My cell phone rang as I lounged in my undercover apartment in St. Louis.
I recognized the number. It was FBI Headquarters in Washington. Suhel, my supervisor, was on the line. I could tell he needed a favor as soon as I answered.
“Hey, we’ve got a case out of New York,” Suhel said. “It’s a Canadian guy in Montreal. We need you to take his temperature.”
Shit. I rubbed my temple and took a deep breath. I hated to say no, but I was jammed. I didn’t have a moment to spare. Since returning from the Middle East, I’d jumped back into my caseload.
“I’d love to help, but I’m in St. Louis today,” I said. “I’ve got to be in Jacksonville at the end of the week and I’ve got a case in Tennessee. I’ve got to be in L.A. for two weeks at the end of the month.”
Suhel was prepared for my answer. He must have studied the large board that took up one wall of the unit’s Washington office. Each undercover agent had his own row with color-coded magnets for each case he or she was working. The colors—red, yellow, green—signified where each case stood. Next to my designation were two rows. I had six cases across the country in addition to the overseas mission.
“We know,” Suhel said. “But we think this is a very bad guy and we need a Muslim and Arabic speaker. He is flying to California for a conference in a month or so. Just take his temperature. It’s a three- or four-day babysitting assignment.”
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll drive up to New York and meet with the case agents when I get back from Florida.”
I had no choice. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if this guy killed people and I hadn’t intervened. This is what I signed up to do.
A week later, I fought the Holland Tunnel traffic and arrived at the Joint Terrorism Task Force offices on the west side of Manhattan. I badged my way in and was ushered into a conference room. I shook hands with the two case agents, who had come straight from central casting: drab suits, conservative haircuts, no regional accent. They introduced themselves and I started the meeting by telling them all about myself, the different legends I had, and my level of experience.
“We think we can get you in front of him,” the male agent said, looking at the case file. “Which legend do you want to use?”
I had several. But I needed more information before I could figure out which one would work.
“Do you have any idea when he’ll be flying?”
The agents looked at each other.
“No.”
That was weird. Headquarters said he was going to California in a few weeks.
“He speaks Arabic, right?”
More confusion.
“We don’t know if he speaks Arabic,” the female agent said.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought he was Tunisian.”
“No, he is Bangladeshi,” the male agent said.
Now everyone was confused.
“Are you looking for CT-1?” the female agent said.
“Yeah.”
“This is CT-4.”
I was in the wrong room. I gathered up my notebook and stood up to leave.
“Sorry,” I said. “Can you point me in the right direction?”
The male agent shut the door.
“Now you can’t leave,” he said with a smile. “You’re ours now.”
I laughed. We talked for a few more minutes about the case. They were investigating Quazi Mohammad Rezwanul Ahsan Nafis, a native of Bangladesh who had links to al Qaeda. I knew the undercover officer they were going to use.
“Listen, the guy you’re getting is a great guy,” I said. “But I’ll make myself available if you need me.”
A couple of months later, after meeting with another FBI undercover agent, Nafis was arrested for plotting to remotely detonate a bomb in front of the Federal Reserve Bank of New York in lower Manhattan. He pled guilty in February 2013 and was sentenced to thirty years in prison.
The male agent walked me over to CT-1. Nelly—a short Colombian with coffee-colored skin—greeted me at the door.
“I almost got sucked into that,” I said, looking back as the agent from CT-4 walked away.
“Fuck those guys,” Nelly said. “You’re with us.”
CT-1 was the task force’s international, extraterritorial squad, known historically as the al Qaeda squad. It worked the 1993 World Trade Center bombing, the 2000 USS Cole attack in Yemen, and arrested and thwarted the 2007 plot to blow up jet fuel supply tanks and pipelines at JFK Airport. The squad was known across the FBI as the premiere counterterror unit in the country.
Nelly ushered me into their conference room. A New York City detective assigned to the Joint Terrorism Task Force, Nelly joined CT-1 in 2005 after working in a citywide anti-gun unit. Besides working terrorism cases in the United States, he assisted with cases worldwide, including going overseas after a suicide bombing attempt in Stockholm, Sweden, in 2010.
We were joined by Johnny, another NYPD detective on the task force, who worked homicides and robbery before joining CT-1. His nickname was “mini-Hulk” because he looked like a giant muscle with his short and stout build. His New York accent was so thick, it sounded fake.
Kenny—a barrel-chested Italian from Boston—was one of the primary case agents on the JFK bombing case. He came off as more of a cop than an FBI agent. Most of the other agents were lawyers with guns. A navy veteran, he also maintained all the surveillance equipment. Without him, we couldn’t gather the records needed for a conviction.
—
The supervisor of CT-1 came and popped his head in to say hello just before we started. He reminded me of Karl Childers—Billy Bob Thornton’s character in Sling Blade. As he talked, all I could hear in my head was “I like them French fried potaters.”
When he left, I looked at Nelly.
“What’s up with Sling Blade?”
Nelly’s face lit up and he tried to stifle a laugh.
“That’s my boss.”
We both started laughing. I know in the first five minutes if I like someone. I loved Nelly. He reminded me of Billy, my old boss when I worked drugs. They were both street cops. I found out later Nelly had also worked drugs in the Bronx before he came to the task force.
Johnny led the meeting. He handled all the intelligence on the case. Our target was Chiheb Esseghaier, a Tunisian citizen living in Montreal. Chiheb had popped up on the FBI’s radar after he made contact with some al Qaeda operatives online.
“Over the last two years, the target traveled to Iran twice,” Johnny said. “We’re not sure why he went to Iran, but we think he went there to train.”
While Johnny talked, I flipped through a bunch of top secret folders. I stopped on a flowchart showing the guys Chiheb was talking with and how they were connected to al Qaeda’s leadership.
“He may be in the pre-operational phase,” Johnny said. “The Canadians have seen an escalation of his countermeasures and recruitment.”
Basically, once he was on our radar, we had notified Canadian intelligence. They opened up their own investigation and believed he was acting suspiciously.
“What’s he doing in Canada?” I said.
“He’s going to school,” Johnny said. “He’s getting his doctorate.”
Chiheb was a doctoral student at Institut National de la Recherche Scientifique, Canada’s top research university. He was world-renowned for his work in biological nanotechnology. His research was part of a project developing optical and electrochemical biosensors. But his trips to Iran were a red flag, because as part of his research he had access to infectious diseases.
I looked at the pictures of Chiheb. Thick beard. Shaggy, curly hair. He wore glasses that softened up his jihadi look. He looked more scientist than killer. I compared the current pictures with ones shot soon after he arrived in Canada. He didn’t have a beard and looked like an innocent kid.
“The Canadians tried to bump him in Cancún, Mexico, during a conference in 2011,” Johnny said. “They weren’t able to get close to him.”
A bump is a casual meeting. It seemed random and was used to meet a target. The Canadians didn’t have a Muslim, so they used a Peruvian Christian. Chiheb’s English wasn’t that good. The hope was a native Arabic speaker would have a better chance.
“What is his family like?” I said.
Johnny flipped through some pages in the file. Three brothers. Mother and father both alive. The family was mainstream.
“What flipped him from ‘As salamu alaikum’ to ‘I’m going to kill your ass’?” I said. “Something happened.”
No one could tell me. Johnny had all the facts, but not his pattern of life.
“What does he do on Saturday night? Where does he eat? What does he do after the mosque on Friday? Is he an early riser?”
Everyone looked at one another like I had two heads. Why did I want to know all that?
“You’re asking me to get in front of this guy and develop a relationship with him,” I said. “We’ve swung and missed in the past. I need to know how I’m going to craft my legend to make sure he chooses me. I want him to go to bed at night thinking about me. I want him asking himself what he can do for me. How can he make me his friend?”
The lightbulb went on. Nelly and Johnny both nodded in agreement.
“We’re on it,” Nelly said. “We’ll get you a better pattern of life.”
The meeting ended with Nelly taking down my list of questions. As he walked me out, he promised to get on the phone with his counterpart in Canada. We agreed to meet a week later to review the findings and work on my legend.
On my ride home, I went over the facts of the case. A lot of these bumps get blown out of proportion. Most times it is just some asshole talking shit. All bark. But something wasn’t right with Chiheb. His trip to Iran was troubling. He met with and talked online with bad guys.
But first, I had to learn more about him. Did he like to smoke hookah? Was he like the September 11 hijackers and have a thing for strippers? I needed a thread to pull. A week later, I was back in New York in the same conference room with Nelly, Kenny, and Johnny.
“The guy is all about Islam,” Johnny said.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“All he does is talk about religion,” Johnny said. “But he stopped going to the mosque.”
As soon as Johnny said that, my heart sank. It was said in passing, and Johnny was already on to his next point when I stopped him.
“Johnny, did you say he stopped going to the mosque?”
Johnny flipped back through his notes.
“Yeah,” he said. “He used to go to a mosque around the corner from his place in Montreal. Every Friday. He stopped going shortly after he got back.”
“From overseas?” I said.
“Yeah. Why? What’s wrong?”
“Was it a radical mosque?” I asked. “The one in Montreal.”
“It’s a legit stand-up mosque,” Johnny said.
“What about the Imam?”
“Nope. Nothing on him.”
“Did he go to another mosque?”
“Nope,” Johnny said. “He stays home on Fridays. If he’s not at work, he’s at home.”
Mainstream Muslims go to the mosque. If you’re radicalized, Muslims in the mosque who aren’t as “dedicated to the cause” are going to drive you nuts. They are an affront to Islam, more so than nonbelievers, because radicals feel they should know better.
“I need you to ask what his dialogue was like in Cancún,” I said. “Did he say anything about women on the beach?”
“Women?” Johnny said.
“What was his reaction to women in bathing suits?” I said. “Was he angry? Disgusted?”
I saw Nelly and Kenny exchange a puzzled glance.
“In the eyes of the mujahideen, the women on the beach are the types you grab off the streets,” I said. “You cut their throats or stone them for not covering themselves. They’re whores.”
“We’ll call the Canadians tomorrow and hit you back,” Johnny said.
But he didn’t wait until tomorrow. On my way home, my cell phone rang. It was Johnny.
“I don’t know how you figured this one out, but he was spewing all kinds of shit in Mexico when he saw the women in bathing suits,” Johnny said. “He said those women are going to rot in hellfire. He went out of his way to talk about it.”
These were all signs that he was already gone, and the only thread I had to get close to him was Islam. Chiheb didn’t have any bad habits. My only way in was to be a recruitable asset. I’d have to be a Muslim, but I’d be hiding my supposed jihadi beliefs. I had to convince him he needed me.
A week before the bump, I was back in New York with Nelly. The plan was to intercept Chiheb on his flight to California. Kenny was working with headquarters to set everything up while Nelly and I worked out my legend.
With little lead time, we decided to use Tamer Elnoury. You’re not supposed to use the same legend for multiple cases, but this was just a bump. Plus, Tamer was fully backstopped after his trip to the Middle East. Al Qaeda had already vetted him and he had some attractive qualities. He was born overseas but living in the West. Chiheb could relate. Tamer also had money.
“I have to be wealthy,” I said.
“Why?” Nelly said.
“For two reasons. One, I’m going to be traveling a lot. I need a reason to go anywhere and be anywhere. Two, I don’t know what his intentions are. Does he want to bring people in? Does he want to just recruit? Whatever his reasons are, you’re better off having money.”
Nelly got it immediately. Money was the world’s best superpower.
“I’m down with that,” he said. “Tamer Elnoury is the most interesting man in the world.”
“Stay thirsty, my friend,” I said.
We were ready. Now all we needed to do was get on the plane.