James Santel
In 1973, William Colby, then the director of central intelligence, had a statue of the Revolutionary War spy Nathan Hale placed on the grounds of the CIA’s headquarters in Virginia. Hale struck many as an odd choice of icon; after all, he had been captured and executed by the British. One of Colby’s successors, William Casey, grumbled that Hale “fouled up the only mission he was ever given.” Casey left Hale alone, but compensated by commissioning what he considered a more appropriate statue in the lobby—a likeness of William Donovan, nicknamed “Wild Bill,” the man often credited as the father of the CIA.
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Casey wasn’t wrong about Hale’s incompetence. Hale hadn’t bothered to use an alias, and he divulged his assignment to a British officer. Whether or not he actually uttered his famous last words about having only one life to give for his country, it appears that he was an idealist, if not an outright innocent. “He was simply too forthright and trusting to be a good spy,” concludes Jeffrey P. Rogg in his forthcoming book, The Spy and the State, one of two new histories of American intelligence. This is an interesting assessment because of what Rogg declares just a few pages earlier: that the business of intelligence “is inherently ‘un-American,’” a practice ill-suited to a “country that values honesty, transparency, and forthrightness.” A tantalizing inference can be drawn: If Hale had been a worse American, he might have been a better spy.
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