The Brits Understand "Snug"

   On Julian Assange's British hidey hole:

The Frontline Club in London is the kind of place where war correspondents and investigative reporters mingle with admirers and wannabes, fired by a shared passion for exposing government spin, revealing the truth — and fine dining.

So when WikiLeaks founder Julian Assange found himself at the center of an international firestorm over the website's publication of leaked U.S. diplomatic cables, he knew where he would be well-fed and, more importantly, safe.

Link.   Apparently it worked, in the sense that no one outed him; by what I read, he outed himself.  Not the same for his famous predecessor:

A thump, and a murmur of voices—
    (”Oh why must they make such a din?”)
As the door of the bedroom swung open
   And TWO PLAIN CLOTHES POLICEMEN came in:
“Mr. Woilde, we ‘ave come for tew take yew
   Where felons and criminals dwell:
We must ask yew tew leave with us quoietly
   For this is the Cadogan Hotel.”

Link. That would be "The Arrest of Oscar Wilde at the Cadogan Hotel," by John Betjeman.