An inventor seeking a patent on a gas mileage enhancer enabling cars to get 250 miles per gallon is murdered byArab terrorists trying to suppress his invention.
Prologue
THE GHOST WALKED SLOWLY TOWARD THE FIELD where his friend and former teammate, Marine Sergeant Allan Hamilton, was refereeing a game for a soccer league of Arab children in Baghdad. Hamilton had set up the children’s league after Saddam’s defeat. The Ghost stopped far enough away from the soccer field so Hamilton would not recognize him. He did not want to take the risk of Hamilton calling to him and blowing his cover as an Arab of low status.
When the Ghost saw an Arab carrying a Colt 45 automatic walk on to the field behind Hamilton, he shouted a warning. But he was too far away to be heard over the noise from the spectators lining both sides of the field. The Arab shot him three times in the back. Allan Hamilton died where he fell, while the assassin turned, held his gun above his head for all to see and yelled “al Khanjar yaqtil” (the Dagger kills). As the crowd parted and let the killer walk away unhindered, the Ghost carefully came up behind him and followed at an inconspicuous distance. The Ghost knew his dead friend did not need his help. What Allan Hamilton needed was someone who would avenge his murder.
After the assassin walked into a sector of the city where the streets were strewn with rubble between bombed-out shells of buildings, the Ghost swiftly came up behind him and delivered a chop to the back of his neck, knocking him out. He dragged the unconscious killer into what remained of a dry goods shop. Looters had taken the contents of the shop, but in its rear an empty storeroom still had a functioning door. As the assassin began to revive, the Ghost dragged him into the storeroom and closed the door behind them. He was confident his captive’s screams would not be loud enough to attract any rescuers.
Before the Ghost slit the assassin’s throat, he extracted the following information from him: His captive had been trained for a jihad with a group of eleven other terrorist recruits at a camp somewhere in the mountains in Iran. The inspirational leader of the terrorists was a Grand Imam named Muhamed Allah Yatakalan (Muhamed To Whom Allah Speaks). The Grand Imam had bottomless black eyes that could take possession of your mind if you looked into them.
Some of the terrorists who spoke English were being sent off for additional training in Cuba, from where they would be smuggled into the United States and set up as secret agents of the jihad’s American cell. The American agents were going to be suicide bombers, but the Ghost’s prisoner did not know the identity of their targets.
Muhamed Allah Yatakalan had interviewed the assassin in the Grand Imam’s unique sanctuary they called the Gold Room, where all jihad recruits were given an inspirational sermon before being sent on a special assignment. In the Gold Room, the Grand Imam had given him the specific mission of assassinating the American Marine soccer coach who was winning the minds of Arab children, and thus thwarting his jihad.
Muhamed Allah Yatakalan claimed Allah had spoken directly to him. The Grand Imam told the assassin the goal of his jihad was the same as the goal Allah gave to his Prophet Mohammed over a thousand years ago—to cause every infidel and heathen on earth to convert to Islam or to be executed for refusing to convert. The Grand Imam had named his jihad al Khanjar (the Dagger) to symbolize the cold-blooded ruthlessness with which the terrorists were taught to destroy infidels and heathens. The jihad’s slogan, al Khanjar yaqtil, is what the assassin had yelled to the crowd right after he shot Sergeant Hamilton in the back.
The Ghost vowed to himself that he would find Grand Imam Muhamed Allah Yatakalan and, with his own hands, avenge his friend’s murder. At a later time the Ghost would find out that Muhamed Allah Yatakalan was one of the two personas of Sami Insien, a twenty-five year old, bipolar schizophrenic savant. In his other persona, Sami Insien was in charge of the al Khanjar jihad’s Computer Department.
After searching the dead assassin’s body for documents and anything else revealing useful intelligence information, the Ghost cut off his ears to prove his kill, pocketed the Colt 45 automatic used to murder Allan Hamilton and disappeared into the glare of the afternoon sunlight.
The date was February 22, 2003.
Chapter 1 MPG
“YOUR CAR WILL GET 250 MILES PER GALLON with my mileage enhancer,” Orin Aldrich said to patent attorney Lemont Levy.
Every patent attorney hears something this fantastic at least once in his lifetime, so I guess it’s my turn today, thought Levy to himself. To Aldrich he said, “You’re the mechanic who performs the miracles keeping my ancient Cadillac running like it was brand new, but getting 250 MPG in my car would be nothing less than a supernatural phenomenon, or…or…black magic.” The smile on Levy’s face faded into a flat gaze. “I’m not going to waste your time and mine telling you about how you might be able to protect your mileage enhancer with a patent until you prove to me that it actually does what you say it will do. In the lingo we patent attorneys use it’s called reducing the invention to practice.”
“No problemo, Lem. I’ve got the mileage enhancer right here with me and I brought my tools so I can put it in one of your cars.” The inventor pulled a shiny rectangular aluminum box out of a black plastic bag he had put on the floor beside his chair. The mileage enhancer was about the size of a one-pound carton of butter.
“Okay. I’m going to contain my curiosity about what’s inside the aluminum box until you convince me your magic mileage enhancer works.”
“Just let me tell you this much,” said Aldrich, eager to brag about his invention.
Levy gave a faint smile and nodded—reluctantly indulging his client’s enthusiasm.
“There’s a laser and a control circuit in here,” the inventor said tapping the aluminum box with a small screwdriver.
“Enough for now,” Levy said as he eyed his client with admiration. The forty-one year old Aldrich was six foot one with a full head of curly brown hair. His blue eyes squinted from between puffy lids and a heavy brow. He had big ears that lay against the sides of his large head.
Aldrich had built a thriving auto repair business about four blocks from the high-rise condo in which Levy lived in a large unit on the third floor. Aldrich personally took care of the Levy family cars, one of which was a twelve-year-old, white Cadillac driven by Levy. The other was a ten-year-old, tan Grand Marquis driven by Levy’s wife, Susan.
Levy reached out his hand and Aldrich gave him the mileage enhancer. Suddenly, the patent attorney realized he was holding an invention that would alter the balance of power in the world if it actually worked the way the inventor claimed. He put the mileage enhancer down on his desk and said, “It looks like the first thing we need to do is test your invention. Let’s talk about getting one of my cars rigged up with your mileage enhancer. Susan and I have been talking for months about driving over to Orlando and seeing the Cirque Du Soleil. Testing your invention is the push I’ve needed to get me to make the trip. I’ll talk to Susan tonight to find out if our social calendar is clear for this weekend, and I expect it is. Then we’ll drive to Orlando, see the circus and stay overnight. The round trip will put 250 to 300 miles on the car, so we’ll see if we use less than two gallons of gas.”
“I guarantee you won’t use over two gallons on the trip.”
“I’ll write the odometer readings when I fill the tank up with gas before the trip begins and when we get back,” Levy said. “Assuming your invention really works like you say it does, I’ll be able to use the data I generate for one of the test examples I’ll write about in the patent application. We’ll need additional test examples, so you’ll have to switch the mileage enhancer to other cars. I suggest you put the enhancer on Susan’s Mercury for about a week and then you can switch it over to Rosalind’s Buick. You know Rosalind Katz, my paralegal, don’t you?”
“I keep her Buick running just like I do the cars for you and Susan.”
“OK. That’ll give us three examples on three different cars, plus whatever data you’ve gathered on your own vehicles.” Reaching into his pants pocket, Levy said, “Here’re the keys to my car. You can attach your mileage enhancer this afternoon.”
“Lem, I’m glad it’s Thursday so your Cadillac will be running with the mileage enhancer for two days before you start the test. Sometimes it takes a day or two to get up to full efficiency when I first put it on a car. Particularly on a big, late model eight-cylinder car like yours.”
Aldrich connected the Cadillac’s fuel line to one end of the mileage enhancer. Then he connected the other end to the fuel intake port on the car’s engine. Finally he attached its electric cables to the car’s battery. After making the connections, the inventor seated himself behind the wheel, inserted the key and twisted it to start the engine. The engine turned over immediately, ran for about ten seconds and sputtered to a stop. Aldrich smiled because this was what always happened the first time he attached his invention to any car.
The engine’s cylinders and the intake ports had to be purged of excess fuel, and the control circuit in the mileage enhancer had to adjust to the strength of the car’s battery. The inventor turned the key shutting off the engine, waited half a minute, and then turned the key again. The engine started with a roar and settled to an almost soundless idle. Aldrich backed the car out of Levy’s designated parking space in the lot adjacent to the Commerce Building in downtown St. Petersburg where the patent attorney’s office was located. After driving around the block twice he was confident everything was working properly, so he parked the car in Levy’s parking space and went back into the attorney’s office to return the keys.
“Call me on Monday after you get back, and let me know if you think I can get a patent,” Aldrich said, as he stuck his head into Levy’s office.
“I’ll do better than that. I’ll call you as soon as I fill the tank up on Sunday and calculate the miles per gallon.”
When Levy filled up the tank at the Pennywise on Saturday morning before starting the trip to Orlando, the Cadillac’s odometer read 11,347. The mileage reading on the odometer had passed 100,000 during the preceding year. He didn’t stop pumping until some gasoline sloshed out of the intake port, so he was sure the tank was completely full. During the weekend the Levys enjoyed the circus and their stay at the HighTen resort in Orlando.
The Cadillac’s odometer read 11,633 when Levy again filled the tank up at the Pennywise on Sunday evening. The car had used just over one gallon. The gas pump gave readings in tenths of a gallon, so the exact amount of fuel used could not be determined. But it was less than 1.2 gallons because the .2 on the gas pump had not turned all the way up. Levy estimated the Cadillac had used 1.15 gallons of fuel to go 286 miles, which meant Aldrich’s invention had increased the car’s miles per gallon to about 248. And that was more than enough to get his friend a patent, which would make the United States self-sufficient in oil.
Levy mused: I think I can use my knowledge of Aldrich’s mileage enhancer to make myself and Aldrich wealthier that either of us ever dreamed before.
The date was April 4, 2005.
Chapter 2 The Rabbi
“I’M ALL IN,” SAID THE RABBI, as he pushed forward all of the poker chips in the stacks on the table in front of where he was sitting in the Wednesday night game. Gabrial Rosen was not a real Rabbi. He was a fifty-six year old, overweight, white-haired con man. He disguised himself as a Hasidic Jew and dressed in the distinctive attire of their religious movement. Rosen wore a long black robe cinched at the waist by a prayer belt and had a black fedora on his head at all times when he was in public. On his feet he wore white socks in his shiny black, buckled shoes. He claimed he had never shaved his face or cut his hair, and, indeed, had a bushy grey beard and long ringlets of sideburn hair dangling past his shoulders.
The game was no-limit Texas Hold’em poker. It was being played in an illegal gambling house owned by Rosen and run by Rosen’s employees on G Street about eight blocks southeast of the US Capitol building. Every weekday night seven men each paid $100 to sit at the table. Those who played on weekends paid $200 each for their seat. Since all payments of money into and out of the game were in cash, no one had to use his full name or even his real name on a credit card or check. In fact, the players were encouraged to identify themselves only by nicknames. When a player had to cancel his appearance, he could communicate by either the telephone answering machine or by an Internet address. The telephone was never answered by a live person.
None of the honest players realized they were paying for the privilege of being fleeced by the Rabbi and his partners. No cell phones, smoking or consumption of alcohol was permitted during the G Street game, and a waiter in a starched white jacket brought all of the bottled water and pretzels any player wanted. No matter who the waiter was on any given night, the players called him “Jeeves” after the character created by P. G. Wodehouse.
The G Street game, as it was called in the Nation’s Capital, had been in operation since Texas Hold’em poker had exploded in popularity on TV and the Internet. There was a waiting list of eight wannabe players from all walks of life who believed they could afford to pay $1000 in cash for the chips required for each player at the beginning of each game. The rules of the G Street game did not permit any bet or ante of less than $10. Play started promptly at 8:00 p.m., and punctuality was important because the doors were locked at 8:05, and no one was admitted after that time.
The game ended at an 11:30 p.m. deadline on weekday nights and at 12:00 a.m. on weekends. It was a house rule that play could not be extended beyond the deadline, even with the consent of all the players who still had chips on the table. The Rabbi had learned by experience that without a non-negotiable deadline, the games would go on into the early hours of the morning and then there would almost always be a dispute about whether the game should be ended before one player had won all of the chips.
Every night, unbeknown to the other five players, the Rabbi was paired with a different partner. On Mondays his partner was Fingers, who was constantly interlacing and then untangling his long bony fingers. On Tuesdays it was Blinky who could not keep his eyes fully open for more than four seconds. Wednesdays had him with Shades, who’s nickname came from the wrap around reflective, mirrored sunglasses he wore to conceal his eye movements. On Thursdays it was Loud Mouth, who was hard of hearing but refused to wear a hearing aid, so he spoke in a loud voice, as do so many of those with the same affliction. Fridays had him with Falsies, who would remove his false teeth and put them in a glass of water for luck whenever he went “all in.” On Saturdays Ricardo was his partner. Tall, thin, dark and handsome Ricardo, who spoke with a Spanish accent and adopted the mannerisms of Ricardo Montalban: “Daaaling, you look maaavelous,” was his favorite jibe. And on Sundays it was Mumbles, whose nickname is also self-explanatory.
Each of the Rabbi’s partnerships had devised a number of signals the partners used to communicate the strength of their hands, so the partner with the stronger hand would be the one staying in to the end of the hand. The signals sometimes enabled the partners to exchange information about their hole cards, since this might reveal whether another player was bluffing. The Rabbi’s beard and sideburn ringlets were convenient props for many of his signals. The signals were not perfect, but imperfect as they were, the cheating provided a sufficient advantage to ensure that one or both of the partners would be a big winner when the non-negotiable deadline brought the session to an end.
The Rabbi and his partners split their winnings outside in the Rabbi’s BMW before parting for the night. The goal of the partnerships was to win back each partner’s $100 or $200 entry fee and $1000 investment in chips, plus up to about $1000 more for each partner. That would leave about $3000 in the game to be split among the luckiest of the five lambs sitting at the table.
The non-negotiable deadlines enabled the Rabbi and his partners to adjust their betting so they could take what they wanted to win out of the game and leave the rest for the others. They had to allow the lambs to win something or else they would stop coming back to be sheared. Sometimes the partnerships made sure they left money for the lambs at the end of the game by deliberately placing losing bets during the last two or three hands when the stupid betting by the other players had put almost all of the chips into their stacks. And $1000 in tax-free cash winnings every week was enough to keep the Rabbi’s partners happy. Of course, the Rabbi made many times more than his partners when the players’ $700 or $1400 in nightly entry fees were added to his share of the nightly winnings.
That particular Wednesday night the Rabbi was paired with Shades, a thirty-year-old black hustler, named Amos Blackstone, who had a muscled body he kept in top physical condition. Shades had perpetrated a number of minor league Internet scams before he linked up with the Rabbi. He wore flashy electric blue warm-up pants and a matching jacket embroidered with a red tiger, which was the logo of a team identified as the Cats, that none of the other players had ever heard of.
Shades’ sunglasses had originally disqualified him as a partner for the Rabbi because eye movements and closing one eye or the other were among the Rabbi’s favorite signals. But Shades proved to be such a perceptive and knowledgeable winner when he had been a legitimate player in the G Street game that when he phoned the Rabbi one afternoon and propositioned him about becoming his partner, the Rabbi agreed to give it a try.
Shades was an expert reader of “tells”, the movements and mannerisms which reveal something about a poker player’s cards or playing habits. Shades had recognized that the Rabbi was running a poker scam and he was eager to become a part of it. When a previous partner of the Rabbi moved away to test his skill in Las Vegas, Shades was given the vacant Wednesday night spot. He was so good at playing the game that even with his diminished signaling ability because of the sunglasses, this partnership turned out to be an unqualified success.
Read more about A PATENT ON GREED and Charles Kaplan HERE.
Copyright 2008 Charles Kaplan. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
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