10 miles square: I, spy: an ex-spook visits Washington's espionage museum--and isn't impressed.

• Author: Peters, Justin

Washington does not lack for shrines to martial sacrifice. There are monuments here to the veterans of almost all of America's major wars: the moving new World War II Memorial on the Mall with its heroic conclave of white columns; the black granite gash of the Vietnam Memorial; the ghostly statues of soldiers on patrol that mark the Korean War Memorial; the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, heralding the heroes of World War I. Each branch of service also has its own monument, including the Marines' Iwo Jima statue near Arlington Cemetery and the U.S. Navy Memorial on Pennsylvania Avenue, near the National Archives. There's even an African American Civil War Memorial and a Nuns of the Battlefield Monument.

Conspicuously missing, especially in an age of terror, is any public edifice commemorating the sacrifices--including the ultimate ones--made by the men and women of America's intelligence services. Instead, spooks and spies must make do with the International Spy Museum, a techno-slick for-profit enterprise that opened a few years ago among Washington's downtown tourist warrens, right between a high-class hotel and a brewpub. On a recent Saturday afternoon, I made my first trip to the museum, joined by John Spinelli, a former field officer of the Central Intelligence Agency.

Spinelli was a New York cop for 12 years before making the jump to the CLA ("As a city police officer, never try to arrest the mayor," he explains cryptically). He's sharp, laconic, and difficult to impress. He looks bored when a name-tagged tour guide invites the throng of visitors to choose a "cover"--"that's an identity that spies use to protect their identities," she explains--from examples pasted on the walls. As the tourists scatter, Spinelli looks at me, grinning crookedly. "I wanna be 'Angelina Falcone,'" he says, pointing at the wall. "She's from Italy."

While the tourists surrounding us lose themselves in spy fantasies and ogle gadgets (A pen gun! A lipstick microphone!), Spinelli searches for artifacts that better evoke his own experience. He passes a display case containing the Intelligence Star for Valor, one of the agency's highest awards. "I got one of those--for getting my ass shot in Mogadishu," he states matter-of-factly. "What were you doing in Mogadishu?" I ask. Spinelli gives me the eye. "I can't get into sources and methods," he replies. He was playing up the cloak-and-dagger stuff for my benefit, but his Somali sojourn is a matter of public record. As...