The Hades Connection

by Gabriel S. Timar

Chapter 18

part 1 of 2

The last things George Pike remembered about his life on Earth were the suntanned, streamlined, naked body of Lynn, the report of a gun, the bullet hole in the wood paneling, and his blood on the white carpet next to the black towel.

The next thing he knows, he’s being welcomed to the Third Dimension, where he has a choice not only of afterlifes but of accommodations and a new body, as well. George signs up with Hades, Ltd., a corporation that seems to be the best of a dubious lot.

George very much enjoys being welcomed by Arabella, who is not only highly efficient but something of a race car driver. And yet she has asked one question he cannot answer: how he died. Neither he nor anyone else seems to know. Now George must meet the head of Hades, Ltd., a certain Mr. Lucifer... and prepare himself for a career as a double agent in interstellar intrigue.

After finishing our discussions, we left the restaurant. On the way to the motel Mike suggested that we should move into the guest room of his condominium. Obviously, he wanted to keep us close, making sure we were really not just a bad dream. I did not object; Esther was positively elated.

We moved into Mike’s in the evening. Esther was a gourmet cook, enjoyed the well-equipped kitchen, and for the next few days dazzled us with delicacies out of this galaxy; we ate like kings. Mike proposed to Esther daily; he declared at least three times a day that if Esther were ugly and old, it would not matter. For such delicious food, Mike was ready to court the grandmother of the devil.

“What would Mike say if he slept with me?” she mused one evening after we went to bed.

“Do you want to give him a tryout?”

“He deserves better,” Esther replied. “With this body I’m no damn good; if I had the original that would be different.”

“I’m not sure he’d survive the encounter,” I said. “You just don’t know how good you are. Even with this body you are far better than any woman Mike ever slept with.”

“We’ll see,” she murmured half-asleep. “I may test him some day.”

Although I’m a friend of Mike and I always wished him well, I was hoping that Esther’s “some day” would not come until I found a substitute for her, as I was sure Mike would want exclusive privileges.

* * *

My friend was a fast worker. He called the paper’s Ottawa bureau chief and instructed her to tell the Prime Minister that Mike Horn wished to deliver some delicate information on a matter of national importance, which should not be divulged to anyone else but to the Prime Minister in person.

Of course, Beaufort Park would not see a mere newspaper editor just because he had something important to say, unless the guy happened to be the one and only Mike Horn. The bureau chief had no difficulty convincing Beaufort Park to have a brief telephone conversation with Mike.

My friend must have had potent arguments, as the Prime Minister set an early date for a get-together. As the meeting had to be a secret, our visit to Ottawa was out of the question.

Park found an excellent cover for our meeting. Ostensibly, he decided to make an impromptu attendance at a fundraising luncheon in Toronto. Of course, he did not want to meet us there, because all the newsmen and the paparazzi attended.

As Beaufort Park did not want to jeopardize the secrecy of our meeting, he invited us to the home of one of the party faithful. This was a small, intimate reception in the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Thornton Beauchamp II. Actually, it was the birthday of the lady of the house, who was (still or again) thirty-nine years of age.

* * *

The Thornton residence was located in Rosedale, a plush residential district of Toronto. The house was a large, stately mansion in a park surrounded by expensive wrought iron fences. It was impossible to estimate the value of the property, since the Thorntons would not tolerate anyone’s mentioning the value of the family estate.

Grudgingly, they permitted an evaluation for tax purposes, but if it were up to them, they would prefer paying twice as much as they had to for the privilege of keeping the assessment a secret. Evidently, the Thorntons were filthy rich and twenty-four carat snobs.

Mike had to rent a tuxedo, since the party was a black-tie affair. Like me, he hated the “monkey suit” and claimed that one should wear a tie only at weddings, funerals, and public executions. A lightweight cotton turtleneck and a sports jacket were his normal attire.

During my terrestrial life as a lawyer, I was used to a shirt and tie. This time around, as I expected to attend a few formal gatherings I purchased a tuxedo. Using the average-size body of Captain von Vardy, I could buy whatever I needed off the rack, and it fit perfectly. Esther wore a Tan Jay special, a pink pantsuit with black trim. I assumed she was not inclined to wear a skirt because the shape of her legs.

When we arrived at the Thornton residence, the security people scrutinized our invitations and asked us to show our driver’s licenses. It was humiliating, but I understood the reason for security.

Mike was furious, and after passing the checkpoint he remarked: “This is all because of this goddamned rented monkey suit! I must look like one of those silly European headwaiters. These rags do not fit properly; everybody can see from a mile that I rented the damned thing. No matter how much I hate the monkey suit, I must have one of them made to measure.”

“If you removed the tab of the rental agency from the back of the collar, it would improve your image a great deal,” Esther remarked quietly.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Mike roared.

“I noticed it too late,” she said with a wink. “Anyway, I thought it was your expression of dissent.”

Although the security people never found our weapons, we carried enough armaments to fight the army of a small country. I pocketed the laser gun, which was about the size of a Zippo lighter; and, to complete the deception, I had acquired a pack of cigarettes, no matter how much I hated smoking. My communicator disguised as a small cell phone was switched on and clipped to my inside pocket. Fedorov was monitoring and recording all our conversations.

I had installed the paralyzing gun into the frame of Esther’s handbag. The trigger was a pressure-sensitive dot on the handle. To fire it she only had to point the bag and press the button twice.

Shortly after entering the building, we acquired a couple of RCMP bodyguards, each about the size of King Kong, very smartly attired in their specially cut tuxedos to cover the holstered guns in their armpits. It was nice to have them around, although the presence of cops always unnerved me.

Mike was in his element introducing us as Captain and Mrs. Vardy from St. John’s. He never spoke about the vessel I captained; simply hinted that my ship, a fishing trawler or a super tanker, was berthed in Europe somewhere. Although the variety of millionaires mildly ostracized us, they concluded that since we made the Thorntons’ guest list we were important people. We circulated for half an hour or so; around eight-thirty Mike came and suggested that we should retire to the library.

As discretely as possible and with our bodyguards in tow we withdrew. Our escorts peeled off at the door. The library, clipped from a Dickens novel or a Sherlock Holmes episode was elegant, although neither Mr. nor Mrs. Thornton Beauchamp struck me as avid readers. I doubt they had ever read anything except the financial page of the Herald and the bottom line of their bank statements. If you asked me, they would have the library because it is a regular feature of a respectable British manor house.

Suddenly the back door of the library opened and the youthful Prime Minister entered. He walked up to Mike, shook hands, and said, “It is a real pleasure to meet you, Mike. I’m very grateful for all you are trying to do.”

“It’s my pleasure, Mr. Park,” he replied. “This is Captain von Vardy of the planet Khomu and his associate Ms. Ann Forrest.”

I thought Park was too young for the job, but he was much older than he appeared. His honest brown eyes, square jaw and powerful build radiated confidence. In my experience, appearances were deceptive, as successful crooks usually generated the air of honesty. I know. I’ve met enough of them.

Park extended his hand: “I’m privileged to meet you Captain. Mademoiselle.” He nodded to Esther.

“The pleasure is mine,” I replied.

“Please, sit down,” said Park pointing to the overstuffed leather armchairs and turned to the bodyguards: “Gentlemen, I doubt the Captain and his lady represent any danger. You may withdraw.”

The two policemen disappeared.

“Well, Captain,” he started, “should we get down to business?”

I nodded silently.

Proceed to part 2...

to Challenge 354...