re always spoiling things with, “Actually, this is only a rumor, but . . . . “ or “No one really knows.” They’re bad players because they’re too scared of being wrong.

So those people walk around always feeling behind the curve. Their most frequent conversational contribution is “Really?”

Now, however, comes something everyone can get a kick out of. Anonymous may have sat in the very bosom of the Clinton campaign, receiving confidences and giving trusted advice. Meanwhile, all that time, he or she could have been leading a secret life, running back to a grim efficiency apartment at night and making notes.

Actually, this scenario seems unlikely, since no one inside a campaign has an awful lot of time in which to ruminate. In addition, the sad fact is, one political operative’s technical, cynical, low-minded talk is pretty much the same as another’s, and might not be impossible for an outsider to imitate. But, as we knowlege-impaired types say, what do I know?

More important, what does anybody know? Even Stephanopoulous and Mandy Grunwald, about as inside as you could get in the 1992 campaign, seem to be reduced to investigating the mystery by the primitive means of just calling suspects on the telephone and asking them. In this matter, as with a natural disaster, everybody suddenly becomes the informational equal of everyone else.

So hang tough, Anonymous. Your Machiavelliana corporation, named on the book’s copyright page, doesn’t have to release the names of its directors until 1997, so don’t be bluffed or panicked into premature disclosure. As long as we don’t know who you are, we are reminded of all the other things we don’t know, either.