The Enemy Inside by Steve Martini

player, a lobbyist who was in and out of the Capitol on a regular basis. She had friends, lots of them, most of them women. Some of them were powerful. Grimes was no doubt at or near the top of that food chain.
    “But there is still a problem,” he said.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Loose ends,” he said. “It wasn’t done cleanly—”
    “I don’t want to know the details!” She cut him off quickly through clenched teeth. “I don’t know what happened and I don’t want to know. I am not part of it!”
    “Of course not.” He smiled, looking at her from behind. For a woman in her early sixties, she still had a pretty good body. There were times when he wondered what she might be like in the sack; whether all that intensity would translate into sexual energy once you got her there. “Why don’t you come over and sit down.” He gently patted the slatted wood on the bench next to him.
    He was lean, about six feet, gray-haired, tan complexion, blue eyes with just enough wrinkles in the forehead and the bags above his cheeks to look distinguished. It was a face that had seen some wear. His three-piece pinstriped navy suit might just as well have been a uniform around the government buildings and monuments in Washington. So ubiquitous were his looks that he was nearly invisible. This was well practiced and honed over the long course of his career. He had lived in many countries and could disappear like a ghost in almost any of them. He carried a walking cane, though he seldom used it. This was insurance against a trick knee that at times could go out on him without notice, the result of an injury sustained in his youth. The cane sported the sharp-beaked head of an eagle cast in silver. It was the work of a Mexican silversmith. The bird’s slitted eyes, tarnished a little from wear, mimicked its owner’s. Ever vigilant, they peered out at the world in cold judgment.
    “Loosen up. Relax. You seem troubled.” He studied her body language, tense, wary. “There is no one here but the two of us.”
    “How can I be sure?” she said.
    “If we wanted to expose you, you would already be sitting in a federal penitentiary. Oh, one of the country clubs, to be sure,” he said. “They would never subject you to, what is it they call it, the general population.” He smiled, though with her back to him she couldn’t see it. “There’s supposed to be a very nice one, I think they call it Pleasanton, out in your neck of the woods in California. I am told it is not a bad place. At least it’s close to your family.”
    Whenever he met up with her he always stoked the coals, feeding the fires of anxiety that burned within. Keeping her on edge was part of the practiced technique, honed over generations by its practitioners.
    Still, his words today made the women’s correctional facility at Pleasanton sound almost idyllic. There were nights when she lay awake, unable to sleep, wishing that they would pull this cord, put her out of her misery. At least the worrying would be over. That was the worst part, wondering if and when the world would cave in on her. They would remind her first of how far she had to fall, and in the next breath tell her she had nothing to worry about. She often thought this must be how they lived in the old Soviet Union, constantly in fear, wondering when they might come for you.
    “Please. Sit down. You will worry yourself into an early grave,” he said. “In time you will learn to trust us.”
    “That’ll be the day,” she told him.
    “Believe me, we have absolutely no interest in doing you any harm whatsoever. Why would we? Think about it. We are invested in you, long term,” he told her. “We are like partners in a business enterprise. Simple as that.”
    “If that’s true, I’ll be happy to sell you my interest cheap,” she said.
    “Sounds like you’d like to retire?”
    “I’ve thought about it.”
    “Sorry, but it’s not that easy,” said the man.
    Dealing with the devil never