Raed Jaser, the Palestinian, lived in a quiet suburban neighborhood in northern Toronto. His house was a mother-daughter home converted into apartments. Jaser lived in the apartment around the back of the main house.
We arrived a little after 11:00 P.M. and followed the path to his front door. Chiheb was in the lead. I started shooting mental pictures of everything. I memorized the license plate numbers in the driveway and made mental notes of the layout, because at some point the SWAT team would want to know.
Jaser’s entry was a sliding glass patio door. Chiheb knocked. A few seconds later, Jaser came to the door. He was wearing a long white robe, a red-and-white checkered scarf on his shoulders, and slippers. He was heavily bearded, with a pronounced nose and dark eyes. He wore a kufi on his head. His face lit up when he saw Chiheb. They embraced and exchanged kisses.
“This is my dear brother from America,” Chiheb said, turning to me. “He’s Egyptian.”
“Welcome, brother,” Jaser said, looking me up and down before hugging me.
Jaser’s apartment was quaint. There was one bedroom and a bathroom. With men in the house, Jaser’s wife hid in the bedroom. Fruit and snacks were spread out on the table.
“Brother, can we use your restroom to make wudu?” I asked. “We’d love to pray Isha. Do you want to pray Isha together?”
The Isha prayer is the fifth and final prayer of the day. But before we could pray, we had to clean ourselves, or make wudu. Jaser showed us the bathroom, but shook his head no when I asked if he wanted to pray.
“I already prayed,” he said. “You guys go ahead.”
Chiheb excused himself and used the bathroom. I thought it was strange Jaser hadn’t waited to pray with us. He knew we were coming, and you get extra credit from God when you pray in a group.
When I got out of the bathroom, I joined Chiheb. Jaser sat on the couch nearby. Isha requires four rakk’ah—the movements and words of the prayer. The first two rakk’ah are prayed aloud. I could feel Jaser’s eyes on me as we recited the Quran during prayer. He watched my every move. He wanted to hear my Quranic voice. He listened to the way I said each word in the prayer.
This was a test.
Mainstream Muslims pray a certain way. But the mujahideen have little idiosyncrasies, tells that signal to others they are “more religious,” like not crossing your legs or spreading your fingers when you kneel and bow. There are certain ways to enunciate the words.
It was hard to pray for real with Jaser watching. It annoyed me that I couldn’t concentrate and instead had to focus on making sure I passed the test. Saying my prayers was never an act, even when I was Tamer. But I trusted that Allah understood what I was doing.
When we were done, Jaser relaxed. He poured us each a cup of tea. It was clear he and Chiheb were friends. They jumped into talk of religion and how the brothers overseas were being oppressed by the Jews and America. Jaser started quoting from Milestones, written by Egyptian Islamist Sayyid Qutb. He was one of Osama bin Laden’s idols.
Qutb called for Muslims to re-create the world based on the Quran. He argued Muslims lived in a “state of ignorance of the guidance from God” because they didn’t follow Sharia, or traditional Islamic law. He considered Sharia no different from the “laws of nature,” like gravity. Anyone living under any law other than the law of Allah was a kaffir, or nonbeliever. He called for the rejection of secular leaders and “the rubbish heap of the West” and wanted to form a “vanguard” that resembled Mohammed’s first followers. The vanguard would cut itself off from Western thinking and any non-Muslims. They would inspire people to become “true” Muslims and throw off the shackles of secular leaders and systems.
Sharia Law has become code for oppression in the United States, but for me it was just the rules a Muslim must follow to be religious. It has nothing to do with violence or extremism. Books like Milestones created confusion and omitted the parts of Islam that didn’t support radical Islam. The Quran specifically states that Muslims must abide by the country’s laws in which they reside. That is the word of God, not some Egyptian scholar’s interpretation.
I knew Jaser was quoting Qutb even though he never said the name. With each quote and idea, I responded enthusiastically. When Jaser’s testing me was over, we agreed to meet the next day for prayers at a mosque on Victoria Park Avenue.
Back at the hotel, I waited in my room for an hour—to make sure Chiheb was asleep in his room—and then texted Joey.
“You good?” he asked.
“Yeah, but I need to meet.”
“Do you want to do it tonight? Is it too risky?”
The plan was to complete the trip and then meet, but I had to dump the audio and make sure they picked up Chiheb talking about the American sleeper.
“We have to meet tonight.”
“Stand by for a location.”
A half hour later, I grabbed the recorders and drove over to a nearby parking lot. Nelly, Joey, and Doug were waiting in a black SUV.
I jumped in the back.
“Did you hear?”
Nelly nodded.
“Yeah, most of it,” he said. “But it was muffled a lot of the ride.”
The cell coverage was spotty between Montreal and Toronto, and the audio must have cut out. They had no idea about the American sleeper.
“There is an American sleeper.”
Nelly and Joey looked at each other.
“What?” Nelly said. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“That’s why I wanted to meet.”
“Does he know who it is?” Nelly said. “Has he met him?”
I shook my head no.
“The American sleeper trained in Iran before Chiheb,” I said.
As I rehashed the conversation, I could tell by Joey’s face that everything had changed. This was no longer a favor to Canada. The United States had a massive interest in this case. While Nelly and Joey stressed about the American sleeper, Doug chimed in.
“What about the train plot?”
Doug cared about the American sleeper, but it was his job to protect Canada. He had an active cell planning an attack. I didn’t blame him, but that was my first whiff that I was now working for two competing masters. The Canadians wanted Chiheb and Jaser. We wanted the sleeper.
I told him the train attack was scheduled for December. We had time.
“I’ll get more details about the plot tomorrow,” I said. “We’re meeting for prayers in the morning.”
At dawn, I joined Chiheb for the day’s first prayer. Even with Chiheb right next to me, I asked Allah for help finding the American sleeper and protecting innocent men, women, and children. I needed His strength and wisdom to stay the course. After prayers, we agreed to sleep a few more hours before meeting Jaser at the mosque. We drove over in silence. Both of us were tired after the long drive and late night.
From the outside, the mosque looked like a house. Inside, all of the non-load-bearing walls had been knocked down, and rugs and pillows were set out on the floor.
Jaser wasn’t there. We prayed with the rest of the group and then went back to the car. An Afghan man flagged us down before we left. He introduced himself as Waleed. He was dressed in the same camouflage jacket worn by Osama bin Laden. His beard was thick but he didn’t have a mustache. At a glance, he looked like someone dressed in a terrorist Halloween costume. It would have looked comical, except he was serious.
“Hello, dear brothers,” he said. “I hear you are in from out of town. I am a good friend of Raed. He is running late. I’d love to take you out to breakfast.”
Chiheb agreed immediately. He seemed taken with the young Afghan. Waleed climbed into the back of the car and we drove to Tim Hortons, essentially the Canadians’ version of Dunkin’ Donuts. Jaser called me while we ate.
“Brother, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I overslept. I just got out of the shower. Where are you guys? Still at the mosque?”
“No,” I said. “We met a friend of yours. Waleed.”
“Yes, what a great brother,” Jaser said. “Why don’t you guys come to my house?”
“Great, can we get you anything?” I asked.
“No, I’m fine.”
Then he paused a beat.
“Get me a tea,” he said.
I ordered him a tea and we headed back to his house. He met us in the driveway.
“Why don’t you leave your phones in the car,” Jaser said. “There is no reason to bring them in.”
Chiheb and I put our phones in the center console.
Jaser took Waleed’s phone and removed the battery. We sat around the table. Jaser started talking from Qutb’s script. But he never took it over the line. It was all talk. He knew what he could and couldn’t say. The whole speech came off polished. Practiced. I’d seen this before. I called it “the Imam Complex.” Jaser liked to talk about jihad and quote Qutb, but he wasn’t interested in getting his hands dirty. After an hour, Jaser said he had to go to work. He put his arm around me as we walked to the door.
“Come with me, brother,” Jaser said as we left the house.
Chiheb and Waleed walked behind us. They were becoming fast friends. It was clear Chiheb still dreamt of fighting in Afghanistan, and Waleed represented everything he wanted to be.
“Brother, why don’t you leave Chiheb with me today, since you have a long day,” he said.
I had told Jaser about my plans to see a few properties with a real estate agent.
“That’s fine,” I said, welcoming a chance to get away from him. “You guys haven’t seen each other in a while.”
Jaser smiled.
“I have to go into the office, and he can come with me,” he said.
Jaser was a taxi dispatcher. They could speak freely in the office, since it was Saturday and only he was on duty.
“Yeah, that sounds great,” I said.
“Let’s shoot for dinner tonight,” Jaser said.
“Done. That sounds great. See you guys later.”
As I drove off, I called Joey.
“I can’t go back to the hotel,” I said. “They think I’m going to look at properties. Got a place I could hole up? I need to get some sleep.”
Joey sent me the address of a new hotel. Joey, Kenny, and Nelly met me an hour later with Doug and the other Canadians. The Americans wanted to know about the sleeper. Nelly, Kenny, and Joey took turns asking me the same questions and getting the same answers. I still didn’t know the sleeper’s identity, his location, or if he was operational.
The Canadians were focused on the train plot and my dinner with Jaser and Waleed. They wanted to know if I thought the mosque was radical, if Waleed was part of the attack, and where I planned to have dinner with them so we could set up surveillance. After the debrief, I watched as everyone jumped on their phones. The cacophony of conversations made it impossible to sleep, so Joey and I went into the other room and started to plan the night’s operation.
The plan was to pick up Jaser and Chiheb for dinner around 7:00 P.M. I was in the car heading to Jaser’s house when he called and switched the location. A few minutes later they switched it again. I was on edge. What was going on? Were they onto me?
I called Joey.
“Get every surveillance body off the street,” I said. “If I get burned because of surveillance, I’m going to kill somebody. Tell them to let me do my job.”
Joey didn’t like leaving me without backup.
“We need to make sure—” Joey said, hoping to change my mind. I cut him off.
“I will do everything in my power to keep you posted,” I said. “But shut it down.”
I had no choice. Chiheb was my lifeline to both the Canadian cell and the American sleeper. I was either walking into an ambush or they were ready to cut me in on the plot. I knew how to defend myself, but I was more concerned about getting burned because of some RCMP agent. I’d never be able to forgive myself.
Before I could confirm dinner at the third location, my phone pinged. It was a text from Jaser. He wanted to meet at Waleed’s house. Before I could respond, my phone rang.
“Brother, did you get the address?” Jaser said.
“Yeah, what’s with all the cloak-and-dagger stuff?”
“We don’t want to go out,” he said. “We’d rather have a more private dinner.”
“Alright, on my way.”
Waleed’s house was in an upper-middle-class neighborhood in southern Toronto. The four-bedroom colonial style house sat on a cul-de-sac. I pulled up to the house and parked facing out toward the exit of the cul-de-sac. The streets were dark, lit by an occasional streetlight. I stayed in the shadows until I reached the walkway leading to the front door.
It was a cool fall night and I thrust my hands into the pockets of my peacoat. I could hear someone shuffling to the door after my second knock.
“Brother Tamer?” an older Afghan man said after he cracked open the door.
“Yes,” I said, my eyes looking past him into the house.
“Come on in,” he said with a smile.
I stepped into the foyer and kicked off my shoes. There was a pile of men’s shoes next to the door. I tried to count the pairs, but the old man motioned for me to follow him down the main hall.
Everything was dark inside the house. The smell of food cooking hung in the air. I could hear the sounds of pots and pans banging around deeper in the house. Something moved in my peripheral vision. A woman’s hand drew a drapery closed, but I could just make out a counter and some bowls used for cooking before the room got darker.
The Afghan stopped at a door near the kitchen and opened it. A wooden staircase led to the basement. The Afghan held the door open and urged me to go down first. I smiled and hesitated for a second. I really didn’t want to go into the basement. The Afghan smiled. Another beat and things were going to get awkward. I started down the steps.
The Afghan shut the door behind us as I walked down the stairs. The basement was finished and well lit. Oriental rugs covered the floor, and posters showing off various sites of the Middle East hung on the wall. A bar near the staircase was stocked with water and fruit. As I got to the last step, I could hear Chiheb talking. He was sitting at a large picnic table with Jaser and Waleed. The tabletop was covered with a cloth and plates of lamb, shrimp, and hummus. Everything was home cooked and looked delicious.
I started to calm down immediately. Chiheb stood up to greet me. Everyone had a smile. They were waiting for me. I took a seat near the corner and everyone started to eat. Before I could get more than a few bites, Waleed and the Afghan—his father—started asking me about my business.
“What do you do?”
“Real estate,” I said.
“Is it commercial or residential?”
Before I finished an answer there was another question. A half hour into dinner and I’d only had a few bites. By now, the main course of stewed meat and rice with raisins was served.
Between answers, I started to look for the exit. The staircase was the only way in or out. Going around the room, I figured the old Afghan would be the last one I’d kill. I’d start with Waleed. He was in good shape and would give me a fight. Then probably Jaser and Chiheb in that order.
But with each question I got more comfortable. There was no malice, at least toward me. It was clear they believed the legend and were curious. I was something new. Jaser, Waleed, and his family lived in isolation. An insular community of Muslims who didn’t fit in with their neighbors.
But I was a Muslim brother who spoke English like an American. I was very successful. I had money, my own business, and yet I still had the same values as they did. They were tired of talking to one another. My presence at dinner injected new topics of conversation. I was the entertainment.
After dinner, we prayed. Jaser led this time. When it was over, I pulled him aside. I still had to win him over and knew the best way to do it. Stroke his ego.
“Brother, you have an amazing Quranic voice,” I said. “It just takes me over.”
I wasn’t lying. His delivery was flawless. He never hesitated. He never stammered. Jaser’s eyes lit up after the compliment. He pulled out his phone and let me listen to recordings of him reciting other prayers as we ate dessert. When everyone was done, Jaser pulled me aside.
“I’d like to take a walk with you,” he said.
“Sounds great,” I said. “It’s a beautiful night.”
Waleed volunteered to walk us out. Jaser was wearing a brown leather jacket. As I buttoned up my peacoat, I asked Chiheb if he had a coat.
“It’s cold out here,” I said.
Chiheb had only a button-down shirt and jeans. Waleed took off his camouflage jacket and handed it to Chiheb. He refused it until Waleed insisted Chiheb take it.
“Brother, it’s a gift from me, it’s a gift from me,” Waleed said.
“But it’s a big gift,” Chiheb said, trying to hand the jacket back to Waleed.
He was afraid this was Waleed’s only jacket.
“Brother, I have another jacket,” he said. ”I have so many. I need to get rid of them.”
Finally, Chiheb pulled the jacket on, and I could tell he loved wearing it. In his mind he looked like the Sheikh, Osama bin Laden. I thanked Waleed and his father for the hospitality and started for the door. Just before we walked outside, Jaser stopped us.
“Keep your phones in the car and walk in the middle of the street,” Jaser said.
By walking in the middle of the street, no one could overhear our conversation and we could spot surveillance. We left the house and walked down the middle of the road. Chiheb was on my right. Jaser on my left.
A few minutes into the walk, I spotted a couple walking a dog. They were trying not to look at us. When Jaser spotted them, they turned and walked in the opposite direction. Jaser kept watching them until they disappeared. It wasn’t RCMP. It had to be CSIS. They were keeping tabs on us.
Once we were alone, Chiheb started the conversation.
“The issue is that we would like to tell you what we are planning, me and Raed,” he said. “Because me and Raed, we have some plan . . . But of course we need someone to protect our back.”
“Of course,” I said.
“And this person who protects our back should be someone who is in a very good position, high position. He has the ability to manage the situation by distance. The ability to deviate the attention of the security services.”
“Staying careful,” I said.
“You understand?”
“I understand,” I said.
Chiheb said Canada and America have armies in the Middle East.
“These armies are taking control of our land and they are spreading corruption on the Earth,” he said. “They are spreading evil, they are spreading, you know, adultery, they are spreading alcohol, you understand? They are spreading Christianity. So it’s our mission to fight those countries that have harmed us. The military power comes from the money power. Because those people who are supporting those evil governments are making war in our land, our home, our lands. So it’s our duty to break their economic resources. To make trouble in their homes.”
“Destroy their homes, because they are destroying our homes,” I said.
Chiheb nodded his head yes.
“An eye for an eye and a tooth . . .” Jaser said.
“A tooth for a tooth,” Chiheb said, finishing his thought.
“And the oppressor is who started it,” Jaser said.
Chiheb thanked me for supporting the brothers overseas with my profits, but said this time was different.
“This is your time now,” Chiheb said. “This is your time and your opportunity to not only support our brothers by money, but also by action.”
Chiheb again laid out how they were going to do the attack. Having talked to Jaser about it at the taxi office, he was pretending to tell me for the first time. The whole time Jaser was silent. In order to prove the conspiracy, I needed him to talk. I needed to bring out the Imam in him.
“It’s brilliant in its simplicity, but how does that serve our purpose as far as letting the world know?” I asked about the plot. “The important thing is to let the nonbelievers understand. Am I right? To let them know that this will keep happening—we can strike you whenever we want. But they’re just gonna think it’s an accident. But actually, it’s an act of war. You understand, habibi?”
Chiheb started to answer. Shielding Jaser, I grabbed Chiheb’s arm and squeezed it. He stopped talking and looked down. Jaser stepped in to fill the silence.
“I got the question for you answered,” Jaser said.
He and Chiheb told me about the video.
“Because we want to make sure that they understand that as long as they’re over there, their people will not feel safe on this side,” Jaser said.
At first, I had feared the dinner might be a trap, but now I was the one setting the trap—and Jaser walked right into it.
“God almighty says fight their leaders,” Jaser said.
He wanted to launch a string of sniper attacks targeting Canada’s leaders. Chiheb was puzzled. How would we get near their leaders? They live in “castles,” as he put it. They were protected, but Jaser said local leaders gave public speeches and attended parades. His example was a recent gay pride parade.
“The reason why is because they feel safe,” he said. “Bunch of faggots. You know what I mean? Who’s gonna attack them? They’re just like them. Okay. That’s when we hit them. This is the plan.”
I stayed silent. Jaser and Chiheb were both committed to carrying out a terrorist attack.
“They feel safe,” Jaser said. “We’re gonna change all that.”