In a twist that has shocked absolutely no one with a pulse or a basic understanding of how the world works, Spain’s high court has decided to give up. The judges have officially thrown in the towel on the investigation into the Pegasus spyware scandal. For those who haven’t been paying attention to the slow-motion car crash that is modern privacy, let me catch you up. The phones of the Spanish Prime Minister, Pedro Sánchez, and several other high-ranking ministers were hacked. They were infected with Israeli-made spyware. Spain wanted to know who did it. They asked Israel for help. Israel, apparently, left them on 'read.'

Now, the Spanish court says it has to 'shelve' the case. The reason given is almost too cute to be real. The judge cited a 'chronic lack of cooperation' from Israeli authorities. The court even went so far as to say this silence violated 'the principle of good faith' between countries. Let’s just pause and appreciate the innocence required to write that sentence. 'Good faith.' In the world of international espionage. That is like complaining that a tiger violated the 'principle of not eating meat' when it bit your arm off. It is adorable that the Spanish judiciary thought that the country that exports the most sophisticated spy tools on earth would happily hand over the receipt and the user manual to help catch the culprit.

Here is the reality of the situation, stripped of the fancy legal talk. The Spanish government confirmed that their phones were infected. This wasn't a guess. They found the bugs. This happened back in 2021. The Defense Minister, the Interior Minister, and the Agriculture Minister were all targeted. You have to wonder what the Agriculture Minister knows that is worth hacking a phone for. Perhaps the secret to the perfect olive? But I digress. The point is, the entire top level of the Spanish government was walking around with digital spies in their pockets.

The tool used was Pegasus. This software is made by the NSO Group. The company has a very simple defense that they repeat like a broken record: they only sell this terrifying technology to 'state agencies.' They say it is for fighting terrorism and crime. This is supposed to make us feel better. But think about what that means in this case. If only states can buy it, and the Spanish Prime Minister was hacked, then another state did it. It is simple math. Yet, we are supposed to believe that this is a mystery wrapped in an enigma. It isn't a mystery. It is just awkward.

So, Spain launched an investigation. They puffed up their chests and demanded answers. They sent formal requests to Israel, asking to interview the CEO of the company. They wanted details. They wanted justice. And what did they get? Silence. The request was sent four times. Four times! It is the diplomatic equivalent of texting an ex-boyfriend who has blocked your number. After a while, you have to stop texting and accept that they are just not that into helping you solve a crime involving their own technology.

The judge complained that this lack of response stopped the investigation dead in its tracks. Well, of course it did. What did they expect? Did they think the spies would feel guilty and turn themselves in? This is the theater of the absurd. We have laws, and we have courts, and we have judges in robes who talk about 'good faith.' And then we have the real world, where power does whatever it wants, and technology makes borders irrelevant. The court can complain all it wants, but without cooperation, they are just shouting into the void.

By 'shelving' the case, Spain is admitting defeat. They are saying, 'We know we were spied on, we know the tool that was used, but the people who made the tool won't talk to us, so we guess we will just go home.' It is a pathetic end to a serious story. It shows us exactly where the power lies. It does not lie with the judge in Madrid. It lies with the companies that build the code and the governments that protect them.

This entire event is a reminder of how helpless our traditional systems are. We try to apply old rules to new problems. We try to use 'good faith' treaties to regulate digital weapons. It doesn't work. The Spanish ministers can go back to using their phones, but they will never really be sure who is listening. And the rest of us? If the Prime Minister of a major European country can't get justice when his phone is hacked, what chance do you think you have? None.

So, the file goes into a box. The box goes on a shelf. The dust settles. The 'principle of good faith' gets written into a ruling that nobody will read. And somewhere, in a server room far away, a little light blinks, recording everything, while the operators have a good laugh at the idea of cooperation.