Free A Very Private Plot by William F. Buckley

And, of course, smart people avoid your problem by the simple act of pleading the Fifth. Which I, your former colleagues, your wife, your stepson, the army, the navy, and the marines have been urging you to do for thirty fucking days. But no, you are too accustomed to the great days of brinkmanship—”
    â€œBob? Bob, do you hear me, buddy? You are becoming— noisy ! You remind me of that wonderful ruckus you generated when, stark naked, you ran up Church Street followed by half the New Haven police force, the night you were initiated into Deke. And who, dear Bob, who , filing out of the Fence Club, saw you, took off his overcoat in the freezing cold, threw it over your manly torso, spirited you into the club, tucked you into the big fireplace, and got our faithful John Huggins to tell the police (a) you weren’t there, and (b) if they wanted to search for you, they’d need to get a court order? Did I leave you in the middle of the street, and say, ‘Wait here, Bob! I’ll call Wiggin and Dana and get a lawyer’?”
    Lounsbury, whose detailed memory of the event had been blissfully erased that same night by the bottle of gin he had been forced by the initiating club to chugalug, remembered only his gradual recovery of consciousness sometime after midnight. Blackford alternately squirting cold water on his face and pressing him to drink more black coffee. He muttered now, “You bring that old chestnut up about every ten years, and it’s becoming tiresome.”
    â€œI bring it up only when provoked.”
    â€œOkay. Now listen, Black. Blaustein will come at six. I’ll be in my office—you have the private number—till seven-thirty, and you can reach me at home after that. And you’d better damned well tell me exactly what he said. And don’t make any deals with him without first checking with me.”
    Blackford replied with something soothing.
    Arthur Blaustein was carrying what Blackford assumed was the heaviest briefcase ever manufactured. He was dressed as if headed for a funeral, where he would deliver the—was there such a word as “dyslogy,” Blackford wondered. Surely Arthur Blaustein would never mourn the passing of anybody, except maybe Ralph Nader. Framed against the light blue sky and the setting sun in pastoral Virginia, the scene might have made a picture for Andrew Wyeth, it occurred to Blackford, opening the door to the bulky six-footer. He asked his guest if he might help him with the briefcase—“I’m surprised any one man can lift it.”
    Blaustein smiled perfunctorily, shook hands, and peered into the hallway, awaiting instructions.
    â€œJust follow me. We’ll go to my study.” Leading the way, Blackford took Blaustein through the comfortable living room, decorated in discreet ranch style, with here and there a touch of Mexico, as in the blue tiles that framed the fireplace. They went into the book-lined study, dotted with the paraphernalia of a complete computer life. Blackford pointed to a sofa and sat opposite Blaustein in an easy chair. Blaustein put down his briefcase and removed a folder and the standard yellow legal pad.
    His first question was, “Are you by any chance, Mr. Oakes, recording our conversation?”
    â€œIf I were, Mr. Blaustein, I wouldn’t feel obliged to tell you.”
    Blaustein’s expression did not change. He spoke in a deep bass-baritone. “I am here, as you will have supposed, to explore the possibility of keeping you from having to go to jail tomorrow. You should know that Senator Blanton has considerable professional respect for you but that he is genuinely concerned, especially now that the Cold War is over, to put an end to covert activity. And he feels that he can best persuade his colleagues on the Hill to join him in approving an end to such activity by apprising them of the dangers we ran in concrete situations in recent history.”
    He paused.