The Genius Experiment Page 4

  “What’s the Corp?” asked Max.

  Mr. Weinstock grimaced. “Those would be the bad guys I was going to mention earlier.”

  “Maxine,” said Isabl, “we represent the CMI.”

  “The who?”

  “The Change Makers Institute.”

  Okay, thought Max. CMI sounds impressive. Like the FBI, CIA, or KGB. So far, she liked the CMI much better than the Corp. After all, the Institute hadn’t hauled her out of a college classroom or chased her into a city street where a distracted bicyclist was riding the wrong way.

  She kept listening.

  “We’ve been studying you for quite some time,” said Charl. “Your file. Your records.”

  Max had a file and records? Who knew?

  “So have others,” added Isabl.

  “The Corp?” asked Max.

  All three adults nodded.

  “Mr. Weinstock’s been keeping an eye on you for us,” said Isabl. “He is the one who alerted us to your current… situation.”

  “You mean my run-in with the law?”

  “They weren’t the law,” said Charl. “They were paid mercenaries, hired by Dr. Zacchaeus Zimm.”

  “Who’s he?”

  Isabl glanced at her watch. “We’ll explain over dinner.”

  “You guys are going to eat here with us tonight?” said Max. “If so, you might want to stay away from the mystery meat…”

  “We can’t stay here,” said Isabl.

  “We’re taking you out to dinner, Max,” said Mr. Weinstock.

  “Oh-kay. Can I ask a question?”

  “Make it brief,” said Isabl, who really had a thing about watching her watch.

  “Why?”

  Charl and Isabl paused and looked intently at each other before turning to Max.

  “Simple,” said Charl. “We’ve talked to your professors at NYU. Your classmates. We are unbelievably impressed with you.” Then he smiled. “The only thing more difficult than getting top grades in college is getting a precisely calibrated C average,” he added, knowingly.

  “You might just be our top candidate,” said Isabl.

  “Really?” said Max. “For what?”

  “We want you to come to Jerusalem with us.”

  “It’s a great honor, Max,” said Mr. Weinstock. “A once in a lifetime opportunity.”

  “We leave tonight at eight fifty-four,” said Charl.

  “But what about school?” asked Max.

  “You’ll be attending a new school. Very different than any you have ever attended—even NYU.”

  “It’s more experiential,” said Isabl. “You’ll do things. We suspect it will prove much more suitable for a mind such as yours.”

  “But it’s in Jerusalem?” said Max.

  “Yes,” said Isabl. “You’ll find out more once you get there. We must leave. Now. The others won’t be far behind us.”

  “The, uh, others?”

  Charl nodded. “The men in the black suits.”

  14

  Max looked to Mr. Weinstock.

  Even without parents, Max knew she shouldn’t accept plane rides from total strangers. Especially not to foreign destinations. She probably shouldn’t even go out to dinner with them. She needed someone she trusted to tell her this was a smart and safe idea.

  “To be chosen by the CMI is a great honor, Max,” Mr. Weinstock repeated softly. “A rare opportunity. They can protect you from Dr. Zimm and the Corp.”

  Max played the mental game she sometimes played when she needed to make a major decision: “What would Einstein do?”

  In a flash, her hero’s words came swirling back to her: “Wisdom is not a product of schooling but of the lifelong attempt to acquire it.”

  “Okay,” said Max. “Let’s go. But, first, I need to pick up my suitcase. It’s at the stables.”

  “Fine,” said Charl. “After dinner, we will retrieve it.”

  He gestured toward the door.

  “We have an early reservation at Le Bernardin,” said Isabl, giving her watch yet another check.

  “The finest restaurant in all of New York!” beamed Mr. Weinstock. “A marvelous choice for a celebration. I trust you enjoy seafood, Maxine?”

  “It’s okay, I guess. But I was wondering—would it be possible to go out for Chinese instead?”

  “We can discuss this in the car,” said Isabl. “We have to hurry. Dr. Zimm himself is coming down from Boston.”

  “Who’s he again?”

  “Someone you do not want to meet, dear,” said Mr. Weinstock.

  Max hustled out of the office with the three adults.

  “Are you leaving?”

  Mrs. Groober was standing in the Little Angels lobby, her hands firmly planted on her hips. She made a very formidable roadblock.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Weinstock, tipping his cap. “Thank you for your hospitality and the use of your office, Mrs. Groober. Frightfully kind.”

  “Have a good evening,” said the stern woman, who had the bearing of a prison warden. “Maxine? You’re needed in the kitchen. Those carrots aren’t going to peel themselves.”

  Max was about to say, “Yes, ma’am,” when Charl and Isabl each took one of her hands.

  “Maxine won’t be staying for dinner,” said Charl.

  “She’s coming home with us, Mrs. Groober,” said Isabl.

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. We are adopting her.”

  “You’ll find all the necessary paperwork in your office,” said Mr. Weinstock. His English accent made him sound very authoritative. “You’ll also find the signed and notarized OCFS-4156 and UCS-836 forms on your desk. I trust you’ll find everything in order.” Now he sounded extremely lawyerly. “Good day, Mrs. Groober. We’re off to celebrate the creation of a new and happy family. Thank you for all you have done to make this cherished moment possible.”

  Mrs. Groober went into her office to search for the adoption documents, which, of course, she would never find.

  “Run,” Charl and Isabl whispered to Max.

  “Indeed,” added Mr. Weinstock.

  The four of them scurried out the door and tumbled into a black sedan with tinted windows that was parked at the curb.

  Isabl got behind the wheel. Charl took the front passenger seat. Mr. Weinstock and Max sat in the back.

  “I’d buckle up if I were you,” Mr. Weinstock suggested.

  Max did.

  Right before Isabl rocketed the car away from the curb in a tire-squealing, rubber-burning blastoff.

  Max white-knuckled her overhead handhold as the vehicle zoomed from zero to way-too-fast in a nanosecond.

  “Do you always drive like a maniac?” She shouted because it was the only way to be heard over the roaring engine.

  “Only when necessary,” said Isabl, tugging the steering wheel hard to the right to careen the car around a tight corner.

  Max heard a shrill phone chirrup.

  “Dr. Zimm just landed,” said Charl, studying the face of his glowing phone. “He’ll be at Little Angels soon.”

  “I hope he enjoys stewed carrots,” laughed Mr. Weinstock as Isabl put the speedy sedan through its gear-shifting paces. “We, on the other hand, are going out for Chinese. Isn’t that correct, Max?”

  And, for the first time all day, Max smiled. “Yes, sir. But I think we better get it to go.”

  15

  Dr. Zimm was furious.

  “Where is she?” he demanded, forcing his face into a smile. His teeth looked too big for his mouth.

  “She left,” said Mrs. Groober. “About half an hour ago. An elderly man with an English accent and two young foreigners took her.”

  Dr. Zimm arched an eyebrow that made his forehead furrow all the way up to his cleanly shaved dome. “By any chance were their names Charl and Isabl?”

  “They didn’t give me their names. They simply said they were adopting the girl.”

  “Is that so?” seethed Dr. Zimm. “Tell me, Mrs. Groober. Do you typically adopt out children to people whose names you do not know?”

  Mrs. Groober was about to answer when Dr. Zimm held up his gloved hand. It was black, just like his suitcoat and slender necktie. “That was a rhetorical question, Mrs. Groober. Meaning I do not expect or want you to answer it.”

  Mrs. Groober smiled coyly. “I hope this slight glitch will not affect the terms of our financial understanding?”

  Dr. Zimm tugged down on his sleek leather gloves. The two men in black suits and sunglasses flanking him inched forward toward the matron. Both men wore earpieces but they weren’t using them. They didn’t need to. They were taking their orders directly from Dr. Zimm.

  “If the money is an issue,” said Mrs. Groober, her voice quavering with fear, “we could renegotiate the particulars…”

  Dr. Zimm did not answer the woman’s question about money. He didn’t have time. He knew his rivals from the CMI had at least half an hour jump on him.

  They also had the Einstein girl.

  The one Dr. Zimm desperately needed for the Corp.

  But where would Charl and Isabl take the girl genius?

  Dr. Zimm did the mental calculus. His minions had, on a tip from the NYU teaching assistant, picked up Miss Einstein at a college lecture hall. They had delivered her to the Little Angels foster care facility for safekeeping until Dr. Zimm could personally pick the girl up.

  That meant the girl had been snatched away with only the clothes on her back and whatever items she took to class that day. Her instinct would be to rush back to where she’d been living (or hiding) so she could gather up whatever meager personal belongings she might possess.

  That’s where Dr. Zimm and his associates could grab her. Charl, Isabl, and some old man with an English accent would be no match for Dr. Zim
m and his two heavily armed, commando-trained companions.

  “Tell me, Mrs. Groober,” he asked, “did the girl have any friends here at your… facility?”

  “She was here for such a short time…”

  “Did she have any interactions at all? Someone she may have spoken with?”

  “Well,” said Mrs. Groober, pondering the question. “Last night. She was on kitchen duty with a young boy named Quincy. He’s a nervous, fidgety type. As skittish as a kitten.”

  Dr. Zimm grinned. “And where is this boy, now?”

  “In his room.”

  “Take us there.”

  “B-b-but…”

  “Unless, of course, you want me to suspend my generous contribution to the great work you, personally, are doing here?”

  Mrs. Groober blinked. “Quincy’s in Room 202 with some of the other boys. It’s this way.”

  Dr. Zimm and his two associates followed Mrs. Groober down the dim hallway. They let her get about ten feet in front of them so they could communicate in hushed whispers.

  “Mr. Jimenez?” Dr. Zimm said to the black-suited man on his left.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Once we have Miss Einstein in custody, please visit the teaching assistant who helped arrange her transport to this safe house.”

  “Mr. Stark?”

  “Precisely. He is a loose end. And what do we do with loose ends?”

  Jimenez grinned. “We send them to the special places.”

  “Precisely. Greenland. Siberia. Devil’s Island. Kindly initiate an appropriate relocation package for Mr. Stark, immediately.”

  “What about Mrs. Groober, there?” asked the other out of the side of his mouth.

  Dr. Zimm sighed. “Alas, Mr. Murphy, she is another loose end in need of tying. Might I suggest our facility in the Sahara Desert?”

  Murphy rolled his thick neck. Several vertebrae cracked.

  “We’ll take care of it, doc,” he said.

  Dr. Zimm smiled. “I’m certain you will, Mr. Murphy. I’m certain you will.”

  16

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer the cuisine at Le Bernardin?” asked Mr. Weinstock. “It is top rated in the city.”

  “The Mee Noodle Shop is awesome,” Max told Mr. Weinstock as everyone started piling out of the parked sedan. Her restaurant choice looked a little shabby and run-down. “This is a neighborhood fave.”

  “Perhaps. But is it sanitary?” Mr. Weinstock’s English accent made him sound super snooty.

  Max tapped the grade “A” sign from the NYC Health Department posted in the restaurant’s front window.

  “It’s super clean,” she said. “So we have nothing to worry about.”

  “Except Dr. Zimm,” mumbled Charl.

  “I doubt he’ll be searching for us… here,” sniffed Mr. Weinstock.

  “I’m sorry this isn’t the best restaurant in New York,” said Max, sensing her friend’s disappointment. “But they have seafood here, too. Scallops, shrimp, salmon…”

  “Oh, joy.”

  “Hiya, Max,” said the host who greeted the group inside the restaurant. “Table for four?”

  “No thanks, Mr. Lin. We need to get this order to go.”

  Max and Mr. Lin were friendly. From time to time, during the dinner rush, she’d hop on one of the restaurant’s bikes and help with deliveries. Her paycheck always came in a cardboard takeout container: free food for dinner. (She also got to keep her tips!)

  Mr. Lin pulled out a stubby pencil and order pad. “What would you folks like?”

  “Let’s see,” said Max, calling up the restaurant’s menu from memory. “Scallion pancakes, two orders of pan-fried dumplings, crispy chicken in sesame sauce… three of those. Three General Tso’s chicken, too. A couple lo meins with shrimp, stir-fried rice…”

  She ordered three dozen different dishes.

  “How about you guys?” she asked the others. “You want anything?”

  “Um, no thanks,” said Isabl. “What you ordered should be plenty for all of us.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. This food isn’t for me. It’s for my friends.”

  “Pardon?” said Mr. Weinstock.

  “Mr. Kennedy, Mrs. Rabinowitz, Roxanne, Pablo… the whole gang at the stables. They haven’t had a good Chinese dinner since forever.”

  “Oh,” said Charl. “In that case, double everything, Mr. Lin.”

  Mr. Lin looked at his order pad. He also looked stunned. “Will you be paying for this with a credit card?” he asked.

  “No,” said Isabl. “Cash.”

  She reached into a zippered pocket on her sleek leather jacket and extracted several one-hundred-dollar bills. She handed the money to Mr. Lin.

  “This is too much,” said Mr. Lin.

  “You forgot to factor in the tip,” said Charl with a smile.

  Mr. Lin bowed quickly and dashed off to the kitchen.

  “Lesson number one,” Charl said to Max. “Credit cards leave a trail. Always carry cash.”

  “Thank you,” said Max. “But, uh, I don’t have any cash…”

  “At the CMI,” said Isabl, “you will be given a comfortable allowance. Provided, of course, you do your chores.”

  When the food was ready, Max and her new friends loaded a dozen shopping bags filled with steaming, fragrant Chinese food takeout containers into the trunk and backseat of the car.

  They cruised a few blocks west and south to the stables.

  “We’re taking note of this,” said Charl.

  “Of what?” asked Max, genuinely confused.

  “Your generosity,” said Charl.

  “It is an excellent trait,” added Isabl. “We offered you a celebration for yourself. You turned it into a feast for others.”

  “Well, I’m still not exactly sure what we’re celebrating, but what fun is a party if you don’t invite your friends and neighbors?”

  Isabl parked the car in front of the stables.

  She and Charl announced that they would be staying with the vehicle while Max and Mr. Weinstock toted the food up the steps to the third floor.

  “We need to be ready to initiate a rapid extraction protocol should any unanticipated company attempt to crash your party,” said Charl.

  “You’re still worried about this Dr. Zimm?” asked Max.

  “Constantly,” said Isabl.

  “But we shan’t let that, or anything else, ruin your bon voyage celebration, Maxine,” said Mr. Weinstock, grabbing hold of a dozen different bag handles. “Lead the way.”

  Mr. Kennedy emerged from the shadows.

  “Max?” he said. “What’s goin’ on? Did you win the lottery, girl?”

  “No,” said Max with a laugh. “My new friends and I just wanted to treat you guys to Chinese tonight!”

  “That’s a mighty fancy car you’re driving around in, too,” said Mr. Kennedy.

  “Yeah,” said Max. “And Isabl there, behind the wheel? She drives it like a maniac.”

  “Did you bring bagels, Max?” asked Mrs. Rabinowitz, coming out of the stables to check out all the commotion.

  “Not tonight, Mrs. Rabinowitz. But I picked up your favorites from the noodle shop. Moo goo gai pan with brown rice with a side order of egg rolls.”

  Mrs. Rabinowitz bounced up and down on her heels and clapped. “Forget the bagels. I’ll have leftover Chinese food for breakfast.”

  “What’s the occasion, Max?” asked Mr. Kennedy, taking charge of a half-dozen bags and leading the way into the stables, which still reeked of horse manure.

  “Well, sir, I’m going on a trip.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. I’ll need my suitcase.”

  “Uhm-hmm. Going someplace special?”

  “Very,” said Mr. Weinstock. “But we’d rather not discuss the details.”

  “And why’s that, Mister…?”

  “Einstein,” said Mr. Weinstock, smoothly. “Mr. Leonard Einstein. I’m Maxine’s long-lost uncle. She’s coming home with me.”

  “Well, I’ll be darned,” said Mr. Kennedy. “Chinese food and a long-lost uncle. This is your lucky day, ain’t it, Max?”

  “I hope so, Mr. Kennedy. I hope so.”

  17

  Working on information they were able to obtain from the boy, Quincy, Dr. Zimm and his associates arrived at the stables on the west side of Manhattan.

  Thirty-four minutes after Max and her companions had already left.

  “Where did she go?” Dr. Zimm asked Mr. Kennedy, who was being physically restrained by Mr. Murphy and Mr. Jimenez.