Special thanks to the Wild, Wild Whovian for helping me with correcting spacing issues!

The Night of the Garbled Gordon

There were many difficult, disliked and even tedious tasks to be dreaded by an agent on President Ulysses Grant's Secret Service. Dining in the legendary Diamond Room of the fabulous Fairspring Hotel wasn't one of them. And while James West and Artemus Gordon might have had more delightful bodies to guard this close to Washington's fine bevy of society belles, they had no complaints about their present charge. Diplomatic attaché Evan Reilly wasn't just diplomatic – he was hilarious. Reilly had regaled the agents with jokes and stories so amusing that even the great, unflappable West had wiped tears of laughter from his eyes once.

"With frogs?" Arte roared as Reilly finished yet another tale. "Oh, I wish I could have seen that!"

"I would have liked to be there myself," Jim admitted, taking a long sip of his lemonade shandy. "I can see why you were chosen for this assignment, Mr. Reilly. If anyone can disarm the ambassadors with humor, it's you."

"I'm certainly going to try – and please, call me Evan," Reilly insisted. "I won't stand on ceremony with men who are willing to risk their lives to safeguard mine."

"You haven't so far, sharing our suffering as it were." Arte grimaced as he held up his own glass of shandy. The one unpleasant wrinkle in their current mission was the temperance restriction forced on them by the Undersecretary to the Secretary of State. One week earlier, a different pair of Secret Service agents had made a very public and very drunken spectacle of themselves in the heart of the Capitol. Now, to Colonel Richmond's shame and quiet fury, the Undersecretary had exerted his influence to insist that all of the agents remain dry until the scandal, or at least the diplomatic conference, blew over. To Jim and Arte's surprise, Reilly had indeed offered to share in their suffering, drinking nothing stronger than shandy himself.

"I've kissed the Blarney Stone literally and figuratively, it's true," Reilly sighed and smiled. "But you're not a bad talker yourself, Mr. Gor-"

"Artemus, or Arte if you prefer."

"Artemus then," Reilly nodded. "I understand you're a thespian as well?"

"When time permits." It didn't permit often these days. "Someday when I'm ready, I may hand in my credentials and return to the stage."

"Sure you wouldn't want to consider working in my department? We could use a man like you."

"Alas, I am too sensitive a soul!" Arte exclaimed, ignoring the choking noise Jim made. "I prefer Hamlet, Macbeth and Titus Andronicus to the bloodthirsty world of diplomacy!"

"You're not far wrong about it," Reilly chuckled a little nervously. "But then, that's why you gents are here, isn't it?"

"Hopefully an unnecessary precaution," Jim reassured him. "We know the upcoming conference is important, but not cutthroat?"

Reilly was silent for a moment.

"I can't talk shop," the diplomat said at last. "All I can say is that there are some big changes coming in Europe. It's going to take a lot to prevent a powder keg."

"Secretary Fish says you're the man for the job." Jim raised his shandy glass and nodded his head in an unofficial salute. At that exact moment, Antoine, the Diamond Room's maître d came over to the table carrying a snifter filled with something that was not lemonade. Blushing beet red, Antoine set the snifter down in front of Reilly.

"Monsieur Reilly," Antoine said with an apologetic side glance at the two Secret Service agents, "compliments of l'Hotel Fairspring, our very finest Armagnac '83, for our distinguished guest."

"Nearly 100 years old," Arte whistled, with a stare of undisguised envy. "That must be some spirit."

"Monsieur Gordon, Monsieur West," Antoine begged with a genuinely miserable voice, "I am so sorry not to offer . . . ." The maître d too had been instructed of the Undersecretary's orders and had already apologized profusely when serving them their shandies.

"Nothing to apologize for, Antoine." Jim waved away the stricken maître d's concern. "It isn't your fault – we won't hold it against you."

Antoine bowed and backed away from the table, still pink-cheeked with embarrassment. West was too much of a professional to let his own fury show. Artemus might regret more the loss of strong libation but Jim, like Colonel Richmond, burned with anger at the Undersecretary's high-handed, humiliating demands. As if the entire Secret Service should be treated like errant, irresponsible schoolboys because of the actions of two! Even President Grant – no teetotaler – had been annoyed, but hadn't wanted to make his Secretary of State's job any more difficult than it already was. He'd promised to make it up to 'his men' once the conference was over and the fuss had died down.

Absorbed by these thoughts as he watched the maître d's retreat, Jim was startled when he turned back toward the table. Reilly was looking at the snifter as if he'd just had a live rattlesnake placed in front of him.

"Something the matter?" he asked.

"Yes – no need to miss out on our account," Arte said. "A vintage like that is meant to be enjoyed."

But the diplomat had gone white as a sheet and his hands were trembling as he held them away from the snifter.

"I can't drink it," Reilly moaned. "I mustn't!"

The sudden change in his manner caused Jim and Arte to exchange knowing glances. They'd seen this behavior in others before. Reilly was no temperance fanatic, but it was clear now he'd had reasons other than solidarity for sticking to lemonade shandy. The cat was out of the bag, and Reilly wasn't going to shove it back in.

"I promised Molly," Reilly admitted. "Gave the stuff up years ago so she'd say yes. When I start, I can't stop and I mustn't start now!"

"Why not just refuse it then?" Arte asked. "Why not tell people you abstain? It's respectable."

"Not in my line of work it isn't." The diplomat shook his head. "A fellow can't afford to appear too prissy to the ambassadors. Or too weak. You don't know the lengths I go to misplacing or spilling my drinks. But something like this . . . ." He gazed around the magnificent dining room. "If I send it back, they'll be insulted. If I spill it they might send more."

For once, Arte's reflexes were even quicker than Jim's as he made a distracting flourish with one hand.

"Fear not, friend," he whispered to Reilly. "I shall save you from the demon rum!" He'd barely finished saying it and gesturing when the contents of the snifter disappeared. Reilly slumped back in his chair with relief.

"Thank you," the diplomat whispered.

"The pleasure is all mine," Arte chuckled. But his expression was slightly puzzled as he licked his lips. "Not quite as smooth as I would have thought, but still very good. Definitely not lemonade."

A more relaxed Reilly had no trouble pretending to be the satisfied celebrity guest when Antoine returned to collect the empty snifter. He even knew which characteristics of the Armagnac should be given fulsome praise and gave it. But to Reilly's gratitude and Arte's consternation, no offering of seconds arrived. The three men were just preparing to depart for their hotel rooms when a most unwelcome figure put in an appearance in the Diamond Room.

"Speak of the devil . . . ." Arte murmured, using an eye movement to direct Jim's attention behind him. Harold Wicket, Undersecretary to the Secretary of State was striding over to the table at a brisk pace. The Undersecretary's stiff posture, rapid stride and tart expression seemed as out of place in these splendid surroundings as his checked wool suit would have looked on an ancient Roman emperor. Jim stood up to intercept him, but Wicket ignored the agent and trotted around in a brisk curve to present himself to the attaché directly.

"Mr. Reilly," the Undersecretary sniffed, "I do hope you are being adequately looked after." Wicket stared down through his pince-nez with only a side stare at Artemus as though adequacy was hardly to be expected in this quarter.

"Everything has been more than satisfactory." Reilly gave the man a placid smile. "I am grateful for the arrangements."

"Good." Wicket coughed. "I don't need to tell you how important this meeting of the European powers is or how much the Secretary is counting on you."

"No. You don't." James West's voice came with a distant rumble of thunder in it as he addressed the Undersecretary's back. At the table, still seated, Artemus was matching Reilly's polite, pacific manner, but he sat up slightly straighter as he recognized the sign of a coming storm.

"Mr. West," Wicket said, coldly deigning to turn around. "I don't believe I was speaking to you."

"I don't believe you were either. Sir." Jim pronounced the last word as though it were something he'd just scraped off his boot. "I'm sure Mr. Reilly is more aware than anyone else here." Including you, he wanted to say.

Wicket and West glared at each other for several seconds until Reilly yawned loudly and cut through the electrified atmosphere with a droll laugh.

"Gentlemen!" he said to both. "I'm really very tired and even a man needs his beauty sleep to look his best in the morning." He stood up and walked in between them, pausing long enough to force the two men to separate. "Mr. Gordon, are you coming?"

"Of course." Arte sprang up and took his partner none too gently by the arm. "Coming, James?" he asked, tugging hard and not giving Jim any choice in the matter.

When they were out of sight and earshot of Wicket, Reilly leaned over to Arte.

"That, times fifteen or perhaps twenty, is what I deal with on a regular basis."

"Hamlet, Macbeth, Titus," Arte replied. "Think about it."