Super Mensa

By

Larry Buege

Prologue

Dark cumulus clouds billowed up in the southwest as the Spaniard stepped onto the tarmac. His sun-stained skin evinced a man who worked hard for his living. But the years of abuse his body had endured had not come without cost. He now feared the deep ache in his left hip presaged incipient arthritis. Age was taking its toll.

It was just past five, and as he expected, most of the people who had business at the small airport on the outskirts of Palermo had finished their tasks—or postponed them until the following morning—and were heading home for dinner, leaving the airport almost deserted. The Spaniard wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm and looked up at the approaching clouds. The forecast predicted thunderstorms with high winds and possible hail moving across Sardinia, heading toward Sicily, not an uncommon occurrence this time of year. Such storms in the Mediterranean were to be expected. It was a complication, but one had to allow for complications. The Spaniard had weathered worse storms in the North Atlantic. He had been younger then. Now he was pushing sixty. His skills were still sharp—perhaps sharper—but that intense drive of his youth was gone.

Perhaps he should retire. He could return to Barcelona, fish in the surf, go for long walks in the countryside. He wondered if he could adjust to such a simple pastoral life. That would be a decision for another time and another place. Now he had a message to deliver. He didn’t expect the message to be well received.

The Bell 430 helicopter waited for him at the far edge of the tarmac. Other than an old fuel truck that had weathered far too many years and a partially dismantled Cessna, there was no aircraft or vehicles within a hundred meters. With briefcase in hand, Pueblo Riviera walked toward the waiting helicopter. The helicopter’s four main rotor blades were motionless except for minor oscillations generated by the gentle offshore breeze. Riviera suppressed his anger. He hated working with Italians. He had told the pilot to warm up the twin Rolls Royce turbines and prepare to fly. The storm was approaching fast enough without providing additional advantages.

Riviera opened the helicopter door on the copilot’s side and settled into the seat. “Let’s get this bird in the air presto.”

“We can’t, Signor. The radio is all static. Unless they radio their coordinates, we cannot find the ship.” The pilot, a man in his late twenties, momentarily looked into the Spaniard’s eyes and then averted his gaze. Without further comment, the Spaniard reached over and entered the Chimera’s last-know coordinates into the automatic pilot. Although not a pilot, he had logged enough hours on helicopters during his days as a CIA field agent to be familiar with the instruments. If push came to shove, he could take over the controls. He had done it before.

“There are your coordinates,” he said. “Get this aircraft off the ground. The GPS will guide you to your location. Do I make myself clear?”

“But, signor, the ship may no longer be there, and we will be heading into the storm. I have a wife and two small children.”

He was right of course. The coordinates were eight hours old. If the ship were moving at maximum speed—which he doubted—they could be off by two hundred kilometers. The Bell 430’s limited fuel capacity left little room for error. But every mission had its element of risk. There was always that ever-present set of random parameters for which no amount of planning could accommodate. The Spaniard pulled out a nine-millimeter Glock 26 from somewhere under his denim jacket. It was a subcompact version of the standard Glock, weighing less than three kilos even with a full magazine of twelve lethal rounds. With a clean handkerchief he wiped down the pistol with a massaging, almost lascivious, motion. The pilot watched with obvious concern. At no time did the Spaniard point the weapon at the pilot, but the point was well taken. Within minutes the twin Rolls Royce engines were whipping the rotor at an ever-increasing speed.

The Spaniard returned the pistol to its secluded spot under his denim jacket and removed his Marine Corps cap revealing black, medium-length hair. He would have preferred closely cropped hair, but that would have been suggestive of the military. The small tuft of silvery white hair on the left side of his forehead already drew more attention than he desired. He had never served in the Marines, but the hat fit his personality and, for the most part, hid the tuft of white hair. The cap was replaced by the co-pilot’s helmet with attached microphone and earpiece. Once the motor was revving at full RPM’s, the noise would preclude other means of communication. The Spaniard didn’t foresee the need for extensive conversation; he wasn’t one for idle chatter. Since the pilot’s English was better than the Spaniard’s limited Italian, they would speak only in English.

The helicopter gently lifted off the tarmac and headed out to sea. The motion was almost imperceptible. The pilot may have been young, but he wasn’t lacking in flying skills. When the altimeter registered eight hundred meters, the pilot switched to automatic pilot, allowing the GPS to guide them to their destination. A solitary thunderhead loomed in the distance. When they got close, the pilot would regain control to circumvent the obstacle. But for now, the sun was shinning on a calm azure-colored sea. The Spaniard looked down at the crystal-clear water. Light green patches identified coral reefs, some of which were under twenty feet of water. He had dived in those waters more than once—but never for pleasure. Some day he would return to truly enjoy the beauty of the coral reefs. It reminded him of his childhood when he played with his older brother in the surf near their home in Barcelona.

“See if you can pick up the Chimera now,” the Spaniard commanded when they were half way to their destination. The aircraft entered a small cloudbank and began bouncing erratically. This was the pre-storm turbulence; they had yet to reach the storm front.

The pilot turned a few dials on the radio console and spoke into his microphone. His demeanor didn’t radiate optimism. “Inbound Bell 430 calling the Chimera.” By previous agreement, no other call sign was to be used. The personnel on the Chimera would know who they were. No one else needed to know. The pilot repeated the call three times after appropriate pauses. His only response was the crackling from the surrounding electrical storm. That did little for his disposition. They were burning precious fuel on the way to nowhere. He was being well paid, although hardly enough for a suicide mission. He needed money to live, but he didn’t live for money. His two children needed a father; his wife needed a husband. There were other jobs.

There was sufficient fuel for an uneventful trip to the rendezvous point and back, but flying around the storm clouds was burning fuel at an alarming rate. A glance at the fuel gauge revealed three-quarters of a tank. He would need a half tank for the return trip; his aircraft didn’t fly on fumes.

“You’ll be able to refuel on the Chimera,” the Spaniard replied to the unasked question.

“Yes, that is good, signor, but only if we find the ship. We could return tomorrow when the weather is perhaps better. Then we might know the Chimera’s location.” The pilot looked at the Spaniard, his eyes pleading his case.

“My employer is not accustomed to delays. We will make it today.” The possibility of a twenty-four hour delay had crossed Riviera’s mind. Despite flying around the thunderheads, the ride had become turbulent. The storm clouds could coalesce behind them, boxing them in. They would soon reach the point of no return. They had life vests in case they ditched, but they would never be found in time—not in this weather. The Spaniard didn’t see himself as a coward, but neither was he a fool. “Try calling the Chimera again.”

Without enthusiasm, the pilot turned the radio to broadcast. “Inbound Bell 430 calling the Chimera.” He listened to ten seconds of static before repeating his request. “Inbound Bell 430 calling the Chimera.” Again there was static; but this time, mixed in with the static, were English words. They were indistinct to be sure, but one of them was “Chimera!” Maybe his wife wouldn’t be a widow after all. “Bell 430 to Chimera, please give us your coordinates.” The reply was still garbled with a recognizable word or phrase here and there, but there were also numbers. The pilot hoped he had heard them right. “Bell 430 to Chimera, please repeat the coordinates.” This time the numbers were unmistakable. The pilot plugged them into his GPS. The Chimera was eighty kilometers to their port side. Communications would improve, as they got closer.

They were now racing against time. The weather was deteriorating; rainwater leaked in around the doorframe creating small puddles on the floor; and there was insufficient fuel to return to Palermo—not if they were to circumvent the thunderheads. The craft pitched and rolled at the mercy of the turbulence. He could handle the weather, the pilot told himself. He was a good pilot, and he had a well-constructed aircraft. Unless the weather deteriorated, they should reach the ship. Just the same, he crossed himself.

“Chimera is a strange name for a yacht, signor. I haven’t heard such a name in the past,” the pilot volunteered with incipient prolixity. “Does it have English meaning?”

“The Chimera is a fire-breathing, mythical beast that is part serpent, part lioness, and part goat. My employer is not one for cute names like WaterBed or See Shore.”

The Spaniard didn’t encourage further communication, preferring to keep his own counsel. They were close to the Chimera, but he now doubted the wisdom of pressing into the storm—the winds were greater than he had expected, and they would only get worse as they approached the ship.

The pilot turned off the autopilot as they approached the Chimera’s coordinates. They would have to enter a dense cloudbank to reach the Chimera. The Bell 430 could handle mild wind and rain, but the weather report suggested hail. The aircraft manual didn’t elaborate on the aircraft’s handling characteristics during a hailstorm. The pilot had no desire to find out. As if on cue, hailstones bounced off the Plexiglas windshield. Pinging noises echoed through the cockpit, as the stones slammed into the aircraft. A spider web appeared in the windshield. That would be expensive to repair. The pilot lowered his forward speed to reduce further damage. It would burn additional fuel, but it was a risk he had to take.

It was still daytime, although it had the look of dusk. In the dim light, ten kilometers ahead, a rotating searchlight pierced the darkness. It could only be the Chimera. Finally, a light at the end of the tunnel.

“There she is, signor.” The pilot readjusted his azimuth and headed toward the light.

“Notify the Chimera that we are preparing to land and will need help strapping down the chopper. You have done well, my friend, but it is too dangerous for you to return today. My employer will provide accommodations for the night and fresh fuel for the morning. I will have the Chimera radio your wife that you have been delayed and that a handsome bonus will be wired to your account. Send us a bill for any damages to your aircraft. My employer richly rewards those who serve him well.”

The pilot circled the Chimera to gather his bearings. Landing safely on a ship bobbing in a thunderstorm wasn’t a foregone conclusion, even for the best of pilots. He needed to know the location of all wires and protruding pinnacles before landing his aircraft. Rich rewards would be of value only if they survived the landing.

“The Chimera is very big, signor,” the pilot said. “Your employer must be very wealthy.”

Indeed, at one hundred and twenty meters, she could compare favorably with any yachts offered by wealthiest Arab sheiks. The superstructure was painted white, while the sides of the ship—for it was more ship than yacht—were painted navy blue. Even in the bad weather, decks of highly polished mahogany were visible. At midship, a large swimming pool with adjoining hot tub could be seen. What couldn’t be seen were the two-lane bowling ally, first class exercise room, ultramodern dispensary, and capacious ballroom. They were below deck. At the rear of the yacht, next to the skeet range, was a large black “H” in the center of a white circle, the universal symbol for helipad. A Panamanian flag flew from the stern.

The pilot cautiously approached the ship from the rear. The ship was moving into the wind at twenty knots, eliminating crosswinds. But there was always the possibility of an unexpected gust of wind or an unusually high wave under the ship’s stern. Once he cut power, there would be no second chance. Even after landing, a slight tilt of the ship, and they could slide into the sea. There would be no rejoicing until the aircraft was lashed to the deck. The pilot crossed himself again before committing his craft to a landing. The black “H” rose and fell with each swell of the three-meter waves. The helicopter hovered momentarily over the helipad. When the deck rose up to meet the aircraft’s wheels, the pilot cut the engine, allowing the aircraft to descend with the deck. Several deck hands appeared out of nowhere and began lashing down the craft.

Riviera removed his helmet and replaced it with his Marine Corps cap as a deck hand opened his door. “See that the pilot is treated well and has a place to sleep.” The deck hand didn’t question the Spaniard’s authority.

Riviera left the care of the helicopter and pilot to his minions and headed for the third deck. He would shower and change into dry clothes before reporting to Kaufmann. Riviera keyed open the door to his private suite and set his briefcase on the wet bar. His suite consisted of a spacious bedroom with walk-in closet, a small kitchenette, a lounge with satellite TV, and a study furnished with computers and encrypted telecommunications equipment. The bathroom was state of the art with first-class shower stall and a sunken Jacuzzi tub. Lamar Kaufmann treated him well. But then he could afford to be lavish; he was one of the world’s wealthiest men. His father amassed a small fortune brokering assorted weapons to emerging nations and revolutionary factions who wished to overthrow emerging nations. It was rumored even small, tactical nuclear devices could be procured for a proper price. The black market provided substantial profit margins for those with adequate social contacts.

Lamar Kaufmann not only inherited his father’s fortune but also his business acumen, doubling his father’s wealth many times over. His actual worth was unknown since the bulk of his assets were in untraceable, offshore accounts. He did have legitimate enterprises, the largest of which were his four hotel-casinos, two in Las Vegas, one in Atlantic City, and the fourth and largest in Monte Carlo. The large cash flows generated by the casinos were indispensable when laundering money. A large bevy of attorneys and accountants purposely kept the flow of money confusing.

Riviera checked his e-mail. Most of it was perfunctory memos and notices—nothing that needed a reply except for the terse message from the head of security in one of Kaufmann’s Las Vegas casinos. They had suspected a dealer of skimming the tables; now they had proof. Going through the courts would prove expensive and time consuming, and juries don’t always look favorably on the gaming industry. No, it would be best if he returned to the States and personally leaned on the miscreant. He would recover the missing money and make an example of the individual at the same time. It wouldn’t hurt to let other employees know what happens to those who cross the line.

It was just before seven when Riviera arrived at Kaufmann’s private dining room. A large circular table covered with a white silk tablecloth had place settings for three. Riviera assumed the third guest would be Cordelia Kaufmann, Lamar’s wife. Del, junior to Lamar by ten years, envisioned herself as a movie starlet. This was more in her eyes than those of Hollywood, although she did have bit parts in several low-budget movies. Providence had provided her with the proper measurements of a starlet. All she lacked was talent. She didn’t have the keen intelligence or drive of her husband, but then he hadn’t married her for her intellectual capacity. As long as her ego was pampered, she was quite sociable.

A waiter in a black tuxedo materialized carrying a small tray with a solitary goblet filled with white wine. “Good evening, Mr. Riviera. The Kaufmanns shall be here shortly.”

Riviera was sipping his wine and staring out the window, lost in thought, when Lamar and Cordelia Kaufmann entered the room, the deep pile rug absorbing the sound of their footsteps. Again the obsequious waiter materialized, this time with two wine glasses on his tray. The waiter’s motion brought Riviera back to reality, and he stood at polite attention.

“Ah, Pueblo, it is good to see you again,” Lamar gave Riviera a firm handshake before accepting his glass of wine. “I trust the storm didn’t inconvenience you.”

“It complicated life, but it wasn’t insurmountable.” Riviera turned his attention to Cordelia Kaufmann. “I see we have the pleasure of your lovely wife’s company.”

As usual, Del was both overdressed and underdressed, all at the same time. She was wearing a pink evening gown with ultra-short sleeves that were pushed down below her shoulders creating a plunging neckline that appeared to end just short of her lower sternum. A slit on the side of her dress exposed a generous portion of her left thigh. Around her neck was a necklace composed of perfectly matched diamonds that terminated in a sparkling stone the size of a grape. The stone was presently lodged in her cleavage. Large rubies dangled from her earlobes.

Del raised her right hand displaying an emerald ring surrounded by diamonds. If diamonds were a girl’s best friend, Cordelia Kaufmann was far from friendless. Riviera, taking Del’s offered fingers, gently kissed the back of her hand. Tonight would be formal, almost pompous. Tomorrow Lamar Kaufmann and Pueblo Riviera would be simple businessmen. That was how Lamar Kaufmann liked the game played. Riviera, having been treated generously over the years, offered no objections.

The dining experience was superb. Chef Ansel Marseau had outdone himself as usual. Three candles in their gold-plated holders illuminated the centerpiece bouquet of freshly cut flowers, providing a subdued, almost romantic atmosphere. Mellow chamber music played softly in the background. Lamar Kaufmann was in good spirits. This, Riviera knew, would change at the end of the meal when business would be discussed.

Lamar Kaufmann leaned back in his chair after he had polished off the last of his chocolate crêpe. The obsequious waiter took that as signal to remove the dinner dishes and refill the wine glasses. He then left the room knowing what was about to be discussed wouldn’t be for his ears.

“Well, Pueblo,” Lamar said after the waiter made his exit. “I must compliment you on your fine work. I understand from your report we have selected the Brazilian girl for our project. What was her name? Jacinta Rios, I believe. She seems to be the perfect candidate. She’s mentally sharp, of European decent, good physical features, and has the same blood type as Del. She is also a Nobel Laureate in economics. She’s everything we could hope for. When will we start phase two?”

“There is a new development.” Riviera paused to allow this to sink in. “We have a problem.”

“A problem? Your report mentioned no problem. You said the Brazilian was the perfect candidate.”

“We have new information. She has a brother in an institution with Fragile X Syndrome.”

“Speak English, Pueblo. What is this fragile X stuff?” The agitation in Lamar Kaufmann’s voice wasn’t lost on Riviera.

“Males with Fragile X Syndrome have enlarged testicles after puberty, pronounced ears, a prominent jaw, and a high-pitched voice.”

“Enlarged testicles? You call that a problem? I should think the individual would be quite pleased,” Lamar chortled. Del laughed politely. Riviera did not.

“They can be profoundly retarded.”

“So?” Kaufman asked as he refilled his glass from the wine bottle.

“It’s a genetic disorder. It’s hereditary. Our subject is likely a carrier and could pass it down to any progeny.”

“Her child could be retarded?” Lamar Kaufmann stood up and threw the wine bottle high over Riviera’s head where it smashed against the wall. The gesture was more to display anger than to inflict pain. “You said she was the perfect specimen. You said we could get started right away.” Kaufmann picked up his wine glass and threw it against another wall, this time over Del’s head. The waiter opened the door to see if he was needed and quickly decided he was not.

“It’s a minor setback. We have others to choose from. All of them excellent choices.” Riviera had expected the temper tantrum. He had expected flying glass. Now that that was over, they could get down to business and consider other options. He wasn’t fond of failure either, but all great plans had alternate scenarios to employ in case of failure.

“And where do you expect to find these so-called excellent choices?” Kaufmann sat down, his anger now expended. “You won’t find many people with the I.Q. of our Brazilian subject.”

“Are you familiar with Mensa?” Riviera asked.

“Isn’t that a group of snobby geniuses?”

“I don’t know about the snobby, but you do have to have a documented I.Q. in the top two percent of the population to become a member. That’s an I.Q. of 130 to 140 depending on the test. At two percent of the population, they’re a dime a dozen, twenty out of a thousand.” If the truth were known both Lamar Kaufmann and Pueblo Riviera would probably qualify. It was another award Cordelia Kaufman would never receive. “Mensa was founded in England in 1946 by Roland Berrill and Dr. Lance Ware to promote stimulating intellectual and social opportunities for its members.”

“If they’re a dime a dozen, why should I be interested? I don’t shop at dime stores.”

Riviera ignored the sarcasm. “Within Mensa is an informal group of thirty-four individuals with I.Q.’s above 170. They call themselves the Supererogatory Society. No one knows their true I.Q.’s because they’re too high to accurately measure. They are the Super Mensa, truly geniuses among geniuses, one out of a million, perhaps even three million. They’re the Albert Einsteins and Isaac Newtons of our time. Apparently, a Polish nuclear physicist by the name of Dorek Dolinski organized the group to exchange ideas that the normal genius wouldn’t understand. They meet periodically at scientific conferences or discuss ideas over the Internet. It’s a quiet group that shuns publicity. Admission to the group is by invitation only. I happened to stumble on the list of names when I was pillaging through the computer of a Dutch paleontologist. He was immediately taken off our list. The idiot didn’t even have a firewall on his computer. I don’t know how he qualified for Super Mensa status.

“Anyway,” Riviera continued, “some on the list had to be eliminated because they were Asian or Black, but we still have some good leads. That’s how we found the Brazilian girl. If it weren’t for the genetic disorder, she would have been the perfect candidate.”

“How many are still on the list?” Lamar asked.

“We have two American women and a Russian.”

“Using someone from the United States could prove problematic.”

“I totally agree,” Riviera said.

“What do we know about the Russian?”

“She’s twenty-three years old, born in Kazan. Her mother was a nuclear physicist. She was working at the Chernobyl nuclear plant when it had the meltdown in 1986. She was cited for heroism during the disaster but died years later from leukemia. Her father was a general in the military. He died of prostate cancer a couple of months ago. Our subject is an only child with no other relatives.”

“That is a definite advantage,” Lamar said.

“Her I.Q. is off the scale. This was noted at an early age, and the Soviet Government fast-tracked her through school. She received a Candidate of Science degree, which is equivalent to our Ph.D., at age fifteen from the Polytechnic Institute in St. Petersburg. She had planned to take her degree in theoretical physics but switched to nuclear genetics when her mother died.”

“What’s nuclear genetics?” Del asked.

“It’s the study of how nuclear radiation interacts with the body.” Riviera gave Del his intimidating stare. He didn’t have patience for Del’s foolish prattle. “She speaks six languages: Russian, English, French, Spanish, German, and a little Polish. She is also well versed in the arts. If she wanted to, she could play violin in any of the most prestigious symphony orchestras.”

“And no genetic defects?” Lamar asked.

“That’s the wild card. We won’t know until the end of the week. We have her scheduled for a complete physical and psychological exam. She looks promising, perhaps better than the Brazilian. It’ll take an additional week to analyze the data.”

“I guess we have no choice but to proceed as you have suggested,” Lamar said.

“Tomorrow I’ll return to Italy with the chopper pilot and catch a plane back to the States. I have a minor problem at one of your Las Vegas casinos that I need to personally address. Then I’ll fly to Chelyabinsk to supervise the exam.”

“What kind of problem do we have in Las Vegas?”

“You don’t want to know. You can assume it will be discreetly resolved.”

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