Big Bang Fic: The Tangled Web Job, Part 5/10
Title: The Tangled Web Job
Authors: scout_lover and telaryn
Artist: alinaandalion
Disclaimer: Not mine, making no money. I write only from a sad, fannish devotion to the characters created by John Rogers, Chris Downey, Dean Devlin and the amazing writers of Leverage.
Characters/Pairings: Team, Damien Moreau, Director Conrad, Sterling, Nana, all canon pairings
Rating: PG-13 leaning over the fence and shaking hands with R
Genre: Gen, drama, angst, team!fic
Warnings/spoilers: Set after the events of The Last Dam Job, the story is directly drawn from events in The Experimental Job.
Word Count: 50,069
Summary: The threat issued by CIA Director Conrad at the end of The Experimental Job proves to be anything but idle. The team is blackmailed into working for the CIA to help gain control of the major nuclear pipeline into Iran. To accomplish this and keep their loved ones safe, they are forced to work with an old enemy towards a common goal.
What the CIA fails to realize is that catching the Leverage team and holding them are usually two different things.
What Nate fails to realize is that the price for squirming free of the government's grasp is likely to be higher than he expected.
Link to Art Post: Here
CHAPTER FIVE
“Parker, Sophie, you both have work to do,” Nate said. “Everybody needs to stay focused; we bunch up for too long and Conrad’s going to think we’re up to something.” His heart was literally aching as he studied Hardison. He hated having to jerk him up so sharply, but the very thing that made the hacker unequalled in the world at what he could do was precisely what made him their weakest link in a situation like this.
Sophie gripped his shoulder, drawing his attention. “Go easy,” she cautioned.
He leaned in and kissed her, drawing what strength and balance he could from the feel of her lips against his. “You be careful,” he warned, looking deep into her eyes. “You know I don’t deserve you, right?”
She smiled at him then, but there was none of her usual humor in it. “No, you probably don’t,” she agreed. “Lucky for you, I’m a soft touch.”
When the women were gone, Nate focused his attention on his hacker again. “I just need to know one thing,” he said, discarding the idea of moving the conversation some place more private. Eliot had clearly been thinking along the same lines he had when it came to Hardison, and the hitter’s insight would be useful later. “Do you trust us to fix things for your foster mother?”
“I do, Nate,” he said, hanging his head - unable to meet Nate’s eyes for a long moment. “I only thought about Moreau’s offer for a second, I swear.” He looked up, and Nate nearly flinched back from the emotion in his dark eyes. “I wasn’t even sure it was a bona fide thing when he first started talking about it, I just thought he was tryin’ to be friends.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And then Eliot gets all spooky with his mind reading business - Nate I swear, I had just put the pieces together when he called me out.”
A knot in his gut loosened slightly as Nate realized he believed Hardison. “Okay,” he said, nodding. “Okay. We’ll write this one off as a learning experience.” And it’s useful having some idea that he’s targeting Hardison and how. Unless of course the move was a feint - intended to throw Nate off his game.
“You have to be on your guard,” he said, forcibly setting his circular reasoning about Damien Moreau aside until later. “Moreau’s way isn’t a path you walk and come back whole.” Somehow they both kept from looking at Eliot, even though the hitter was a textbook example of everything he wanted Hardison to avoid.
Before the hacker could say anything else in his own defense, Nate’s phone buzzed for his attention. Frowning, he called up the text hoping something else hadn’t gone sideways.
In country. Belgium 1992.
A spark of hope flared into life inside him. “We need to go over the embassy layout,” Nate said, looking up at Hardison. “I’m also going to need you to go over Conrad’s intel on the security we’ll be facing - see what holes need plugging.”
*~*~*
“If Enzo managed this, I’m impressed.” By Sophie’s estimation, the walk-in closet attached to the spacious bedroom contained somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of cutting edge evening wear. All in my size too - oh that’s not a bit creepy.
“The red. It will make the right statement, and the cut will flatter your shape.”
Sophie turned slowly, not letting Moreau see that he’d startled her. “Where I come from, Mr. Moreau,” she said, “gentlemen knock.” Annie’s tone, accent and cadence came smoothly to hand.
His smile was cold and perfect. “Where I come from as well … Annie.” He was the picture of studied nonchalance as he came further into the room, closing the door behind him. “I thought that we should spend some time together without Ford and the others around. If we are to present as a partnership to my Iranian friend tomorrow evening, we should be as … comfortable … with each other as possible.” He met her eyes, and touched the wound on the side of his neck significantly.
“Looking for an apology, are you?” she asked, lifting her chin slightly. “You’d think less of me if I backed down.”
“Not at all,” Moreau countered. “I’m looking for a way off this leash - and I imagine you are too.” He took a few more casual steps, closing the distance between them, then gestured at the two comfortable chairs that comprised the room’s “sitting area”. “Please. There’s no reason we can’t come to an understanding about this.”
Sophie couldn’t remember ever wanting anything less, but she had no reasonable argument at hand. “What did you have in mind?” Moreau waited for her to sit before taking his own chair.
“You will need a veil,” he said. “If Enzo hasn’t already provided one, we will need to speak to him - Majid isn’t so conservative that he will expect your face to be covered, but you can’t be too Western in either your dress or your manner. It will put him off.”
Sophie nodded. It was useful information that could only make the evening go more smoothly. “Director Conrad mentioned there might be competition for these trade routes,” she said, trying to draw him out about any other potential obstacles they might be facing.
He smiled. “That can’t scare you, Annie - not with your background. The Kroys prefer to handle things up close and personal from what I understand.” He paused, sobering. “But yes, it’s safe to assume that there are rivals. Nature abhors a vacuum - isn’t that how the saying goes?”
“Are we talking about the kind of rivals that would try something on embassy property?” she asked, trying to prompt him to continue talking. Moreau was a “fiddly” sort of puzzle, as Parker would say, and Sophie kept having to shove her own fear of the man aside so she could see her way in as clearly as possible.
Moreau considered her question for longer than she would have assumed necessary, then smiled wryly and gave a slight shrug. “Anything is possible in this part of the world,” he said. “We are playing a dangerous game for very high stakes. But I will insist that Eliot go in with us as my bodyguard, and I have every faith in his ability to protect us.” He reached across the gap separating them and took her hand. “Of course once we are safely over the border into Iran a great many more possibilities open up for us.” His gaze roamed appreciatively over her body now, and Sophie felt her skin flush with an answering heat. “I could use a woman like you at my side. Someone … flexible.”
“You referenced leashes,” Sophie said as his eyes met hers. “I don’t fancy Conrad choking me with mine.”
“I could have him killed for you.” Moreau tugged on her hand, and Sophie allowed herself to be drawn to her feet. He stood as well, pulling her in closer than she would have ordinarily gone. “If you could make me believe it would be worth my while.”
Sophie laughed, but there was no mistaking the hitch in her breath as it caught in her throat. Oh God … “Those are bold words, Mr. Moreau, but right now you’re on a tighter leash than any of us.”
He cupped her cheek with his free hand, and Sophie reacted unconsciously, leaning slightly into his touch. “But by that point I will have Eliot - and he will do whatever I need.” Leaning in, he kissed her almost chastely on the lips.
“Make certain you tell Nate Ford that, won’t you?”
*~*~*
They’d been a month tailing an obscure Rembrandt across Europe. Nothing but whispers, rumors and half-truths until Sterling had uncovered a promising lead in the form of one Dylan Jamart - a Belgian businessman who had acquired several rare paintings through the legitimate market in the previous ten years, but who was also supposed to be somewhat flexible in how he made his acquisitions.
The kitchen staff had been their way in. Sterling had agreed to go undercover, while Nate worked the case from the outside. They’d typically met midnights in back of the house to compare notes, using the delivery entrance for their comings and goings. That door hadn’t been as well protected as this one was, but back in those days Nate hadn’t had the world’s greatest hacker backing his plays.
“Hello, Nate.”
Sterling glanced up significantly at the camera covering the door. Nate snorted softly, but stepped off the path into the camera’s blind spot. He trusted Hardison’s skills, but without the comms there was no point in taking chances. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “Seriously.”
“I was tempted to just jail the lot of them when they contacted me,” Sterling retorted. “Seems like I might have done you a favor if I had.”
“It wouldn’t have solved the problem,” Nate admitted. “And I don’t even know if you could have held them under the circumstances.”
Sterling inclined his head, conceding the point. “My thoughts exactly. I’m not sure I want to know how you ended up under the CIA’s thumb, but if what you’ve told me so far is true you definitely have my attention.”
Nate felt something in his chest ease as he began bringing his former partner up to speed. Interpol wouldn’t go at the CIA directly, but they had the motivation to keep Damien Moreau and the United States from establishing control over nuclear arms trade and development in the Middle East, and they had the authority to enforce their wishes.
All Nate had to do was convince Sterling to arrange things so that he and the team could slip away safely in the aftermath.
“Always thought that Patriot Act was rubbish,” Sterling commented, once Nate was finished filling him in. “Elderly foster mother, war orphans - that’ll play though. I have several contacts who can take that public.”
“Hardison will be grateful,” Nate said. Sterling grinned.
“You just make sure he knows my generous spirit doesn’t come free.” He paused. “As far as the rest of it goes, until Moreau and Shahriari make contact, I don’t have enough hard evidence to move on.” He passed something across to Nate. “It’s clean, but we’ll use it for texting only; nothing detailed. I’ll get myself into the embassy, but you make sure to keep feeding me everything you can.”
Nate took the phone and slipped it into his pocket. “Never figured I’d be in the position to owe you like this again,” he admitted.
Something of the Sterling he’d once called friend was visible in the other man’s expression as he shrugged. “Yes, well - the same applies to you, thief. My generous spirit doesn’t come free.”
*~*~*
“What’re you working on?”
Hardison didn’t know if it was a good sign or a bad one that Parker didn’t startle him when she all but materialized at his shoulder. “Checking into some stuff for Nate,” he said, reaching out to take her hand and rest it on his shoulder. “Going over the plan for tomorrow night.”
“Worrying about Nana?” she asked.
Momentarily overcome, he reached up and covered her hand with his own. “Uh-huh,” he said, nodding quickly once he could trust himself to speak. “It’s harder now that I can’t call her when I need to, but …”
Parker crouched at his side, maneuvering so she was looking up at him. “I got you a present.” She held up a small USB drive.
Hardison couldn’t help smiling. “A bored Parker is a dangerous Parker.” He took the drive and set it next to his monitor.
“Nate told me to get it for you,” she said. “I hope I got the right files, but he said you’d know what to do when …” She broke off with a small squeak of surprise as Hardison dragged her up into his lap. Winding his arms around her neck, he pulled her close and kissed her.
“I don’t like it when everybody’s mad at you,” she admitted when he finally let her up for air. “You’d never sell us out, would you?”
Carding his fingers through her bright hair, Hardison shook his head without hesitation. “Man caught me off guard, that’s all. Parker, I swear.” He sighed. “I don’t know how Eliot put it all behind him though - I really don’t.”
“I don’t think he has,” Parker replied.
*~*~*
Eliot stood before the mirror and stared at his reflection, feeling a cold knot forming in the pit of his stomach. He’d like to have thought he was looking at a stranger, but he wasn’t. He knew this man, knew him intimately, had once lost himself in him. He’d thought he’d buried him years ago, just one more body hidden along the way, but he was alive and well, waking from his long sleep and staring out at him through his own eyes.
Damien’s man.
God knew he looked the part. He wore the charcoal suit Sophie had favored - a “rush job,” Enzo had declared apologetically, even though one of his “rush jobs” would still fit perfectly on any catwalk in Milan - and a deep red (blood red, his old self whispered in his mind) shirt with a dark gray silk tie finely striped with the same red as the shirt. And on his feet, in place of his scuffed heavy boots, were soft black Italian shoes. Prada, Enzo had announced proudly. The little tailor had beamed at him, clearly enormously pleased with his success in transforming the unkempt ruffian who’d been thrust upon him into the model of classic couture reflected in that glass.
But Enzo hadn’t been the only one working on him. A fussy young man who had chattered non-stop the whole time had washed, cut and styled his hair while an accomplice - assistant - had trimmed and buffed his nails. His hair was shorter than it had been in years, though not quite as short as he’d worn it then, trimmed around his face and over his ears but still with enough length in back that it curled just above the collar of his shirt. He’d been surprised by that until the stylist had said it had been Damien’s idea.
The white hat really doesn’t suit you. But I love the hair.
His skin crawled at the memory.
“Now that is more like it.”
It took everything he had not to jump as Damien’s voice sounded behind him. In the next moment the man appeared in the mirror, and Eliot gazed at his reflection without turning around, and without entirely meeting his eyes. Medusa, something warned illogically in his brain.
Just now, though, Damien seemed to radiate pleasure rather than menace. He moved closer, stopping just behind Eliot and studying him in the mirror. “Much more professional, don’t you think?” he asked, smiling easily. Just as he’d done years ago when Eliot had shed yet another piece of himself to fit into his expectations. “The standards I set for those in my employ are well known. Now everyone will believe you are my man.”
The knot in Eliot’s gut tightened at those words, the very same ones Nate had spoken earlier. My man. He was caught in a tug of war between the two of them, and the entire team’s safety depended on him not snapping in half. He only hoped he could hold himself together long enough to get them all out and end this, once and for all.
He drew a deep breath and lifted his gaze to meet Damien’s in the mirror. “Three-thousand dollar suits could never hide what we were,” he said quietly. “You could dress us up like fashion models all you wanted, we were still just thugs and killers.”
Damien laughed and shook his head. “Please,” he chided amiably. “The three-thousand dollar suits were for the drivers. Yours cost so much more than that.”
“Yeah, they did,” Eliot breathed, remembering exactly what wearing those suits had cost him.
“It’s a shame Chapman isn’t here to see this,” Damien said lightly, still studying Eliot in the mirror. Still smiling. “He did so enjoy your battles with the tailors.” He chuckled again. “He once said that putting you in fine wool and silk was like giving a manicure to a pit bull - no amount of polish could disguise what you really were.” His smile faded. “I still miss him sometimes,” he said, though not a trace of sorrow sounded in his voice or lurked in his eyes.
“Then you shouldn’t have sent him to kill me,” Eliot suggested. “I always was better than him.”
“Yes, I suppose you were,” Damien agreed. “But I had to send someone. You betrayed me. Again. I couldn’t very well just let that pass.” He grimaced and shook his head. “Think of the precedent it would set. I let you go once.” He shrugged. “I simply couldn’t do it again. I had to make an example of you.”
Eliot turned slowly away from the mirror to face him. “And how’d that work out for ya?” he asked coldly.
Damien laughed in delight at the jibe. “Ah, this is what I have missed! No one has ever dared speak to me the way you do. They are all so worried about upsetting me, of arousing my wrath-” He reached out and set a strong hand on Eliot’s shoulder, and something very like affection shone in his eyes. “But you had no fear. You were always honest with me. And you were never afraid to challenge me when you thought it was needed. Tell me,” he lifted two elegant brows, “ does your Mr. Ford appreciate that quality in you?”
Eliot’s stomach did a slow, queasy roll as a warning sounded in his brain. He and Nate had been in perfect agreement that Damien’s preferred strategy would be divide-and-conquer, but time had softened Eliot’s memories of how very good at it he was. First he’d gotten to Hardison and managed to create a small niggle of doubt about the hacker’s loyalty in their minds, now Damien would drive a wedge between Eliot and Nate. The bastard knew him well enough to understand that his loyalty also came with blunt honesty, and had to know enough about Nate to realize that he didn’t like being challenged, especially when he needed it most.
You know, you talk too much. You oughta just go skip some rope.
Eliot, why don’t you just take the rest of the job off.
He and Nate had clashed frequently over the years, their friendship and mutual respect often tempered with an underlying friction. But he’d always seen it as one of his responsibilities to call Nate on his bullshit, to hold him accountable for those times when his obsessiveness or loss of focus put the rest of them in danger. And, no, Nate didn’t like it one damn bit.
But in his own twisted way, he did appreciate it.
Just as Damien once had.
“Jesus, the two of you are more alike than you know,” he breathed tiredly, shaking his head slowly. He shrugged off Damien’s hand and turned away, putting a few steps between them; between himself and the man in the mirror. “I’m not sure what it says about me that I threw in with him after I walked away from you, but it can’t be good. Probably means I’m as fucked up as Parker.”
“Parker?” Damien repeated in momentary confusion. “Ah, yes, the little blonde thief.” A note of avarice sounded in his voice. “Such remarkable gifts. I read up on her in prison - well,” he chuckled, “I studied all of you. I had to do something to pass the time. She is … quite fascinating.”
A chill rippled down Eliot’s spine and he turned around sharply, every protective instinct on alert. “Don’t,” he warned in a low growl, stalking back to Damien and staring up into his “former master’s” eyes. “Whatever web you’re spinnin’ in that brain of yours, leave her out of it. And Hardison, too. Hell, leave ’em all out of it. I get it - you’re pissed at what we did to you and you want revenge. Fine. If you wanta punish somebody, punish me, and leave the rest of them alone!”
Damien arched a brow. “And why only you?”
“Because they just wanted to bring you down and give you to the Italian.” A faint, predatory smile curved about Eliot’s mouth. “I was lookin’ for a way to kill you.”
If the words angered Damien or took him by surprise, he gave no sign of it. Indeed, he actually seemed amused by them, chuckling quietly and nodding. “Direct, as always,” he said with wry appreciation. “I suppose I should be grateful that Ford’s method won out over yours, knowing what I do of your skills.”
Eliot shrugged. “Time ran out on me,” he admitted. “You comin’ to Washington to auction off your bomb forced our hand.” He smiled thinly. “But I was getting’ close. A few more weeks, and I would’ve had my shot.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Damien said, looking remarkably unfazed by Eliot’s words. “You always were very thorough, and very efficient.” His smile faded altogether, and a faint glimmer of anger shone in his eyes. “As you reminded me with that … exhibition … in the warehouse. That was most impressive. Especially for a man who walked away from me because he said he’d had his fill of killing.”
Eliot shrugged again, his eyes never leaving Damien’s. “You didn’t give me any choice. You set us up, sent men to kill me, to kill Nate. Did you think I’d just lay down and die? Let Nate die?”
“No, I suppose not,” Damien said. “Still,” he frowned slightly, thoughtfully, “I can’t help but wonder what these … people … of yours thought about that. You killed at least a dozen of my men - with their own guns, no less - and walked away. After setting fire to that warehouse and leaving their bodies to burn.” He chuckled softly and reached out, running a hand down the lapel of Eliot’s jacket and straightening his tie. “So ruthless,” he purred. “So cold and complete in your vengeance. Just like the man who once dispatched my enemies for me. Does your little family of thieves know what they harbor in their midst?”
Eliot jerked back from Damien’s touch and turned away from the man, away from his mocking smile and eyes that had ever been able to look into and unlock the worst parts of him. The rest of the team, they don’t need to know what I did. And as far as he knew, they didn’t know; not the specifics, anyway. Whatever Hardison, Parker and Sophie suspected, they’d had the good grace to keep those suspicions to themselves. Parker and Sophie hadn’t asked, and for once Hardison had repressed his need to hack into security cams and law enforcement databases to find answers. Maybe they didn’t want to know.
Or … maybe they just didn’t care. Maybe they already knew what was important to them, and the specifics of a certain killing rampage wouldn’t change that.
He seized on that thought and clutched it tightly to him, letting it seep through and comfort him. Strengthen him.
He drew a deep breath and turned back to Damien, lifting his head and meeting the man’s eyes evenly. He knew he’d probably given away too much of just what the team meant to him, could almost see the calculations spinning through Damien’s brain, but it didn’t really matter. His feelings for them were, in a very real tactical sense, a liability, and no one knew how to exploit liabilities like Damien Moreau. But Damien also knew him, knew his capabilities better than almost anyone else alive, knew exactly to what lengths he’d go to protect and defend what was his, knew just how much of the world Eliot Spencer was capable of burning when someone, anyone, fucked with him.
Let the bastard calculate that.
Damien folded his arms across his chest and canted his head slightly to one side, still staring intensely. Eliot only barely suppressed a shiver from the weight and force of that gaze, and once again had to shove down that dark thing inside him struggling to rise in response.
Then Damien smiled faintly, and when he spoke his voice held an odd tone of warmth. “So protective,” he murmured. “I remember that well.” His smile grew wider, but it never reached his eyes. “Always the shadow at my right hand, the weapon merely waiting for me to aim it.” He gave a small chuckle. “I always suspected that when the men before me trembled, it was more in fear of you than me.” He unfolded one arm and reached out to run a hand over the shoulder of Eliot’s jacket, then lifted it to brush back a stray lock of hair that had fallen across Eliot’s eyes. “So pretty to look upon,” he purred. “But so deadly. Mars in all his beauty, wreaking devastation with a smile. How I have missed that smile!”
Eliot could no longer suppress his shudder. Damien was so close, his breath and touch warm and intimate, his eyes piercing straight through to Eliot’s soul, seeking those pieces that still belonged to him. He remembered this, remembered the power wrapping around and claiming him, enticing him, seducing him, unmaking and remaking him one little piece at a time. He remembered the promises whispered in that supple voice, the secrets lurking in those hazel eyes just waiting to be shared, remembered the purpose offered to a lost and drifting soldier desperately in need of a flag to follow.
He remembered all of it. And he was afraid.
Damien chuckled again, then dropped his hand and stepped back, regarding Eliot with a smile and an unmistakable warmth. “So,” he said, “we have the meeting with Majid at the embassy tomorrow night. Director Conrad, naturally, has said he will oversee security, but I don’t trust him.” He winked. “As you and your team have discovered, he is not particularly bothered by any ‘sacrifices’ he might have to make to further his own agenda. And, as an Iranian nationalist, Majid, naturally, has little love for the CIA and would react badly to any hint of Conrad’s involvement. I do not think we want him … spooked?” He chuckled at his own pun. “So you will take over. I will insist, and Conrad will have no choice but to agree. Also,” his smile took on a vaguely cruel edge, “you will act as my personal bodyguard for he evening. My guardian angel spreading your sheltering wings over me and the lovely Miss Kroy.”
Eliot snapped out of his daze. Something in Damien’s voice when he mentioned Annie - Sophie - set off another warning in his brain, and he instinctively clenched his hands into fists at his sides. He remembered only too well Damien’s love of and hunger for beautiful women, particularly those with both intelligence and spirit. The man bored easily - the wife he’d married for her father’s business and political connections but then routinely supplanted with a string of mistresses over the years was proof of that - and he craved women who would challenge him in wit as well as in the bed.
Sophie was just that kind of woman, and Eliot had encouraged her to play that up.
Damien glanced at his watch. “Dinner is in twenty minutes,” he said. “I look forward to getting to know all of you better. Sharing a meal is sharing life, no? Then after that,” he grinned broadly, clearly eager to begin whatever reconquest of the world he was planning, “we can get down to business. We shall discuss the meeting tomorrow night, I will tell you what you need to know about Majid, and you can begin your preparations for security.” He laughed and clapped Eliot firmly on the shoulder. “It will be just like old times, eh?”
Eliot’s stomach did a slow, sick turn as he felt the warmth and strength of Damien’s grip and saw the excitement on his face, the light in his eyes. “Yeah, like old times,” he managed to rasp.
And it scared him more than he could say.
*~*~*
Dinner was a truly lavish affair, with a mixture of both Western and traditional Pakistani dishes served in generous portions. The aromas of beef and lamb mingled with those of cinnamon, cloves and curry, rice dishes yielded savory bites of vegetables and potatoes, and flatbreads were topped by sesame seeds or stuffed with candied fruits. Throughout the meal, in a distinctly Western touch, wine flowed like water.
And Damien Moreau presided over it all with wit and charm, like a father-figure basking in the warmth of his family. If, Eliot thought, that family happened to be the Borgias.
Damien had even dictated the seating arrangement. He put himself at the head of the table, with Sophie at his left, Parker next to her, then Hardison, and Conrad at the far end. Eliot sat at Damien’s right, with Nate next to him. Damien had insisted Sophie sit next to him that they might “perfect the illusion of partnership we are expected to present,” but Eliot knew better. Damien wasn’t interested in any “illusion” at all. He wanted Sophie, both for his own purposes and pleasures and as a means of taking revenge on Nate.
Nor was his placement any accident. In the past, he’d always sat at Damien’s right, as both guardian and first lieutenant. Anyone seeking to speak with Damien at table had to go through him first; any news or information was presented to him for his judgment as to whether it merited Damien’s attention. His ultimate purpose, though, was to throw himself between Damien and any threat that might materialize, to shield Damien from harm and to die in his place if need be. Putting him back in that position was a not so subtle effort on Damien’s part to remind him of those days, of all that he’d shared with and done for Damien, and, no doubt, to remind Eliot’s “new family” of exactly what, as Damien had said earlier, they harbored in their midst.
Nate’s seating had been no accident either. He was at Eliot’s left, putting Eliot squarely between him and Damien, making that nasty little ploy plain to all, but was also at a remove from Sophie, taking him out of her immediate communication range and forcing him to watch from that distance as Damien sought to draw her closer to him. It was petty, but Eliot recalled with some grim amusement that for all his silken manners and airs of elegance and enlightenment, Damien Moreau was at heart a street fighter, capable of all the petty vindictiveness of a dark alley thug.
Hardison had originally been seated next to Sophie, evidence of Damien’s continuing interest in the hacker, with Parker at the end of the table next to Conrad. Still concerned about the younger man’s vulnerability, Eliot had tried to figure out how to challenge the arrangement without further piquing Damien’s interest in Hardison, but Sophie had intervened instead, and with a smoothness that reminded Eliot of exactly why she was who she was.
“I think, perhaps,” she had said in a low voice, moving closer to Damien as if to share a secret with him, “that putting Parker next to Director Conrad might not be such a good idea.” They’d been standing at the bar, while Damien mixed her a pre-dinner cocktail, and she had his full attention. “She holds him directly responsible for all of this, particularly for his threat against Hardison’s foster mother, and, well,” she had smiled wryly up him, dark eyes utterly sincere, “she’s been known to have … impulse control issues. Often involving forks.”
Damien’s eyebrows had shot to his hairline as he’d gaped at her in astonishment. “She stabs people?” he’d asked incredulously. “With forks?”
Sophie had shrugged elegantly, still faintly smiling. “Or with whatever else might be at hand. Though her preferred weapon is her taser.”
Damien had almost choked. “Her t- She carries a taser?” He’d looked over Sophie’s shoulder to where Parker had stood near a large window … glaring openly at Conrad. And while the dress Enzo had provided for her left little room to conceal a taser, a knife - or fork - wasn’t at all out of the question. He’d looked back to Sophie then, clearly at a loss.
Sophie, however, was never at a loss. “I’m afraid it wouldn’t look good for any of us if Director Conrad were assaulted at dinner,” she’d said, her full red lips pursing into a soft and thoughtful frown that had drawn Damien’s appreciative - and covetous - gaze. In a moment, though, her expression had cleared and she’d smiled up at him. “Perhaps we could simply switch her seat,” she’d suggested. “Put Hardison in her place next to the director, and Parker in his place next to me, between the two of us. That way, we might be able to control her somewhat.” If Damien had noticed her hand lightly brushing against his arm at the word “control,” he’d never shown it.
Eliot, however, had noticed, and had silently saluted his queen with his glass.
So now Parker was seated at Sophie’s right, well within Sophie’s reach should the little thief make any untoward move, and Hardison was at Parker’s right, comfortably out of Damien’s immediate influence. And Eliot decided that if they all got out of this alive, he would personally take Sophie to Paris or Milan and buy her whatever the hell she wanted.
Damien seemed to be entertaining similar plans. “Tell me, Annie,” he said, smoothly interrupting Conrad, who had been updating them on the current political situation in Iran, sounding as dry as a CIA fact book, “have you ever been to Tehran? It is a beautiful city, both ancient and modern, and I would delight in showing it to you.”
Sophie smiled coyly. “I’ve been once or twice. As you can no doubt imagine,” her dark eyes gleamed, “I’m rather an … admirer … of their art galleries and the imperial crown jewels.” She sighed, her smile softening. “I never tire of visiting the Darya-i-Noor diamond,” she breathed, absently rubbing her fingertips together as if they itched.
“I could get it for you,” Parker said easily, tearing apart a piece of flatbread to get at the candied fruit inside. “It’s part of the Treasury of National Jewels, which is in the Central Bank of the Islamic Republic of Iran. The security is tight, but not impossible. All we’d have to do-”
“Parker,” Nate said firmly, looking at the thief and lifting his brows, “no jewel heists in Tehran. We’ll have enough on our plates as it is.”
She deflated and tore apart another piece of bread. “Fine,” she sulked. “But I was just thinking of Sophie.”
“That’s very sweet of you, Parker,” Sophie said, smiling fondly at the younger woman and patting her hand. “Perhaps another time, when we’re not on so tight a schedule.”
Parker beamed, and Eliot groaned and bowed his head. “Sophie,” he growled, “don’t encourage the crazy.” He lifted his head to glare at her. “The mullahs get pissed when people steal from ’em.”
Parker looked at him, frowning thoughtfully. “Don’t you have a dagger you stole from them?” she asked. “You said you took it when they stiffed you on a job.”
“That’s different!” he shot back. “When you hire a man to do a job, you pay the price you agreed on. You don’t go changin’ the terms when everything’s done. That’s not how you do business.”
“Ah, yes,” Damien said with a quiet chuckle, lifting his wine and sipping from it. “You always did have the strangest set of principles.” He chuckled again and shook his head, setting his glass down, then turned to Sophie. “Of all the things he did for me,” he reminisced, “I could never get him to lie. It was most … endearing. Frustrating, but endearing. Still, I suppose that was what made him so effective. When I sent him,” he shifted his gaze to Eliot, “men knew the time for prevarication had passed. Eliot was, one might say, my final arbiter of truth.”
Eliot bowed his head and shifted uncomfortably in his chair, remembering only too clearly what form that “arbitration” had usually taken. People had known Damien was finished negotiating, finished arguing, finished talking when he’d shown up. He’d never had to lie. Men had read the truth - and their deaths - in his eyes.
He was startled to feel Nate’s hand grip his arm and squeeze lightly under the table. That touch centered him, reassured him. They knew. They knew, but they didn’t care. Because over the years they’d discovered other truths about him, and those mattered more. He looked up and dared a small nod at Nate, the only real communication they’d ever needed. Somehow it had always been the words that had tripped them up. And only when he’d let himself relax did Nate remove his hand.
“This is all very nice,” Conrad said with an edge of irritation, clearly able to see control of this - and them - slipping out of his grasp, “but we do have a job to discuss. We’re not here to wax nostalgic over jewel heists and assassinations.” He stared down the table at Damien. “I need to know that you can get us access to Majid, and Iran’s nuclear program. If you can’t, well-” He smiled thinly. “I broke you out of prison. I can put you back.”
Damien sat back in his chair and smiled, looking utterly unconcerned. “And how, exactly, has your government explained that little jailbreak to your new friends in San Lorenzo?” he asked. “It can’t have gone well.” His smile faded. “I assure you, President Vittori and Minister Flores are men of deep and sincere principle. And they are rather pathetically devoted to their little rock of a nation. They will not appreciate being violated by the United States, no matter how many flags you wrap around your explanation.”
Conrad smiled thinly. “Soothing their hurt feelings isn’t my concern,” he said. “That’s the job of the State Department.”
Nate stiffened slightly and looked up sharply, and Eliot recognized the signs of a thought springing into the man’s nimble mind.
“So,” Nate Leaned forward and stared down the table at Conrad, “just how far out on the limb have you gone here? Obviously, the State Department doesn’t know about your little game, or you would never have been allowed to proceed. But I’d be willing to bet that none of the other national security or intelligence agencies do either.” The fork in Conrad’s hand seemed to waver ever so slightly as the man waged an almost imperceptible but just visible battle not to give anything away. But Nate was Nate, the man who saw mental processes the way Hardison did computer code, and he smiled slightly, another piece of the puzzle falling into place. “You’re completely off book here, aren’t you?” he prodded, his gaze never leaving Conrad. “You have no official sanction from anyone. If this thing blows up, you’re going down as a rogue agent, with the CIA supplying the rope and the president himself fixing the noose around your neck.”
Conrad was silent for long moments, then shrugged. “It’s a risk we all take,” he said, then shot a knowing look at Eliot. “Spencer knows that. We all get orders that come from nowhere, and we all do things that no one authorized. We’re ghosts, we operate in a world made of shadows. And when an inconvenient light pierces those shadows,” he shrugged again, “well, somebody has to pay. ‘Mistakes were made, heads will roll, houses will be cleaned.’ It’ll be a few weeks of manufactured outrage on Fox and CNN, probably a Congressional hearing with all the appropriate groveling and hand-wringing, and then it’s back to business as usual. And the next man takes his place out on that limb. All for God, flag and country. And,” his lips twitched in a smirk, “a hefty but completely off-the-books pension.”
Eliot snorted. “I never got that pension,” he muttered, spearing a piece of lamb with his fork. “All I got was ‘the thanks of a grateful nation,’ a reminder that my ass would be grass if that nation ever found out what I’d done and an escort out through the back door in the middle of the night.”
Conrad smirked again. “You were the weapon. Weapons are a dime a dozen. It’s the men willing to call the shots who are valuable.”
“But it’s the poor bastards who take the shots who come home with nightmares,” Eliot spat, tossing his fork to his plate with a loud clink. “Or come home in flag-draped coffins with some made-up story because nobody can ever know how they really died.”
Conrad eyed him steadily. “Casualties are a part of every war, you know that,” he said easily. “Sacrifices have to be made. Every soldier accepts that.”
“And those who aren’t soldiers?” Eliot pressed. “Hell, what about Hardison’s Nana? You set her up to take the fall for somethin’ she doesn’t know anything about. If this goes south, she’ll likely end up in prison, her kids will be taken away and put God knows where, we’ll be killed, Majid will be executed and Iran and the U.S. will be staring at each other over the guns of their navies! People will die, innocent people, but you’ll be livin’ it up in a villa somewhere, writin’ your memoirs and watchin’ all that money pile up in your account in the Caymans.”
He shoved his chair back abruptly and shot to his feet, unable to take any more. He knew only too well how this scenario played out, had seen it, lived it, too many times, and was sickened by the thought of his team caught in that nightmare. “If it does go wrong, you better make sure I don’t survive,” he growled, spearing Conrad with a hard, unforgiving stare. “Because if I do, you’ll never see that pension. Hell, you’ll never see me. And you’ll be goin’ back to Langley in pieces.” He tossed his napkin onto the table and turned on his heel, stalking out of the dining room.
“Really, Mr. Ford,” he heard Damien say with a sardonic humor as he left, “you’ve let his table manners deteriorate unforgivably.”
Part 6
Authors: scout_lover and telaryn
Artist: alinaandalion
Disclaimer: Not mine, making no money. I write only from a sad, fannish devotion to the characters created by John Rogers, Chris Downey, Dean Devlin and the amazing writers of Leverage.
Characters/Pairings: Team, Damien Moreau, Director Conrad, Sterling, Nana, all canon pairings
Rating: PG-13 leaning over the fence and shaking hands with R
Genre: Gen, drama, angst, team!fic
Warnings/spoilers: Set after the events of The Last Dam Job, the story is directly drawn from events in The Experimental Job.
Word Count: 50,069
Summary: The threat issued by CIA Director Conrad at the end of The Experimental Job proves to be anything but idle. The team is blackmailed into working for the CIA to help gain control of the major nuclear pipeline into Iran. To accomplish this and keep their loved ones safe, they are forced to work with an old enemy towards a common goal.
What the CIA fails to realize is that catching the Leverage team and holding them are usually two different things.
What Nate fails to realize is that the price for squirming free of the government's grasp is likely to be higher than he expected.
Link to Art Post: Here
CHAPTER FIVE
“Parker, Sophie, you both have work to do,” Nate said. “Everybody needs to stay focused; we bunch up for too long and Conrad’s going to think we’re up to something.” His heart was literally aching as he studied Hardison. He hated having to jerk him up so sharply, but the very thing that made the hacker unequalled in the world at what he could do was precisely what made him their weakest link in a situation like this.
Sophie gripped his shoulder, drawing his attention. “Go easy,” she cautioned.
He leaned in and kissed her, drawing what strength and balance he could from the feel of her lips against his. “You be careful,” he warned, looking deep into her eyes. “You know I don’t deserve you, right?”
She smiled at him then, but there was none of her usual humor in it. “No, you probably don’t,” she agreed. “Lucky for you, I’m a soft touch.”
When the women were gone, Nate focused his attention on his hacker again. “I just need to know one thing,” he said, discarding the idea of moving the conversation some place more private. Eliot had clearly been thinking along the same lines he had when it came to Hardison, and the hitter’s insight would be useful later. “Do you trust us to fix things for your foster mother?”
“I do, Nate,” he said, hanging his head - unable to meet Nate’s eyes for a long moment. “I only thought about Moreau’s offer for a second, I swear.” He looked up, and Nate nearly flinched back from the emotion in his dark eyes. “I wasn’t even sure it was a bona fide thing when he first started talking about it, I just thought he was tryin’ to be friends.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And then Eliot gets all spooky with his mind reading business - Nate I swear, I had just put the pieces together when he called me out.”
A knot in his gut loosened slightly as Nate realized he believed Hardison. “Okay,” he said, nodding. “Okay. We’ll write this one off as a learning experience.” And it’s useful having some idea that he’s targeting Hardison and how. Unless of course the move was a feint - intended to throw Nate off his game.
“You have to be on your guard,” he said, forcibly setting his circular reasoning about Damien Moreau aside until later. “Moreau’s way isn’t a path you walk and come back whole.” Somehow they both kept from looking at Eliot, even though the hitter was a textbook example of everything he wanted Hardison to avoid.
Before the hacker could say anything else in his own defense, Nate’s phone buzzed for his attention. Frowning, he called up the text hoping something else hadn’t gone sideways.
In country. Belgium 1992.
A spark of hope flared into life inside him. “We need to go over the embassy layout,” Nate said, looking up at Hardison. “I’m also going to need you to go over Conrad’s intel on the security we’ll be facing - see what holes need plugging.”
*~*~*
“If Enzo managed this, I’m impressed.” By Sophie’s estimation, the walk-in closet attached to the spacious bedroom contained somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of cutting edge evening wear. All in my size too - oh that’s not a bit creepy.
“The red. It will make the right statement, and the cut will flatter your shape.”
Sophie turned slowly, not letting Moreau see that he’d startled her. “Where I come from, Mr. Moreau,” she said, “gentlemen knock.” Annie’s tone, accent and cadence came smoothly to hand.
His smile was cold and perfect. “Where I come from as well … Annie.” He was the picture of studied nonchalance as he came further into the room, closing the door behind him. “I thought that we should spend some time together without Ford and the others around. If we are to present as a partnership to my Iranian friend tomorrow evening, we should be as … comfortable … with each other as possible.” He met her eyes, and touched the wound on the side of his neck significantly.
“Looking for an apology, are you?” she asked, lifting her chin slightly. “You’d think less of me if I backed down.”
“Not at all,” Moreau countered. “I’m looking for a way off this leash - and I imagine you are too.” He took a few more casual steps, closing the distance between them, then gestured at the two comfortable chairs that comprised the room’s “sitting area”. “Please. There’s no reason we can’t come to an understanding about this.”
Sophie couldn’t remember ever wanting anything less, but she had no reasonable argument at hand. “What did you have in mind?” Moreau waited for her to sit before taking his own chair.
“You will need a veil,” he said. “If Enzo hasn’t already provided one, we will need to speak to him - Majid isn’t so conservative that he will expect your face to be covered, but you can’t be too Western in either your dress or your manner. It will put him off.”
Sophie nodded. It was useful information that could only make the evening go more smoothly. “Director Conrad mentioned there might be competition for these trade routes,” she said, trying to draw him out about any other potential obstacles they might be facing.
He smiled. “That can’t scare you, Annie - not with your background. The Kroys prefer to handle things up close and personal from what I understand.” He paused, sobering. “But yes, it’s safe to assume that there are rivals. Nature abhors a vacuum - isn’t that how the saying goes?”
“Are we talking about the kind of rivals that would try something on embassy property?” she asked, trying to prompt him to continue talking. Moreau was a “fiddly” sort of puzzle, as Parker would say, and Sophie kept having to shove her own fear of the man aside so she could see her way in as clearly as possible.
Moreau considered her question for longer than she would have assumed necessary, then smiled wryly and gave a slight shrug. “Anything is possible in this part of the world,” he said. “We are playing a dangerous game for very high stakes. But I will insist that Eliot go in with us as my bodyguard, and I have every faith in his ability to protect us.” He reached across the gap separating them and took her hand. “Of course once we are safely over the border into Iran a great many more possibilities open up for us.” His gaze roamed appreciatively over her body now, and Sophie felt her skin flush with an answering heat. “I could use a woman like you at my side. Someone … flexible.”
“You referenced leashes,” Sophie said as his eyes met hers. “I don’t fancy Conrad choking me with mine.”
“I could have him killed for you.” Moreau tugged on her hand, and Sophie allowed herself to be drawn to her feet. He stood as well, pulling her in closer than she would have ordinarily gone. “If you could make me believe it would be worth my while.”
Sophie laughed, but there was no mistaking the hitch in her breath as it caught in her throat. Oh God … “Those are bold words, Mr. Moreau, but right now you’re on a tighter leash than any of us.”
He cupped her cheek with his free hand, and Sophie reacted unconsciously, leaning slightly into his touch. “But by that point I will have Eliot - and he will do whatever I need.” Leaning in, he kissed her almost chastely on the lips.
“Make certain you tell Nate Ford that, won’t you?”
*~*~*
They’d been a month tailing an obscure Rembrandt across Europe. Nothing but whispers, rumors and half-truths until Sterling had uncovered a promising lead in the form of one Dylan Jamart - a Belgian businessman who had acquired several rare paintings through the legitimate market in the previous ten years, but who was also supposed to be somewhat flexible in how he made his acquisitions.
The kitchen staff had been their way in. Sterling had agreed to go undercover, while Nate worked the case from the outside. They’d typically met midnights in back of the house to compare notes, using the delivery entrance for their comings and goings. That door hadn’t been as well protected as this one was, but back in those days Nate hadn’t had the world’s greatest hacker backing his plays.
“Hello, Nate.”
Sterling glanced up significantly at the camera covering the door. Nate snorted softly, but stepped off the path into the camera’s blind spot. He trusted Hardison’s skills, but without the comms there was no point in taking chances. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “Seriously.”
“I was tempted to just jail the lot of them when they contacted me,” Sterling retorted. “Seems like I might have done you a favor if I had.”
“It wouldn’t have solved the problem,” Nate admitted. “And I don’t even know if you could have held them under the circumstances.”
Sterling inclined his head, conceding the point. “My thoughts exactly. I’m not sure I want to know how you ended up under the CIA’s thumb, but if what you’ve told me so far is true you definitely have my attention.”
Nate felt something in his chest ease as he began bringing his former partner up to speed. Interpol wouldn’t go at the CIA directly, but they had the motivation to keep Damien Moreau and the United States from establishing control over nuclear arms trade and development in the Middle East, and they had the authority to enforce their wishes.
All Nate had to do was convince Sterling to arrange things so that he and the team could slip away safely in the aftermath.
“Always thought that Patriot Act was rubbish,” Sterling commented, once Nate was finished filling him in. “Elderly foster mother, war orphans - that’ll play though. I have several contacts who can take that public.”
“Hardison will be grateful,” Nate said. Sterling grinned.
“You just make sure he knows my generous spirit doesn’t come free.” He paused. “As far as the rest of it goes, until Moreau and Shahriari make contact, I don’t have enough hard evidence to move on.” He passed something across to Nate. “It’s clean, but we’ll use it for texting only; nothing detailed. I’ll get myself into the embassy, but you make sure to keep feeding me everything you can.”
Nate took the phone and slipped it into his pocket. “Never figured I’d be in the position to owe you like this again,” he admitted.
Something of the Sterling he’d once called friend was visible in the other man’s expression as he shrugged. “Yes, well - the same applies to you, thief. My generous spirit doesn’t come free.”
*~*~*
“What’re you working on?”
Hardison didn’t know if it was a good sign or a bad one that Parker didn’t startle him when she all but materialized at his shoulder. “Checking into some stuff for Nate,” he said, reaching out to take her hand and rest it on his shoulder. “Going over the plan for tomorrow night.”
“Worrying about Nana?” she asked.
Momentarily overcome, he reached up and covered her hand with his own. “Uh-huh,” he said, nodding quickly once he could trust himself to speak. “It’s harder now that I can’t call her when I need to, but …”
Parker crouched at his side, maneuvering so she was looking up at him. “I got you a present.” She held up a small USB drive.
Hardison couldn’t help smiling. “A bored Parker is a dangerous Parker.” He took the drive and set it next to his monitor.
“Nate told me to get it for you,” she said. “I hope I got the right files, but he said you’d know what to do when …” She broke off with a small squeak of surprise as Hardison dragged her up into his lap. Winding his arms around her neck, he pulled her close and kissed her.
“I don’t like it when everybody’s mad at you,” she admitted when he finally let her up for air. “You’d never sell us out, would you?”
Carding his fingers through her bright hair, Hardison shook his head without hesitation. “Man caught me off guard, that’s all. Parker, I swear.” He sighed. “I don’t know how Eliot put it all behind him though - I really don’t.”
“I don’t think he has,” Parker replied.
*~*~*
Eliot stood before the mirror and stared at his reflection, feeling a cold knot forming in the pit of his stomach. He’d like to have thought he was looking at a stranger, but he wasn’t. He knew this man, knew him intimately, had once lost himself in him. He’d thought he’d buried him years ago, just one more body hidden along the way, but he was alive and well, waking from his long sleep and staring out at him through his own eyes.
Damien’s man.
God knew he looked the part. He wore the charcoal suit Sophie had favored - a “rush job,” Enzo had declared apologetically, even though one of his “rush jobs” would still fit perfectly on any catwalk in Milan - and a deep red (blood red, his old self whispered in his mind) shirt with a dark gray silk tie finely striped with the same red as the shirt. And on his feet, in place of his scuffed heavy boots, were soft black Italian shoes. Prada, Enzo had announced proudly. The little tailor had beamed at him, clearly enormously pleased with his success in transforming the unkempt ruffian who’d been thrust upon him into the model of classic couture reflected in that glass.
But Enzo hadn’t been the only one working on him. A fussy young man who had chattered non-stop the whole time had washed, cut and styled his hair while an accomplice - assistant - had trimmed and buffed his nails. His hair was shorter than it had been in years, though not quite as short as he’d worn it then, trimmed around his face and over his ears but still with enough length in back that it curled just above the collar of his shirt. He’d been surprised by that until the stylist had said it had been Damien’s idea.
The white hat really doesn’t suit you. But I love the hair.
His skin crawled at the memory.
“Now that is more like it.”
It took everything he had not to jump as Damien’s voice sounded behind him. In the next moment the man appeared in the mirror, and Eliot gazed at his reflection without turning around, and without entirely meeting his eyes. Medusa, something warned illogically in his brain.
Just now, though, Damien seemed to radiate pleasure rather than menace. He moved closer, stopping just behind Eliot and studying him in the mirror. “Much more professional, don’t you think?” he asked, smiling easily. Just as he’d done years ago when Eliot had shed yet another piece of himself to fit into his expectations. “The standards I set for those in my employ are well known. Now everyone will believe you are my man.”
The knot in Eliot’s gut tightened at those words, the very same ones Nate had spoken earlier. My man. He was caught in a tug of war between the two of them, and the entire team’s safety depended on him not snapping in half. He only hoped he could hold himself together long enough to get them all out and end this, once and for all.
He drew a deep breath and lifted his gaze to meet Damien’s in the mirror. “Three-thousand dollar suits could never hide what we were,” he said quietly. “You could dress us up like fashion models all you wanted, we were still just thugs and killers.”
Damien laughed and shook his head. “Please,” he chided amiably. “The three-thousand dollar suits were for the drivers. Yours cost so much more than that.”
“Yeah, they did,” Eliot breathed, remembering exactly what wearing those suits had cost him.
“It’s a shame Chapman isn’t here to see this,” Damien said lightly, still studying Eliot in the mirror. Still smiling. “He did so enjoy your battles with the tailors.” He chuckled again. “He once said that putting you in fine wool and silk was like giving a manicure to a pit bull - no amount of polish could disguise what you really were.” His smile faded. “I still miss him sometimes,” he said, though not a trace of sorrow sounded in his voice or lurked in his eyes.
“Then you shouldn’t have sent him to kill me,” Eliot suggested. “I always was better than him.”
“Yes, I suppose you were,” Damien agreed. “But I had to send someone. You betrayed me. Again. I couldn’t very well just let that pass.” He grimaced and shook his head. “Think of the precedent it would set. I let you go once.” He shrugged. “I simply couldn’t do it again. I had to make an example of you.”
Eliot turned slowly away from the mirror to face him. “And how’d that work out for ya?” he asked coldly.
Damien laughed in delight at the jibe. “Ah, this is what I have missed! No one has ever dared speak to me the way you do. They are all so worried about upsetting me, of arousing my wrath-” He reached out and set a strong hand on Eliot’s shoulder, and something very like affection shone in his eyes. “But you had no fear. You were always honest with me. And you were never afraid to challenge me when you thought it was needed. Tell me,” he lifted two elegant brows, “ does your Mr. Ford appreciate that quality in you?”
Eliot’s stomach did a slow, queasy roll as a warning sounded in his brain. He and Nate had been in perfect agreement that Damien’s preferred strategy would be divide-and-conquer, but time had softened Eliot’s memories of how very good at it he was. First he’d gotten to Hardison and managed to create a small niggle of doubt about the hacker’s loyalty in their minds, now Damien would drive a wedge between Eliot and Nate. The bastard knew him well enough to understand that his loyalty also came with blunt honesty, and had to know enough about Nate to realize that he didn’t like being challenged, especially when he needed it most.
You know, you talk too much. You oughta just go skip some rope.
Eliot, why don’t you just take the rest of the job off.
He and Nate had clashed frequently over the years, their friendship and mutual respect often tempered with an underlying friction. But he’d always seen it as one of his responsibilities to call Nate on his bullshit, to hold him accountable for those times when his obsessiveness or loss of focus put the rest of them in danger. And, no, Nate didn’t like it one damn bit.
But in his own twisted way, he did appreciate it.
Just as Damien once had.
“Jesus, the two of you are more alike than you know,” he breathed tiredly, shaking his head slowly. He shrugged off Damien’s hand and turned away, putting a few steps between them; between himself and the man in the mirror. “I’m not sure what it says about me that I threw in with him after I walked away from you, but it can’t be good. Probably means I’m as fucked up as Parker.”
“Parker?” Damien repeated in momentary confusion. “Ah, yes, the little blonde thief.” A note of avarice sounded in his voice. “Such remarkable gifts. I read up on her in prison - well,” he chuckled, “I studied all of you. I had to do something to pass the time. She is … quite fascinating.”
A chill rippled down Eliot’s spine and he turned around sharply, every protective instinct on alert. “Don’t,” he warned in a low growl, stalking back to Damien and staring up into his “former master’s” eyes. “Whatever web you’re spinnin’ in that brain of yours, leave her out of it. And Hardison, too. Hell, leave ’em all out of it. I get it - you’re pissed at what we did to you and you want revenge. Fine. If you wanta punish somebody, punish me, and leave the rest of them alone!”
Damien arched a brow. “And why only you?”
“Because they just wanted to bring you down and give you to the Italian.” A faint, predatory smile curved about Eliot’s mouth. “I was lookin’ for a way to kill you.”
If the words angered Damien or took him by surprise, he gave no sign of it. Indeed, he actually seemed amused by them, chuckling quietly and nodding. “Direct, as always,” he said with wry appreciation. “I suppose I should be grateful that Ford’s method won out over yours, knowing what I do of your skills.”
Eliot shrugged. “Time ran out on me,” he admitted. “You comin’ to Washington to auction off your bomb forced our hand.” He smiled thinly. “But I was getting’ close. A few more weeks, and I would’ve had my shot.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Damien said, looking remarkably unfazed by Eliot’s words. “You always were very thorough, and very efficient.” His smile faded altogether, and a faint glimmer of anger shone in his eyes. “As you reminded me with that … exhibition … in the warehouse. That was most impressive. Especially for a man who walked away from me because he said he’d had his fill of killing.”
Eliot shrugged again, his eyes never leaving Damien’s. “You didn’t give me any choice. You set us up, sent men to kill me, to kill Nate. Did you think I’d just lay down and die? Let Nate die?”
“No, I suppose not,” Damien said. “Still,” he frowned slightly, thoughtfully, “I can’t help but wonder what these … people … of yours thought about that. You killed at least a dozen of my men - with their own guns, no less - and walked away. After setting fire to that warehouse and leaving their bodies to burn.” He chuckled softly and reached out, running a hand down the lapel of Eliot’s jacket and straightening his tie. “So ruthless,” he purred. “So cold and complete in your vengeance. Just like the man who once dispatched my enemies for me. Does your little family of thieves know what they harbor in their midst?”
Eliot jerked back from Damien’s touch and turned away from the man, away from his mocking smile and eyes that had ever been able to look into and unlock the worst parts of him. The rest of the team, they don’t need to know what I did. And as far as he knew, they didn’t know; not the specifics, anyway. Whatever Hardison, Parker and Sophie suspected, they’d had the good grace to keep those suspicions to themselves. Parker and Sophie hadn’t asked, and for once Hardison had repressed his need to hack into security cams and law enforcement databases to find answers. Maybe they didn’t want to know.
Or … maybe they just didn’t care. Maybe they already knew what was important to them, and the specifics of a certain killing rampage wouldn’t change that.
He seized on that thought and clutched it tightly to him, letting it seep through and comfort him. Strengthen him.
He drew a deep breath and turned back to Damien, lifting his head and meeting the man’s eyes evenly. He knew he’d probably given away too much of just what the team meant to him, could almost see the calculations spinning through Damien’s brain, but it didn’t really matter. His feelings for them were, in a very real tactical sense, a liability, and no one knew how to exploit liabilities like Damien Moreau. But Damien also knew him, knew his capabilities better than almost anyone else alive, knew exactly to what lengths he’d go to protect and defend what was his, knew just how much of the world Eliot Spencer was capable of burning when someone, anyone, fucked with him.
Let the bastard calculate that.
Damien folded his arms across his chest and canted his head slightly to one side, still staring intensely. Eliot only barely suppressed a shiver from the weight and force of that gaze, and once again had to shove down that dark thing inside him struggling to rise in response.
Then Damien smiled faintly, and when he spoke his voice held an odd tone of warmth. “So protective,” he murmured. “I remember that well.” His smile grew wider, but it never reached his eyes. “Always the shadow at my right hand, the weapon merely waiting for me to aim it.” He gave a small chuckle. “I always suspected that when the men before me trembled, it was more in fear of you than me.” He unfolded one arm and reached out to run a hand over the shoulder of Eliot’s jacket, then lifted it to brush back a stray lock of hair that had fallen across Eliot’s eyes. “So pretty to look upon,” he purred. “But so deadly. Mars in all his beauty, wreaking devastation with a smile. How I have missed that smile!”
Eliot could no longer suppress his shudder. Damien was so close, his breath and touch warm and intimate, his eyes piercing straight through to Eliot’s soul, seeking those pieces that still belonged to him. He remembered this, remembered the power wrapping around and claiming him, enticing him, seducing him, unmaking and remaking him one little piece at a time. He remembered the promises whispered in that supple voice, the secrets lurking in those hazel eyes just waiting to be shared, remembered the purpose offered to a lost and drifting soldier desperately in need of a flag to follow.
He remembered all of it. And he was afraid.
Damien chuckled again, then dropped his hand and stepped back, regarding Eliot with a smile and an unmistakable warmth. “So,” he said, “we have the meeting with Majid at the embassy tomorrow night. Director Conrad, naturally, has said he will oversee security, but I don’t trust him.” He winked. “As you and your team have discovered, he is not particularly bothered by any ‘sacrifices’ he might have to make to further his own agenda. And, as an Iranian nationalist, Majid, naturally, has little love for the CIA and would react badly to any hint of Conrad’s involvement. I do not think we want him … spooked?” He chuckled at his own pun. “So you will take over. I will insist, and Conrad will have no choice but to agree. Also,” his smile took on a vaguely cruel edge, “you will act as my personal bodyguard for he evening. My guardian angel spreading your sheltering wings over me and the lovely Miss Kroy.”
Eliot snapped out of his daze. Something in Damien’s voice when he mentioned Annie - Sophie - set off another warning in his brain, and he instinctively clenched his hands into fists at his sides. He remembered only too well Damien’s love of and hunger for beautiful women, particularly those with both intelligence and spirit. The man bored easily - the wife he’d married for her father’s business and political connections but then routinely supplanted with a string of mistresses over the years was proof of that - and he craved women who would challenge him in wit as well as in the bed.
Sophie was just that kind of woman, and Eliot had encouraged her to play that up.
Damien glanced at his watch. “Dinner is in twenty minutes,” he said. “I look forward to getting to know all of you better. Sharing a meal is sharing life, no? Then after that,” he grinned broadly, clearly eager to begin whatever reconquest of the world he was planning, “we can get down to business. We shall discuss the meeting tomorrow night, I will tell you what you need to know about Majid, and you can begin your preparations for security.” He laughed and clapped Eliot firmly on the shoulder. “It will be just like old times, eh?”
Eliot’s stomach did a slow, sick turn as he felt the warmth and strength of Damien’s grip and saw the excitement on his face, the light in his eyes. “Yeah, like old times,” he managed to rasp.
And it scared him more than he could say.
*~*~*
Dinner was a truly lavish affair, with a mixture of both Western and traditional Pakistani dishes served in generous portions. The aromas of beef and lamb mingled with those of cinnamon, cloves and curry, rice dishes yielded savory bites of vegetables and potatoes, and flatbreads were topped by sesame seeds or stuffed with candied fruits. Throughout the meal, in a distinctly Western touch, wine flowed like water.
And Damien Moreau presided over it all with wit and charm, like a father-figure basking in the warmth of his family. If, Eliot thought, that family happened to be the Borgias.
Damien had even dictated the seating arrangement. He put himself at the head of the table, with Sophie at his left, Parker next to her, then Hardison, and Conrad at the far end. Eliot sat at Damien’s right, with Nate next to him. Damien had insisted Sophie sit next to him that they might “perfect the illusion of partnership we are expected to present,” but Eliot knew better. Damien wasn’t interested in any “illusion” at all. He wanted Sophie, both for his own purposes and pleasures and as a means of taking revenge on Nate.
Nor was his placement any accident. In the past, he’d always sat at Damien’s right, as both guardian and first lieutenant. Anyone seeking to speak with Damien at table had to go through him first; any news or information was presented to him for his judgment as to whether it merited Damien’s attention. His ultimate purpose, though, was to throw himself between Damien and any threat that might materialize, to shield Damien from harm and to die in his place if need be. Putting him back in that position was a not so subtle effort on Damien’s part to remind him of those days, of all that he’d shared with and done for Damien, and, no doubt, to remind Eliot’s “new family” of exactly what, as Damien had said earlier, they harbored in their midst.
Nate’s seating had been no accident either. He was at Eliot’s left, putting Eliot squarely between him and Damien, making that nasty little ploy plain to all, but was also at a remove from Sophie, taking him out of her immediate communication range and forcing him to watch from that distance as Damien sought to draw her closer to him. It was petty, but Eliot recalled with some grim amusement that for all his silken manners and airs of elegance and enlightenment, Damien Moreau was at heart a street fighter, capable of all the petty vindictiveness of a dark alley thug.
Hardison had originally been seated next to Sophie, evidence of Damien’s continuing interest in the hacker, with Parker at the end of the table next to Conrad. Still concerned about the younger man’s vulnerability, Eliot had tried to figure out how to challenge the arrangement without further piquing Damien’s interest in Hardison, but Sophie had intervened instead, and with a smoothness that reminded Eliot of exactly why she was who she was.
“I think, perhaps,” she had said in a low voice, moving closer to Damien as if to share a secret with him, “that putting Parker next to Director Conrad might not be such a good idea.” They’d been standing at the bar, while Damien mixed her a pre-dinner cocktail, and she had his full attention. “She holds him directly responsible for all of this, particularly for his threat against Hardison’s foster mother, and, well,” she had smiled wryly up him, dark eyes utterly sincere, “she’s been known to have … impulse control issues. Often involving forks.”
Damien’s eyebrows had shot to his hairline as he’d gaped at her in astonishment. “She stabs people?” he’d asked incredulously. “With forks?”
Sophie had shrugged elegantly, still faintly smiling. “Or with whatever else might be at hand. Though her preferred weapon is her taser.”
Damien had almost choked. “Her t- She carries a taser?” He’d looked over Sophie’s shoulder to where Parker had stood near a large window … glaring openly at Conrad. And while the dress Enzo had provided for her left little room to conceal a taser, a knife - or fork - wasn’t at all out of the question. He’d looked back to Sophie then, clearly at a loss.
Sophie, however, was never at a loss. “I’m afraid it wouldn’t look good for any of us if Director Conrad were assaulted at dinner,” she’d said, her full red lips pursing into a soft and thoughtful frown that had drawn Damien’s appreciative - and covetous - gaze. In a moment, though, her expression had cleared and she’d smiled up at him. “Perhaps we could simply switch her seat,” she’d suggested. “Put Hardison in her place next to the director, and Parker in his place next to me, between the two of us. That way, we might be able to control her somewhat.” If Damien had noticed her hand lightly brushing against his arm at the word “control,” he’d never shown it.
Eliot, however, had noticed, and had silently saluted his queen with his glass.
So now Parker was seated at Sophie’s right, well within Sophie’s reach should the little thief make any untoward move, and Hardison was at Parker’s right, comfortably out of Damien’s immediate influence. And Eliot decided that if they all got out of this alive, he would personally take Sophie to Paris or Milan and buy her whatever the hell she wanted.
Damien seemed to be entertaining similar plans. “Tell me, Annie,” he said, smoothly interrupting Conrad, who had been updating them on the current political situation in Iran, sounding as dry as a CIA fact book, “have you ever been to Tehran? It is a beautiful city, both ancient and modern, and I would delight in showing it to you.”
Sophie smiled coyly. “I’ve been once or twice. As you can no doubt imagine,” her dark eyes gleamed, “I’m rather an … admirer … of their art galleries and the imperial crown jewels.” She sighed, her smile softening. “I never tire of visiting the Darya-i-Noor diamond,” she breathed, absently rubbing her fingertips together as if they itched.
“I could get it for you,” Parker said easily, tearing apart a piece of flatbread to get at the candied fruit inside. “It’s part of the Treasury of National Jewels, which is in the Central Bank of the Islamic Republic of Iran. The security is tight, but not impossible. All we’d have to do-”
“Parker,” Nate said firmly, looking at the thief and lifting his brows, “no jewel heists in Tehran. We’ll have enough on our plates as it is.”
She deflated and tore apart another piece of bread. “Fine,” she sulked. “But I was just thinking of Sophie.”
“That’s very sweet of you, Parker,” Sophie said, smiling fondly at the younger woman and patting her hand. “Perhaps another time, when we’re not on so tight a schedule.”
Parker beamed, and Eliot groaned and bowed his head. “Sophie,” he growled, “don’t encourage the crazy.” He lifted his head to glare at her. “The mullahs get pissed when people steal from ’em.”
Parker looked at him, frowning thoughtfully. “Don’t you have a dagger you stole from them?” she asked. “You said you took it when they stiffed you on a job.”
“That’s different!” he shot back. “When you hire a man to do a job, you pay the price you agreed on. You don’t go changin’ the terms when everything’s done. That’s not how you do business.”
“Ah, yes,” Damien said with a quiet chuckle, lifting his wine and sipping from it. “You always did have the strangest set of principles.” He chuckled again and shook his head, setting his glass down, then turned to Sophie. “Of all the things he did for me,” he reminisced, “I could never get him to lie. It was most … endearing. Frustrating, but endearing. Still, I suppose that was what made him so effective. When I sent him,” he shifted his gaze to Eliot, “men knew the time for prevarication had passed. Eliot was, one might say, my final arbiter of truth.”
Eliot bowed his head and shifted uncomfortably in his chair, remembering only too clearly what form that “arbitration” had usually taken. People had known Damien was finished negotiating, finished arguing, finished talking when he’d shown up. He’d never had to lie. Men had read the truth - and their deaths - in his eyes.
He was startled to feel Nate’s hand grip his arm and squeeze lightly under the table. That touch centered him, reassured him. They knew. They knew, but they didn’t care. Because over the years they’d discovered other truths about him, and those mattered more. He looked up and dared a small nod at Nate, the only real communication they’d ever needed. Somehow it had always been the words that had tripped them up. And only when he’d let himself relax did Nate remove his hand.
“This is all very nice,” Conrad said with an edge of irritation, clearly able to see control of this - and them - slipping out of his grasp, “but we do have a job to discuss. We’re not here to wax nostalgic over jewel heists and assassinations.” He stared down the table at Damien. “I need to know that you can get us access to Majid, and Iran’s nuclear program. If you can’t, well-” He smiled thinly. “I broke you out of prison. I can put you back.”
Damien sat back in his chair and smiled, looking utterly unconcerned. “And how, exactly, has your government explained that little jailbreak to your new friends in San Lorenzo?” he asked. “It can’t have gone well.” His smile faded. “I assure you, President Vittori and Minister Flores are men of deep and sincere principle. And they are rather pathetically devoted to their little rock of a nation. They will not appreciate being violated by the United States, no matter how many flags you wrap around your explanation.”
Conrad smiled thinly. “Soothing their hurt feelings isn’t my concern,” he said. “That’s the job of the State Department.”
Nate stiffened slightly and looked up sharply, and Eliot recognized the signs of a thought springing into the man’s nimble mind.
“So,” Nate Leaned forward and stared down the table at Conrad, “just how far out on the limb have you gone here? Obviously, the State Department doesn’t know about your little game, or you would never have been allowed to proceed. But I’d be willing to bet that none of the other national security or intelligence agencies do either.” The fork in Conrad’s hand seemed to waver ever so slightly as the man waged an almost imperceptible but just visible battle not to give anything away. But Nate was Nate, the man who saw mental processes the way Hardison did computer code, and he smiled slightly, another piece of the puzzle falling into place. “You’re completely off book here, aren’t you?” he prodded, his gaze never leaving Conrad. “You have no official sanction from anyone. If this thing blows up, you’re going down as a rogue agent, with the CIA supplying the rope and the president himself fixing the noose around your neck.”
Conrad was silent for long moments, then shrugged. “It’s a risk we all take,” he said, then shot a knowing look at Eliot. “Spencer knows that. We all get orders that come from nowhere, and we all do things that no one authorized. We’re ghosts, we operate in a world made of shadows. And when an inconvenient light pierces those shadows,” he shrugged again, “well, somebody has to pay. ‘Mistakes were made, heads will roll, houses will be cleaned.’ It’ll be a few weeks of manufactured outrage on Fox and CNN, probably a Congressional hearing with all the appropriate groveling and hand-wringing, and then it’s back to business as usual. And the next man takes his place out on that limb. All for God, flag and country. And,” his lips twitched in a smirk, “a hefty but completely off-the-books pension.”
Eliot snorted. “I never got that pension,” he muttered, spearing a piece of lamb with his fork. “All I got was ‘the thanks of a grateful nation,’ a reminder that my ass would be grass if that nation ever found out what I’d done and an escort out through the back door in the middle of the night.”
Conrad smirked again. “You were the weapon. Weapons are a dime a dozen. It’s the men willing to call the shots who are valuable.”
“But it’s the poor bastards who take the shots who come home with nightmares,” Eliot spat, tossing his fork to his plate with a loud clink. “Or come home in flag-draped coffins with some made-up story because nobody can ever know how they really died.”
Conrad eyed him steadily. “Casualties are a part of every war, you know that,” he said easily. “Sacrifices have to be made. Every soldier accepts that.”
“And those who aren’t soldiers?” Eliot pressed. “Hell, what about Hardison’s Nana? You set her up to take the fall for somethin’ she doesn’t know anything about. If this goes south, she’ll likely end up in prison, her kids will be taken away and put God knows where, we’ll be killed, Majid will be executed and Iran and the U.S. will be staring at each other over the guns of their navies! People will die, innocent people, but you’ll be livin’ it up in a villa somewhere, writin’ your memoirs and watchin’ all that money pile up in your account in the Caymans.”
He shoved his chair back abruptly and shot to his feet, unable to take any more. He knew only too well how this scenario played out, had seen it, lived it, too many times, and was sickened by the thought of his team caught in that nightmare. “If it does go wrong, you better make sure I don’t survive,” he growled, spearing Conrad with a hard, unforgiving stare. “Because if I do, you’ll never see that pension. Hell, you’ll never see me. And you’ll be goin’ back to Langley in pieces.” He tossed his napkin onto the table and turned on his heel, stalking out of the dining room.
“Really, Mr. Ford,” he heard Damien say with a sardonic humor as he left, “you’ve let his table manners deteriorate unforgivably.”
Part 6