PROLOGUE
The first streaks of sunrise were just appearing on the horizon when the unmarked car pulled up to the basement entrance of the State House.
The timing, he knew, was perfect. It was still dark and there wouldn’t be a soul around except for the lone guard sitting at the information desk. Arriving at this hour wasn’t even that unusual; his regular work shift began in less than an hour anyway.
He climbed out of the car, shivering slightly in the early morning chill, and popped open the trunk. He lifted out a large bag, quietly eased the trunk closed, then walked in the door, the bag slung over his shoulder. If a civilian came strolling in carrying a bag this large at six o’clock in the morning, the guard would stop him.
Not a cop, though. With a casual wave, he walked by the guard, an old man who barely looked up from whatever it was he was reading. He climbed the steps that led first to the main floor of the building, then to the second floor, not bothering to look up as he went past the huge painting of George Washington resigning his commission, which hung on the landing between the two floors.
At the top of the steps, he turned right and glided around the corner to the entrance to the House of Delegates spectator gallery. He was wearing sneakers, so as not to make any clacking sounds on the floor. He had counted on the old guard not noticing that little detail.
He pushed opened the door to the gallery—nothing was ever locked in this building—and quickly made his way down to the front row. The work didn’t take long.
He had been instructed in great detail about the placement of the guns. Tossing them inside the paneling in the balcony wasn’t enough. They had to be placed in such a way so that someone could reach inside, pull them out, and be able to fire in one motion. If it took more than five seconds, that would be too long.
He placed the first gun, then the second, then the third, moving gingerly along the front row of the balcony, glancing around every now and then on the off chance that one of the two state troopers working in the governor’s office might have gone for a walk and heard him.
The entire process took twenty minutes. When he was finished, he stuffed the now-empty bag deep inside the paneling, behind the last gun. Then he took off his gloves, stood up, and looked around. The sun was almost up now; a few early rays were coming through the skylight. He looked at his watch: six-forty. He had just enough time to go back downstairs, drive around the block, and park in front. In just a few minutes, he would walk in the front door to report for his seven o’clock shift.
Never once did he think about what he was doing or what he was putting into motion. He had been paid: that was what mattered. The politics of it didn’t concern him one bit. They paid him in cash. As long as someone wanted to do that, he didn’t ask questions.
It was six-fifty when he pulled away from State Circle. He still had time to get a cup of coffee before work.
Ten minutes later, the phone rang in Bobby Kelleher’s room at the Annapolis Marriott. He groaned, reached his arm out, and put the receiver to his ear without saying anything.
“Good morning, Mr. Kelleher,” a disgustingly lively voice said in his ear. “It’s seven o’clock and the temperature is thirty-three degrees. Have a nice day.”
“Glub,” Kelleher answered and buried his head in his pillow. He knew he had to wake up. He had a breakfast meeting at seven-thirty. Then he remembered what day it was and picked his head up, suddenly awake.
Barney Paulsen’s speech was today. He was going to write a kick-ass front-page story. He rolled out of bed, walked to the sliding glass door, and pulled the curtains. The rising sun streamed in, forcing him to blink. He pushed the door open and walked out onto his balcony.
He looked down at Annapolis Harbor, which was slowly coming to life, and smiled. “What a beautiful day,” he said aloud. “What a goddamn beautiful day this is going to be.”
He shivered for a moment, then went inside to take his shower. This was one day he didn’t mind starting early.
Copyright © 2011 by John Feinstein. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
