Free Stained Glass by William F. Buckley

reading “THE BUCK STOPS HERE” and revised his formulation: “They think I want a third world war?”
    â€œSometimes you would think that, the way they talk.”
    â€œSometimes I almost feel like shoving it to ’em. Strike that. I could call in that bastard ambassador and give him a piece of my mind.”
    â€œI wouldn’t do that.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œHe’d think you were running the show yourself.”
    â€œWell, Christ, I can’t think of any other show in town I should be running if not this one, if we’re supposed to take the threats seriously.”
    â€œThey haven’t formulated their threats, but it’s obvious what their ultimate threat is.”
    â€œMove in?”
    â€œMove in.”
    The peppery man behind the august desk paused a moment, working his fingers on the paper pad in front of him. He spoke now more reflectively. “They think we’d just sit here and let ’em do it?”
    â€œThat’s what we don’t know. But they know they can get plenty out of us in return for pulling back from the brink.”
    â€œWhat do you figure they know about what we could do to them if it came to that?”
    â€œWe can’t be sure. It’s nice to feel we’ve got some secrets left. They know we can reach any of their facilities, all the population centers.”
    â€œWhat could we do in East Europe?”
    â€œReport them to the Security Council.”
    â€œChrist.”
    â€œAlmighty.”
    He paused again. “If Eisenhower wasn’t so goddamn busy trying to be my successor, maybe he’d have left NATO in better shape.”
    â€œActually, it isn’t his fault. They’ve all got problems—Britain, France, the Low Countries. And anyway, nobody anticipated this problem.”
    â€œYou offered to remove our feller out there?”
    â€œThe very first thing I suggested. It didn’t stop him for a minute.” The Secretary mimicked the ambassador’s accent: “‘Removink one man vill not make Axel Wintergrin no less an American operation’ is what he said. He wants something more, but he isn’t willing to tell us what it is.”
    â€œShit, are we supposed to guess what’s on their minds? What’s he want us to do, penetrate the Politburo to find out what they want us to do, so we can do it?”
    â€œThey certainly want us to sweat over it.”
    â€œWell, go talk with Allen Dulles, and come back when you’ve got a proposal.”
    â€œAll right, sir.”
    The Director of the Central Intelligence Agency left the State Department and returned to his own office, calling in his deputy. “Have them get out the folder on Blackford Oakes, O-a-k-e-s, and bring it in. We’ve got work to do.”
    In the subterranean repository where the files were kept, Colonel Bristol, aide to the deputy, presented himself. He showed his identification to the guard, who spoke through a microphone from his enclosed bullet- and gasproof cylindrical booth. Colonel Bristol stepped through the steel doors that lifted at the command of the guard—promptly closing again, admitting the aide. Inside the enclosure Colonel Bristol, using a wall apparatus, dialed the code for that day, then gave his name into the receiver to the guard billeted inside the huge vault. In a moment the doors to the inner sanctum opened and as promptly closed. Only the archivist could open them, by tapping in a code on the controls. He inspected the document in Colonel Bristol’s hand. Since it called for removal of a file, the authorization had to be personally authenticated by the deputy, whose private number he now dialed. “It says here, sir, to turn over the file on Oakes, Blackford, to Colonel Bristol.” Satisfied, he put down the telephone and walked off to a remote part of the warren, coming back in a minute with a locked steel briefcase, which he routinely handcuffed