Tim Weiner’s *The Mission: The CIA in the 21st Century* is not merely a history of America’s most enigmatic agency—it’s a portrait of an empire struggling with its own reflection.
Weiner, the Pulitzer-winning author of *Legacy of Ashes*, returns with a grim sequel of sorts, peeling back the glossy layers of patriotic myth to expose a CIA that’s become both indispensable and self-defeating. He tells a story of bureaucratic inertia, moral drift, and technological overreach, but does it with the pacing and paranoia of a spy thriller written by a historian with a hangover from too much truth.
The book begins where *Legacy of Ashes* left off—in the wreckage of the Cold War, where victory brought not peace but confusion. The CIA, designed to fight the Soviets with human intelligence and covert action, suddenly found itself adrift in a world where the enemy had evaporated. Weiner charts how this uncertainty led to a frantic search for relevance.
From the Balkans to Baghdad, the agency retooled itself as both warrior and watcher, increasingly leaning on drones, satellites, and data rather than spies in the field. And it is here, in this technological transformation, that the book becomes quietly tragic: the CIA, in trying to predict the future, forgot to understand the present.
Weiner writes with the forensic calm of someone who’s seen too many briefings go wrong. He doesn’t rant or moralize—he just assembles facts, interviews, and declassified documents into a grim mosaic. The picture that emerges is that of an organisation addicted to secrecy, struggling with accountability, and haunted by a fear of obsolescence.
The CIA of the 21st century, as Weiner presents it, is not a sleek machine of intelligence but a lumbering giant tangled in its own digital web. There’s something almost Kafkaesque about the way he describes bureaucratic paralysis in Langley, where analysts issue memos no one reads, and field operatives are reduced to Zoom diplomacy.
One of the book’s most powerful sections delves into 9/11 and its aftermath. Weiner doesn’t rehash the familiar failures; instead, he examines the deeper rot—the organisational culture that prized plausible deniability over proactive strategy. The CIA, he suggests, didn’t fail because it was lazy or stupid, but because it had been designed to hide, not to act. After 9/11, it suddenly had to be both sword and shield, and that schizophrenic mandate pushed it into moral chaos: torture programmes, black sites, secret wars. Weiner doesn’t indulge in outrage; he’s more disappointed than angry, like a teacher marking the same wrong answer for the hundredth time.
Weiner also gives attention to the Obama and Trump eras, showing how both administrations weaponised intelligence in different ways—Obama through data and drones, Trump through distrust and demoralisation. Under Obama, the CIA became a silent executioner, running drone strikes from afar, turning intelligence into instant action. Under Trump, the agency became paranoid and politicised, forced to defend its legitimacy while its directorate fractured under partisan suspicion. Weiner captures this tension with journalistic precision, never taking sides but always tracing consequences. The CIA’s war on terror, he argues, mutated into a war for its own survival.
Stylistically, Weiner remains the consummate chronicler of the American security state. His prose has that cool detachment of someone used to reading between redacted lines. He writes not to shock but to clarify. Sentences are crisp and factual, yet loaded with moral weight. The effect is cumulative—you don’t feel the horror of the CIA’s missteps immediately; it seeps in gradually, like radiation. What makes the book compelling is not its revelations (many of which are already public) but its coherence. Weiner connects decades of scattered failures into a single, damning narrative: the CIA, he shows, has become the most powerful intelligence agency on earth precisely because it has learnt to fail in secret.
But what really sets *The Mission* apart from Weiner’s earlier work is its tone of elegy. There’s a sense that the author mourns the old-fashioned human intelligence trade—the spy who could charm, lie, and adapt in the field. The modern CIA, obsessed with cyber warfare and data mining, seems to have lost its soul. Weiner is at his sharpest when he describes the rise of “the algorithmic spy,” a faceless analyst feeding AI models rather than cultivating informants. The result, he argues, is intelligence without intimacy, power without understanding. It’s a warning that feels chillingly relevant in the age of deepfakes and drone diplomacy.
There’s also a quiet undercurrent of irony running through the book: that the CIA’s greatest victories are often invisible, while its failures are spectacularly public. Weiner highlights moments where the Agency’s work did prevent catastrophes—plots foiled, alliances preserved—but these are overshadowed by the constant churn of misjudgments and misreads. The Iran invasion fiasco, the collapse of Afghanistan, and the murky interference in Syria—all serve as modern parables of an empire that can see everything yet understands nothing.
What’s fascinating is how Weiner manages to humanise the institution. His interviews with CIA officers—many speaking anonymously—reveal a workforce torn between duty and disillusionment. These are not movie spies but middle-aged analysts, burdened by secrecy and burnout, watching the world fall apart on high-definition screens. One agent’s confession—“We’ve become historians of crises instead of preventers”—lingers like a quiet indictment.
By the book’s final chapters, Weiner turns prophetic. He envisions a CIA at a crossroads: adapt or vanish. The new threats—cyberwarfare, climate instability, disinformation campaigns—cannot be met with Cold War reflexes. Yet the institution remains tethered to its past, forever reconstructing the world as a series of enemies and assets. The tragedy, Weiner implies, is that the CIA’s mission has expanded beyond comprehension. In trying to know everything, it has learnt almost nothing about itself.
If *Legacy of Ashes* was about how the CIA lost its moral compass, *The Mission* is about how it lost its map. It’s a masterwork of narrative non-fiction—exhaustively researched, deeply unsettling, and quietly moving. Tim Weiner isn’t just documenting an institution; he’s chronicling an American pathology, the belief that information equals control. In an age when intelligence has become both a commodity and a weapon, *The Mission* reads like both history and a warning label.
What lingers after the last page is not outrage, but melancholy. The CIA, Weiner suggests, is no longer the shadow government of conspiracy theorists’ dreams; it’s a weary bureaucracy chasing relevance in a chaotic world. Its agents are not puppet masters but ghosts, drifting between wars, policy shifts, and moral compromises. And perhaps that’s Weiner’s most haunting revelation: the most powerful intelligence agency in the world is as lost and human as the people it watches.
In the end, *The Mission* is less about espionage than about entropy. It’s a slow, riveting autopsy of a system built on secrecy, struggling to remain useful in an age that demands transparency.
Weiner gives us not heroes or villains, but a mirror—and in it, we see the blurred reflection of modern America: fearful, wired, omniscient, and unsure of what to do with all that knowledge.