High-Speed Train

Congressman David Chen found himself where he never guessed he'd be: the dining car on The Express, a high-speed train humming through the Hungarian countryside. A patchwork of browns and gray-dirty snow flashed by. Abandoned Soviet-era factories passed surreal in skeletal frames, riddled with broken windows and crumbling walls. David’s head pounded. Nausea caused him to sweat. He hated trains, but loved his wife, and the Prague conference was over. Just one more meeting, and then he and his wife could take a river cruise out of Budapest.

Studying the wine list across from David sat Marcus Blackwood. When the waiter came, he ordered a 2016 Tokaji. 

The waiter paused and bit his lower lip, avoiding Blackwood’s eyes. “We only have a 2018.”

“Your boss promised the 2016,” Blackwood said, stroking his precisely trimmed stubble. “I suggest you find it, or else.”

David noted his old friend, the Blackwood he’d grown up with, the new Director of Aid Alliance, had mastered making threats.

“Trains have a finite quality,” Blackwood mused, as they waited for the wine. “Once you’re on them, you can’t get off.”

David sipped water from a crystal glass. “But you can change the destination.”

“That depends on who’s controlling the switches,” Blackwood said. “By the way, how’s your Sarah? She starts Columbia in the fall. Is that right? The tuition must be a killer.”

His stomach rolled over. How did Blackwood know about the Columbia acceptance letter? “She’s fine. Elizabeth and I are quite proud of her.”

“I saw you with Elizabeth at the Prague conference. Vacation?”

“Yes, doubling up the conference with time in Budapest.”

Blackwood winked. “And a write-off for the entire trip?” Blackwood tossed his right hand. “I was thinking about how we’ve known each other since the early days. Hell, I was at your wedding. We’re warriors, you and I. Into the breach, and all that.”

“Well, this warrior is getting tired of the congressional grind. I’m thinking of not running next term. Call it quits.”

Blackwood laughed, his thick frame tight against his dress shirt. “Say it ain’t so!”

“No. I would quit, but there’s more I want to do. A few years maybe. Then on to the speaker circuit, or maybe a PAC.”

The waiter returned with a 2016. “We’re in luck, Mr. Blackwood.” He opened the wine, offered a taste, then served them both. He carefully placed the bottle on the immaculate white tablecloth.

“About your upcoming committee vote,” Blackwood said. “Aid distribution, of course, is of paramount importance, but with our audit showing only thirty cents on the dollar reaching recipients, there’s some pushback we’re fighting against.”

“I’ve reviewed the proposal,” David said. “Eight billion might take some time to get through committee.”

Blackwood adjusted his broad shoulders and smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “We need to think about this from the thirty-thousand-foot view,” he said. “After all, think of the optics. We’re supporting democracy, fighting corruption, and aiding fledgling governments who need the world’s help.”

The waiter refilled their wine glasses while the two men looked on. When he left, Blackwood gulped his wine, leaned into the table, and reached out to adjust David’s tie. “Our organization believes there’s a benefit to a network of partners. We need expertise to walk us through a complex banking system, the regulatory environment. Would you consider getting involved?”

A non-profit hip deep in money laundering, David thought. Excessive compensation, shell companies. A big plunge for a guy who doesn’t fudge on taxes, never has, never will. 

“I’m a congressman. I can’t touch this, you know that,” David said. 

“No, no, no. Your role would be legitimate, I assure you,” Blackwood said. “That’s what the advisory board is all about. Insurance for…” He chuckled. “Derailments. We want you as a board member after your term ends. It’s just, well, in the meantime, we’d like your advice. As a friend.” The dulled rush of an opposing train sped by their window. 

Blackwood steepled his hands in front of him. “How’s Elizabeth’s gallery, by the way? Her art might be worth more once she’s passed. Of course, that could be decades away. We certainly don’t want any harm to come to her, do we?” Blackwood looked down and cut another piece of his steak.

David’s fork froze on the way to his mouth. He felt anger ripping his insides at the veiled threat against his wife. After slowly setting his fork down, he picked up his wineglass. His hand shook as he gripped the glass. But he gripped harder, and then harder still.

The train entered a tunnel. David lost his concentration, diverted by the sudden brightness of the two men’s reflection in the window. He stared at the image, but the man in the reflection who looked like him didn’t stare back, but shattered the glass with his hand. David stared, transfixed. His reflection picked up a shard with his bleeding hand and wrapped the pointed glass with his cloth napkin. He then reached across the table and slashed Blackwood’s throat. Blood splattered on the table as the reflection of Blackwood collapsed.

The reflection blanked out as the train shot from the tunnel exit, the horn howling into the twilight. David stared at the wineglass in his hand. Blackwood was no longer across from him.

David stumbled from the dining car. He lurched down the corridor to his sleeper cabin, fell into Elizabeth as she opened the door, reeled to the water closet, and retched in the toilet.

“David. What happened?” Elizabeth called through the door. “My god!”

The train approached the outskirts of the city, high-rises ahead pinned to the night sky, the lights in the windows staring down. Soon the train squealed into the station.

Elizabeth gripped her husband’s arm as they walked to the taxi stand. Her eyes riveted on his face. “David? Darling? Are you ok? What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” he said.

She held him closer. “Are you feeling better? Talk to me! Did you forget anything?”

David steadied himself against his wife. “No. I haven’t left anything.” As they walked to the taxi stand, he felt in his gut that Blackwood was gone. He realized he’d left him on the train. Some things you can never explain, he thought. But then he felt oddly privileged. He smiled, and even the grime of Budapest tasted a little cleaner. Fate, or science, or the devil himself had stepped in. But not God, he thought. No, this wasn’t God. It was another presence who didn’t like the Alliance weighing the direction of his daughter’s future, his wife’s safety, or the price for his looking the other way.

“Your hand’s bleeding,” Elizabeth said. “It looks like a piece of glass.”