The Christmas Train by David Baldacci Page A

still be on West Coast time.”
    “Actually, I spent a week in D. C. before we started.”
    “What’s in Washington?”
    She never opened her eyes. “Somebody.”
    Tom lowered his Havana and let his gaze idly wander over the people in the smoking lounge. Somebody . Eleanor had somebody. Well, why shouldn’t she have somebody? She was still young and smart and beautiful and probably rich with all her movie work. And he had somebody, sort of. What was her name again? Linda? No, Lelia. He didn’t take that memory lapse as a good sign.
    Tom’s pursuit of Eleanor had commenced the moment he saw her. As she’d walked by that first time on campus it seemed everything slowed, and that it was just the two of them in the whole world. It wasn’t just her beauty, it was all of the usual suspects: how she carried herself, how she spoke, how she looked you in the eye and really listened to what you had to say. Yet it was more than that even. As Agnes Joe had said, Tom didn’t care if he ate, slept, or even breathed so long as Eleanor was around. And her temper—and she had a well-nourished one—exerted its own attraction. Her opinions were uniquely her own, and she would draw and fire them off with deadly accuracy and unwavering impunity. Almost always an eruption was followed by the gentle touch of her hand and eventually her lips against his, for he’d at last won her heart over the strenuous attacks and counterattacks of several serious rivals.
    Tom’s musings were suddenly interrupted by the man’s appearance at the doorway. He was six-feet-four, and slender, about twenty-five or so, and appraised them all with a very smug look. He had chic beard stubble, faded jeans, and a tattered belt. Yet his silk shirt was an expensive designer production and his hair had the appearance of being professionally tousled and his jeans seemed expertly if prematurely aged. A fake slob, Tom deduced, who obviously thought way too much of himself.
    Under one arm the man was carrying a chessboard and box of chesspieces. Tom watched as he methodically set up shop. Eleanor’s eyes were now open, and she studied the intruder as well. Over the next hour he vanquished all comers. As Father Kelly explained it, lots of amateur chessplayers rode the rails. “There’s something about a train that brings them out, particularly in the smoking car,” he said. “I’ve even heard that chess grand masters ride the train incognito and play anyone who wants to, just to stay sharp. And they occasionally lose too.”
    Why would chess grand masters have to travel incognito ? wondered Tom. Yet he kept his mouth shut and watched. The guy was good, really good. The average match time was only ten minutes. With each defeat, as his foe stalked off in disgrace, he’d laugh. Laugh! And then call out in a loud, condescending voice, “Next victim!” If Tom had had any chance of beating the guy, he’d have gone for it, but even checkers taxed him too much.
    After a while Father Kelly left. Tom didn’t expect to see him back because the priest had imbibed quite a bit, and the smoke chaser had apparently finished him off. “If I had to conduct Mass right now, I’m not sure I could. I’m not even sure I could tell you how many components there are to the Holy Trinity, even with a clue or two.”
    Tom bid him goodnight and then watched as Eleanor rose and challenged the chess king, whose name, they’d learned, was Slade. She was the only woman in the smoking car, and thus all eyes turned toward her as she sat down across from the hated one. As she made the first move, Slade’s expression was so confident that Tom wanted to make him eat a couple of rooks as penance. He hadn’t even known that Eleanor played chess, and then it came back to him. When they’d lived in Israel, they’d become friends with a rabbi who was an exceptional chessplayer. He’d taught Eleanor one strategy—only one—yet it was almost foolproof. You’d be able to tell in about three