CIA colleagues always described Helms as a spy runner by temperament and conviction and there is ample evidence here of his respect for "tradecraft," a word he first heard from Dulles. But Helms was startled to learn that despite Dulles' reputation as "the great white case officer," he came to value one thing even more than a well-placed spy: institutional clout. He put it bluntly one day when he told Helms that classic spy running would never command real respect in the corridors of power because "it just doesn't cost very much."
This tale alone requires rewriting the history of the CIA's disastrous failure at the Bay of Pigs in 1961, usually blamed on an excess of anti-Communist enthusiasm alone, but Helms, typically, moves on without comment.
Students of espionage will learn few new details about the great cases from Helms' memoir, but they should attend carefully to his every remark on how the game is played. These seemingly throw-away lines come with a double imprimatur: "A glitch in the communications system -- perhaps the most common weakness in espionage operations"; "a lean outfit will outperform its plump neighbor"; "spies do not have any shelf life."
Helms' collaborator, William Hood, author of three novels and a book about the Popov case, was both a lifelong friend and an operator with long experience in the field. But if the writing in A Look Over My Shoulder is his, the point of view belongs unmistakably to Helms, who had a talent for sharp observation, strong words and pungent comment, which make his book an indispensable primer for any future director of central intelligence taking on the job.
But even more important is what Helms has to say about the occupational hazards facing American presidents. From his vantage in the CIA, Helms watched the two presidents he knew best, Lyndon B. Johnson and Richard M. Nixon, run the country aground and destroy their own careers trying to square the circle in Vietnam. "Look, don't talk to me about this, that and the other thing," Nixon told Helms. "There's one No. 1 problem hereabouts, and that's Vietnam."
Nixon and Johnson both wanted the CIA to get on the team, distrusted Ivy Leaguers, interpreted disagreement as personal spite and found it hard to take a serious interest in anything but the war.
"Vietnam was my nightmare for a good 10 years," Helms writes. Again and again he found himself trapped between powerful White House advisers who insisted success was around the corner and intelligence analysts bearing bad news. The very worst news he sometimes gave to the president alone, leaving him with the choice whether to let the rest of the government know. Often that was the last he heard of it.
Of the two, Helms seems to have liked Johnson more, trusted Nixon less, but he offers no final judgment of either man. That was not Helms' style. He was immune to grand theories of history or politics. Getting on with the job was always his driving goal. But it is clear where Helms thinks Johnson and Nixon went wrong. It was nothing complicated. They didn't listen.
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