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The moment the van door slammed behind the last of Sophie's antiquities was when everything went wrong.
“What do you say, Eric?” Keller's ex-paratrooper henchman loomed too close for comfort, but his body language was unthreatening. “Grab a bite of supper now that all of the business is out of the way?”
“What? I—uh—you mean—?” Eliot ducked his head in a facade of bashful surprise, letting himself stumble over his words as he reeled from the sudden shift in dynamics.
Ennis seemed to buy the bashful act easily enough. He nudged Eliot's shoulder with his own. “Don't be shy, now,” he cajoled. “I've quite enjoyed your company this afternoon. Let me show you some nicer bits of London than storage facilities.”
...This couldn't be happening.
“Wow, really?” said Eliot. “Gee, that's nice of you.”
Any minute, Nate or “the duchess” would be calling to let him ditch Ennis and drop the dumb-as-rocks errand-boy persona. Any minute now. Any minute…
“Ooooo,” Hardison's sing-song rang over the comms instead, “Eliot made a friee-end. Eliot flirted too hard! Someone thinks he's cuuuu-ute.”
Eliot forced a cheerfully dopey smile onto his face as he mentally swore at Hardison. As soon as he got back, they were setting a new team rule about who should be kept off of comms when under stress and sleep deprived.
…
It was even worse than Eliot had anticipated. Nate and Sophie both agreed that accepting Ennis' invitation was an excellent way to keep Ennis “busy” and out of the way of the con. Nate went so far as to claim that “This makes everything so much simpler,” and Eliot could almost feel the steam venting from his ears as he bashfully stalled Ennis, condemned to listen to the comm discussion while completely unable to weigh in.
Sophie “helpfully” offered dating tips. Hardison remained as useless as before, although thank god Nate shut down the childish teasing over comms as a “distraction.” Parker, Eliot's last faint spot of hope for help, seemed more excited about the prospect of a live audio demonstration of a “normal-person date” than anything else.
As annoying as all that was, it was tolerable. Eliot chafed at having to maintain this ruse longer than he had to and wasn't thrilled about being effectively trapped at this distance from his team (even if Ennis was Keller's main bodyguard, he certainly had other thugs who could become a problem), but this wasn't his first rodeo. He'd gone on fake dates before, and he could do it again, however odious he might find Ennis and however much he regretted committing to a character this dumb.
However, Ennis was...well, clearly eager to wow his “date.”
“Gee,” said Eliot, when Ennis finished talking up the restaurant where he'd just called in a last-minute reservation, “that sounds so fancy. Or, uh, what do you Brits call it...'posh'? I dunno…” He shuffled his feet, uncomfortably aware that he was genuinely starting to sweat. “I'm not sure I'd really know what to do with a fancy place like that, and they probably have a dress code and stuff…”
Ennis just smiled indulgently at him. “Oh, not to worry. My employer is a regular there. They know me, and they certainly have the discretion to bend the dress code on occasion. They'll give us a table.”
“Oh, wow, that's amazing.” Eliot smiled weakly.
The comm in his ear came to life again: “Eliot,” said Sophie, “if Keller frequents this place, it could be an excellent chance to scope out more of Keller's operation!”
“But…” said Parker, in a tone that guaranteed her fingers were itching for a nice, comprehensible lock to fidget with, “do we really want more of them to see Eliot?” (Finally a voice of reason.)
“Eh, it's not ideal,” said Nate, “We'd rather get a look at them without them knowing us, but he's going to be walking in with a member of Keller's organization. To some extent, that establishes credibility we may be able to use later.”
Eliot suppressed a wince as he trailed Ennis towards the waterfront for some pre-dinner sight-seeing. “Credibility” wasn't the problem.
Ennis wasn't wrong that the restaurant he named was nice; Eliot would have been flattered if this was a genuine date. The place was gorgeous, and the food was superb—Eliot could almost taste their perfectly-cooked, tender steak practically melting on his tongue. After all, it was a favorite of Damien Moreau, and he only patronized the best.
Damien himself wasn't in town—Eliot was sure of that—but odds were high that someone in that restaurant would recognize his face. It was a favorite haunt of ambitious members of Moreau's organization who wanted to impress, curry favor, or just enjoy the privilege of eating at a better class of establishment than they would have absent the influence of their employer. He couldn't keep tabs on every member of Moreau's organization who knew his face (even if there were fewer of them than an outsider might guess based on his position), especially without Hardison's help. Even if none of Moreau's employees were in attendance, clever members of the restaurant staff knew that remembering Damien's favorites (while discreetly keeping their mouths shut about what they did) was beneficial to their jobs—and potentially their life and limb, depending on who they were dealing with.
Eliot snapped out of his reverie as he belatedly realized Ennis had stopped telling him about the view out across the Thames and asked him a question. “Huh?”
“I said are you all right, Eric? You seem nervous.”
“Nervous? Me?” Eliot forced an awkward chuckle. “No, uh, I…”
Eliot could not hear himself think. Sophie was prattling in his ear about seduction techniques and not letting the fact that Ennis was a man rattle him. Hardison was muttering something about “toxic masculinity” and “heteronormativity.” Nate was telling Hardison that his comm was not off and to stop talking. Parker, bless her odd little heart, was suggesting how to “subtly” signal them if he was OK or if he needed them to come help.
Ennis was still staring at him, waiting for an answer.
Eliot took the only course of action that made sense.
The next thing heard over the comms was a splash and a fizzle as Eliot's comm went offline.
…
Hotel in downtown Washington, D.C., during “The Big Bang Job”:
So, Eliot Spencer was back in play. Moreau took another sip of his drink as he watched Eliot leave with the soggy (but impressively composed) middleman and raised a hand to beckon Chapman without looking. Chapman appeared at his elbow quickly—unusually quickly, in fact. Good. If Eliot was still playing at his little “freedom” game, then at the very least his reappearance made his replacements extra eager to please.
“Pull an image off the security cameras and make sure your men know to remain alert.”
Moreau's narrowed eyes tracked Chapman's back as he left to carry out his orders. His lip curled. He wouldn't have needed to tell Eliot. Moreau liked to run his operation with a strict hand, but some level of independent thought—guided by appropriate motivation, of course—was called for. Chapman's love of violence was useful for a head of security in his business, but it was not sufficient.
…
Chapman was back. And with a stranger trailing behind him. His instructions had been simple and his larger task typical, even if Eliot Spencer's capabilities (and reputation) made it more of a challenge than usual. Chapman should have been well up to the task. He was no Eliot, but Moreau would not have promoted him if he were incompetent.
And yet, here he was, back in less than an hour.
Moreau smiled. “Don't tell me Eliot's returned already,” he said in a faux-pleasant tone that Chapman would recognize for the threat it was.
Chapman looked uneasy. “No, sir. There was a...development I thought you would want to be aware of.”
Moreau raised an eyebrow but let him continue.
Chapman gestured to the dark-haired man behind him. The second man stood at nervous attention, clearly aware of how risky a face-to-face audience with the boss could be. “Brady here was part of Keller's division, moving merchandise. When I showed them Spencer's picture, he—Well, tell Mr. Moreau what you said, Brady.”
Brady shifted his weight slightly. His eyes darted to Chapman and snapped back to Moreau. “Well, uh, the gist of it, sir—”
“No,” said Chapman. “Tell him exactly what you told me.”
Brady gulped. “I said, 'That looks just like that idiot American who drowned in the Thames after Ennis asked him out,' sir.”
Moreau could feel his eyebrows snap together in confusion. Several seconds of silence ticked by, heavily. Brady did not continue.
Well. Chapman was at least correct that this sounded above his pay grade.
“Elaborate,” said Moreau. He belatedly forced a smile. “Please.” He waved Brady to a chair across from him. “This sounds like an interesting story.”
Brady perched hesitantly on the edge of the chair, as if he wasn't sure if it were a trap. (As it could be. Moreau hadn't decided yet.)
“Well, sir, we were moving merchandise for Keller right before he got picked up. We were getting the shipment ready to move, but Keller had negotiated to move some antiquities for a duchess as part of the shipment we were already prepping. He sent a team of us to load up the stuff to go to the warehouse with the rest, and to deal with the duchess' man, if he caused any trouble. Keller's bodyguard, Ennis, was supervising the operation.
“Anyway, this duchess had the stupidest American as an errand boy. Dumber than a sack of hammers, couldn't find his way out of a wet paper sack, but Ennis thought he was hot.”
Moreau's lips twitched upward in spite of himself. That did sound plausible for Eliot, albeit a bit extreme. He had always been astoundingly successful both at getting people to underestimate him when he wished and at making himself attractive to almost anyone he set his sights on. Although he didn't typically deploy both simultaneously...
“After driving around half of London, he finally got us to the duchess' storage unit. We got everything loaded up, and then I was to drive the van back with a couple of guards, but the rest of the crew was done for the day since we had plenty of hands to unload and pack at the warehouse. So Ennis decides to ask the bloke out. You know, take him to a nice restaurant, wow him a bit, have some fun later. But the bloke got real flustered…”
Moreau's eyebrow crept upward.
“...And then—we were right on the riverfront, you see—then this idiot manages to trip and topple right over the edge into the Thames. He clearly couldn't swim a stroke—just flailed about and went under quick.” Brady shrugged uncertainly. “We were all pretty stunned. Danny even jumped in to try to pull him out—no one wanted the boss's deal to get soured because she thought we killed her errand boy—but he was too slow. Fortunately the duchess didn't seem…overly upset about it. And, well, er, that's what happened, sir.”
Dead silence fell. Moreau idly rotated his glass on the table as he absorbed this saga.
Brady didn't seem sure whether he should try to look Moreau in the face or not. Chapman's face had contorted further and further with confusion as the tale went on. The only reason Moreau's had not was due to his own self-control.
Eliot Spencer was far more than dumb muscle, and Moreau well knew that he was a competent actor. He'd danced circles around many people who assumed there was nothing more to him. But what possible motive could he have for faking his own drowning?
…
Leverage briefing room, during “The San Lorenzo Job”:
The clamor of ideas and arguments over how to target Moreau now had surged and ebbed several times at this point. Idea after idea was floated and shot down: many by Nate, most by Eliot, who was slowly filling out their picture of Damien Moreau's personal habits, piece by painful piece.
The debate was surging again, but Hardison's voice was missing. He stood at the end of the table, frowning at a spot somewhere on the floor between him and the screens, seemingly lost in his own thoughts despite the debate raging around him.
Eliot was near-shouting at this point. “You want to put Hardison in that position? After last week? That's insane. You can't—Hardison, that isn't even technologically feasible, is it? Hardison? Hardis—”
“Is this why you jumped in the Thames?”
There was dead silence.
“Huh?” said Eliot.
“In London. The Keller job. You jumped in the river right after that goon asked you out.”
“...Ennis?”
“Yeah, him. You were hedging, he made restaurant reservations, and...boom. Eliot goes into the river. Was this why?”
Eliot paused to parse through possible Hardison trains of thought before trying to answer that. What was “this” and how did it relate to—? Oh.
Eliot took a sip of his beer before answering, using it as an excuse to not look at anyone. “...Uh, yeah. That restaurant is—at least, used to be—frequented by a lot of people who worked with Moreau.” He shrugged. “I probably wouldn't have been recognized by anyone, but I couldn't take that chance.”
There was a pause. “And your solution was drowning ,” said Nate, flatly.
Eliot bristled. “I didn't hear any of you offering me any exits! Hardison was making kissy noises in my ear, like a particularly immature grade-schooler; Sophie was telling me to compliment his eyes and making suggestions of what to order for dinner, and you said—and I quote— 'I didn't mean you had to give him that good a city tour.'”
“Hey!” said Parker. “I offered to help!”
“...You offered to bring me a rag and some chloroform.”
“Yeah! It worked perfectly for me at the auction. And I offered to loan you my taser so you could zap him if he started getting handsy and you didn't want to stab him with a fork.”
Eliot hesitated. “Uh, Parker, we were trying to wrap that up without blowing Sophie's cover. I don't think me chloroforming, tasing, or stabbing Keller's guy would really have accomplished that.” He paused. “But, yes, you did offer to help, so thank you for that.”
…
“Guys, guys,” said Nate. “This is Damien Moreau. We got lucky the first time we caught him on his blind side, and he still almost killed us. Now, if he catches wind that we’re running a con or a heist that he’s seen before, we’re done. It’s got to be something new.”
“There are no new cons, Nate,” said Sophie.
Parker hung over Hardison's shoulder, eyeing the San Lorenzo map on the screen.
“Ooo,” she said. “They have a river! Eliot could—”
Hardison snorted a laugh, which he tried to hastily muffle in his sleeve. Eliot turned from his phone call to glare.
“That is an excellent point,” said Hardison. “A 'Thames Tumble.' Let Moreau try to recruit Eliot back to his organization, maybe finagle an invitation to a nice restaurant—with a brewery, since he noted that Eliot likes beer—then Eliot falls in the river, and—”
“Hardison!”