The streets were deserted when I left Chiheb’s hotel.
Before I could go to bed, I had a meeting with Nelly and Kenny. Nelly met me at the door of his room at the Residence Inn Suites in San Jose. I took a seat on the couch. Nelly and Kenny sat in chairs in front of me. We went through the bump and the ride to the hotel.
“What is he doing tomorrow?” Nelly asked.
“The conference,” I said. “I’m going to dinner with him afterward. I need a good halal restaurant in the area.”
“I’ll check in with one of the San Jose guys,” Nelly said. “We’ll get you a place.”
The rest of the meeting we talked about the flight and laughed about the seat mix-up. I left the suite just before dawn and went to my hotel. That morning, I waited to hear from Chiheb. He e-mailed me in the late afternoon. Chiheb’s phone didn’t work. I fired back a response.
No problem, brother. Let’s communicate via e-mail. See you at 6 p.m. for dinner. I’ll pick you up at the hotel.
I called Nelly after Chiheb confirmed dinner. He had a restaurant for me.
“Menara Moroccan Restaurant,” Nelly said. “It’s on East Gish Road. Four stars. High-end.”
“It’s halal, right?” I asked.
“Definitely,” Nelly assured me.
“Perfect,” I said. “I got an e-mail from Chiheb. His phone doesn’t work here.”
Nelly chuckled. I knew what he was thinking right away.
“I’ll run it by the team,” Nelly said. “See you at the safe house to wire up.”
I got to Chiheb’s hotel at 6:00 P.M. He was waiting for me in the lobby. When he saw the car pull up, Chiheb got into the passenger side. After saying hello, I handed him a smartphone. Nelly and the team had gotten the phone for me.
“Here, take this,” I said. “So you can reach me, brother.”
Chiheb wouldn’t touch it.
“Absolutely not,” he said. “You can’t do this. What did it cost?”
I refused to tell him. He reached into his pocket and took out his wallet.
“Let me pay for it,” he said.
I refused to take his money.
“While you are in my country, it is my honor to give you what you need,” I said. “You need a phone, brother. Nothing else. Just call me this week. It can dial international. Feel free to talk to anyone you want.”
Chiheb finally slid the phone in his pocket. He took it because it would have been rude not to, an insult to my hospitality. Plus, he felt like I was being a good brother. But now we had coverage on his calls and e-mails.
“Thank you, brother,” he said.
I put the car in gear and eased into traffic. The restaurant was in North San Jose, near the airport.
“Where are we going to eat, brother?” Chiheb said.
“I called a buddy in New York,” I said. “I told him, ‘Do me a favor, you’ve been to San Jose. Can you tell me a halal restaurant for a couple of good Muslim brothers?’ He gave me this place. I’ve never been there. I don’t know anything about it. But he said it’s delicious.”
Another rule in undercover work was never pretend to know something or someplace, because it will always bite you in the ass.
I could tell he was uncomfortable with the restaurant. He’d rather eat at a fast-food place and save the money. A true mujahideen wouldn’t waste anything. Everything Chiheb did was for Allah. It was a sin to waste money on frivolous things.
I had to justify my choice.
“We kind of have to spend money because my company makes so much money a year,” I said. “We have to spend a good amount to have a business write-off. This whole trip. My flight. The car. My meals. Your phone. Everything is being billed to the company. At the end of the year, say we make a million dollars. In order for us to pocket the profits, we have to show expenses. If we don’t spend it on ourselves, the government gets it in taxes.”
Better to spend it than let the American government use it on guns and missiles to kill the brothers overseas. Chiheb listened carefully. His scientific mind started processing my logic.
“That makes sense,” he said, content that he understood it. “So basically, if we don’t spend it here, the haram government is going to get it.”
“Exactly,” I said.
He smiled.
“Bon appétit.”
Menara looked small from the outside. But once inside, it opened up into a large, low-lit room with a fountain at the center. I got three steps into the restaurant when I noticed the bar. It was massive, with top-shelf liquor on the shelves. The place was supposed to be halal, which means blessed by an Imam. Chiheb noticed the bar too. My heart sank when I saw his face turn.
“May Allah forgive me,” he said quietly in Arabic.
The hostess met us at the podium. She gathered up two menus.
“Can I get a table in the back corner,” I said. “We want to be away from the bar area.”
She led us through the dining room, which was decorated with a Middle Eastern aesthetic. The tables were low, with pillows or low benches for seats. I took off my shoes and sat on a pillow. Chiheb sat opposite me. He was angry.
“How can a Muslim owner possibly have liquor in this establishment? I don’t understand it.”
I was trying to calm him down when our waiter showed up with glasses of water. He was an Asian kid. Mid-twenties. Scruffy goatee.
“Can I get you anything to drink?”
Chiheb folded his hands on the table. His inner Imam was fighting to get out.
“No,” he said.
Chiheb was angry.
“How can you call this place halal?” he said. “No Imam should bless a place that serves alcohol.”
He went on and on.
“Look, man, I just work here.”
I cut Chiheb off.
“Yeah, okay,” I said. “We’ll figure out who the owner is and we can talk with him later.”
Chiheb agreed.
I ordered some fruit juices and appetizers. Hummus. Grape leaves. Olives. A feast. When the waiter left, we started talking. He wanted to know about my uncle in Egypt. The one who started the Elnoury Investment Group. We were headed toward my “point of radicalization,” the incident that led me to embrace radical Islam, when the lights in the restaurant dimmed. I noticed two disco balls come down from the ceiling. I turned toward the front of the room. Two guys dressed like extras in Aladdin were banging on drums.
Are you fucking kidding me? I thought.
I glanced at Chiheb. His mouth was open in stunned silence as a gorgeous Arab woman started belly dancing. She moved around the room shaking and gyrating. Chiheb covered his eyes.
“Stay right here, brother,” I said.
I stood up and walked toward the bar. Our waiter was coming with a tray of drinks. I flagged him down.
“Do me a favor, ask her not to go anywhere near our table,” I said, pressing a twenty-dollar bill into his free hand. “As you already know, I have a very religious man with me.”
“Absolutely, I understand,” he said.
He started to walk away.
“Hey, when is she dancing again?”
The waiter started laughing.
“Six o’clock Thursday,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said, and headed back to Chiheb.
“What did he say?” Chiheb said as I sat down.
“Clearly this owner is munafiqeen,” I said. “I berated him. I told him do not let that woman anywhere near our table.”
“Good for you,” Chiheb said.
The dancer stayed away and the first plates arrived.
“Let’s just finish our meal,” I said.
I sampled all the dishes. After about a half hour, I stopped eating. I was full. There was plenty left and Chiheb kept eating. For pleasure at first. Then to finish each dish. One of the hadiths tells Muslims not to waste food, water, anything. I watched Chiheb hold the plate at an angle with his left hand as he scooped the hummus into his mouth with his right hand. It was clear he was full. But he couldn’t waste a drop. When he was done, the plate was spotless. He did it with every plate. He knew the waiter was going to throw it out, and that is haram. Waste not, want not to the one-hundred-thousandth degree.
While he ate, I talked about my mother. I told him how much she meant to me and how I felt when I got to the hospital on her last day. Chiheb sat quietly as I described the room and my mother in her bed. The doctor was there with some nurses. We were the only Muslims. I ran to my mother’s side. I grabbed her hand and touched her head. Everyone was silent. They just stood by and watched my mother die, I told him. I looked at the nurses. They were joking. Laughing. They didn’t care about my mother because she was Muslim. I told Chiheb how I could feel my rage building. I wanted to smash the doctor’s face against the wall. I wanted to beat the nurses for not helping. For hating my mother and my family for being Muslim. Even telling the fictionalized version of my mother’s death was hard. Tears welled up in my eyes. I took a moment and sipped my water.
“I tried to fit in so much,” I said. “I lost my religion. I looked like them. Dressed like them. Talked like them. But when my mother needed them the most, they weren’t there for her.”
Chiheb held my gaze. There was a hint of empathy. He believed me.
“My father died four months to the day after my mother,” I said. “I was ready to go back to Egypt. I was done with this country. I was done with everything it stood for. I was disgusted with myself. I wanted to go back to Egypt and dedicate myself to Islam. Then my uncle Ibrahim, God bless him, he put his arm around my shoulder after my father’s funeral.”
Chiheb leaned in as I explained how Uncle Ibrahim left me the business and went back to Egypt to help the brothers in the Sinai Peninsula. Ibrahim was one of the group’s financiers. There was a good bet Chiheb was going to check my story, so making Ibrahim a financier was safe. Al Qaeda’s revenue streams were kept secret even from the group’s leaders. No one was going to talk about who was funding whom, so it would be impossible to debunk.
“My uncle told me to live amongst them, as them, to defeat them,” I said. “I’ve been helping my uncle with the profits from my company.”
Chiheb had a knowing look on his face, like he had found what he was looking for in me. It’s a look that I don’t normally see so early on in a bump, but it was there. I was hesitant to give him so much so soon, but I felt like I only had a few days.
“Your uncle is a brilliant man,” Chiheb said. “He is exactly right.”
“I don’t know if you know of the true brothers in Sinai,” I said.
Chiheb nodded. He knew the brothers.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this much already,” I said. “I just met you. But I can see Islam is in your heart. I am confiding in you. I beg you to never tell people.”
“Of course not,” he said. “You have my full trust and confidence.”
Chiheb was especially taken with my uncle’s strategy to live among the West to defeat it.
“I will tell you hypocrisy is haram in Islam, but it’s not during times of war or necessity,” he said.
He explained how Muslims can break rules in order to survive—eat pork if it is the only food—and pretend to be American in order to blend in during times of war. Chiheb forgave me for straying from the path of Allah and pretending to be American when I desperately wanted to be like them.
“My God, my brother, how many years younger you are than me and look how well-read you are,” I said. “Look how smart you are with your job. Look how educated you are in our religion. God bless you, brother, and may Allah keep you for all the Muslims, because we need you. We need your brain.”
I found out later that his al Qaeda recruiter told him the same thing. Al Qaeda needed his brain. As we waited for the check, Chiheb leaned in closer. Now Chiheb felt the need to reciprocate.
“With you in America and me in Canada, we can do great things together, my brother,” he said.
Off the cuff, it was an innocuous comment. But it was clear to both me and Chiheb what he meant. He just confirmed what we knew. That was as close as I needed to get.
“Chiheb, I will do anything for you,” I said. “You and I think alike. You and I are the same. We have the same thought process. Thank God, it is nice to know that I have a Muslim brother like you, but I don’t know you like that brother.”
My job was done. We had confirmation that he was a legitimate threat.
At the hotel, Chiheb seemed reluctant to get out of the car.
“We need to spend every night together,” Chiheb said. “There are a couple of Muslim brothers in this conference; maybe we can go to dinner, all of us?”
I was due in St. Louis at the end of the week. There was no way I was going to stick around, since he’d already given me what I wanted to know. I had other cases, but it was easier to tell him yes.
“You know, brother, I would love that,” I said. “But be careful what you tell them.”
“Oh no, I’m not telling them anything about you,” he said.
“Get some rest,” I said. “Call me tomorrow on your new phone and we can go to dinner.”
At the Residence Inn suite, I settled into a couch across from Nelly and Kenny.
“Who suggested Menara?” I said.
“One of the San Jose guys,” Nelly said. “Why?”
“There was a full bar when we walked in,” I said.
Nelly was stunned. “Shut the fuck up.”
I took a sip of my water.
“Yeah,” I said. “But wait, it gets better.”
I then told them about the belly dancer. Nelly looked at Kenny.
“Holy shit, that didn’t happen,” Kenny said.
I just sat back and smiled.
“Was she hot?” Nelly said.
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Smoking hot. That was my first question: When is she dancing again?”
“When?” Nelly asked.
“Thursday night at six.”
“Nice,” he said.
But the joking was over after that.
“So, what is this guy’s deal?” Kenny said.
“Better tell the Canadians they have a shit storm on their hands,” I said.
“Really,” Nelly said. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve been in front of posers. I’ve been in front of the real deal. This guy is the real deal. He is up to something. He was recruiting me tonight.”
I went over the dinner.
“He went that far with you already?” Nelly said.
Both Kenny and Nelly were suspicious. A seasoned sleeper wouldn’t reveal himself so easily. I could tell they thought this guy was an amateur. But I saw something different.
“I think this guy is a very suave recruiter,” I said. “He asked all the right questions on the plane. All through dinner. I jumped through all of his hoops before he opened up to me. When I gave him my POR [point of radicalization], I think I tipped the scales. They need a full detail on him. I don’t know what he is up to or where he is going. I believe he is looking to go operational.”
“And then he recruited you,” Kenny said, checking his notes.
“Yeah. That’s why I pushed him away.”
“Why did you push him away?” Nelly said.
“Because he isn’t our fucking problem,” I said. “He’s Canada’s problem.”
Nelly laughed. “You’re fucking right he is.”
“I also pushed him away because I’m part of six other cases right now and I was hoping tomorrow night I could leave.”
“No fucking way, you’re staying the whole week,” Nelly said.
Nelly knew what we had. A clean bump on a potential al Qaeda sleeper. I was going to dinner.
“He is going to ask some Muslim brothers from the conference to dinner tomorrow. A Paki guy from London and an Iraqi dude from Germany.”
“Great, a dinner party,” Nelly said.
“Let’s see how he deals with others,” Kenny said.
The next night, I picked up Chiheb and his friends and drove them to San Francisco. We had dinner at McCormick & Schmick’s near Fisherman’s Wharf. Chiheb made small talk. They talked about the conference. Politics and religion. But it was all surface talk. The jihadi Chiheb never came out.
After dinner, I picked up the tab and we walked to the car. I was in front with Chiheb. The Paki and the Iraqi were several steps behind us. A plane bound for San Francisco Airport thundered overhead. Chiheb looked into the sky and at the buildings nearby. He pointed to one.
“Look at that building right here,” he said. “Perfect rooftop. With all these planes coming, get a surface-to-air missile and take them all down. You could probably take down three or four before they knew where you were.”
He said it nonchalantly. Like pointing out a nice sunset. No matter what he’d said and done at dinner, he was still focused on his purpose. The look in his eye was pure evil as he watched the plane fly overhead. His purpose from Allah was to kill the infidels. Before I could dig further, the Iraqi interrupted us. I walked back to the car in silence.
When I dropped off everyone at the hotel, I knew one thing: Chiheb loved Tamer. In Chiheb’s eyes, Allah had given him what he needed. A wealthy American jihadist with money to fund his operations. I promised to keep in touch but knew I wouldn’t.
But it was clear Chiheb was a threat.