Back in Montreal, Chiheb wanted me to meet two like-minded brothers for dinner.
We met them at an Egyptian seafood restaurant not far from his apartment. The last two weeks had been a blur. I’d gone from relaxing on a beach in the Caribbean (well, trying to), to being embedded in an al Qaeda plot to derail a train in Canada, to trying to find an American sleeper cell.
It was September 11, 2012, and I was in no mood to be breaking bread with a terrorist. But I put on my best smile and tried to at least enjoy my food.
The two men were actual brothers from Tunisia. They arrived just as we got to the restaurant. Both were engineers who worked in Montreal. Typical Middle Eastern foreigners: young, educated, religious, and generous.
Over fish, Chiheb worked politics into the conversation when he could, but it was obvious that the brothers weren’t interested. There were a few times when I was a little embarrassed for Chiheb as he tested their interpretations of hadiths and scolded them when their views were different from his. The brothers failed Chiheb’s test.
I paid for dinner and we walked to the Cold Stone Creamery across the street for ice cream. The Tunisian brothers paid for dessert. As we were eating our ice cream, I was making fun of Chiheb about his hard-line views. He knew I was trying to placate the brothers and played along. We said our goodbyes and I drove Chiheb home.
“Those are good brothers,” I said.
“But not like-minded,” Chiheb said. “They are not like us.”
“Few of us are like you, brother,” I said as I stopped in front of his apartment building. “I am floored that you were actually trained by our elders, my brother. How did that happen? I’d love to hear that story.”
From the beginning, something had bothered me about Chiheb. It didn’t make sense that this goofy scientist with a Canadian visa ended up one step removed from the leader of al Qaeda in less than one year.
There was no doubt he wanted to kill Westerners. It never left his heart, even when it was the furthest thing from anyone’s mind. But this dark center was hidden from view by a jovial scientist working to cure the world’s deadliest diseases. He laughed like Baba Noel, the Arabic name for Santa Claus. It was hard to wrap my head around.
As we sat in front of his building, I wanted to know whether he was evil or someone overseas had turned him into a monster. Chiheb was happy to tell me the story. He was proud of his time in Iran.
When Chiheb got to Canada in 2008, he was lost. Everything was foreign. He barely spoke the language. The weather was frigid and he recognized few customs. The order he found in the laboratory was absent in his daily life. Exiled from the daily rhythms of Montreal, his focus turned inward. He studied Islam, read the Bible and Torah. He was looking to bring order to the chaos of the real world. But it wasn’t until he started to follow the war in Afghanistan that things crystalized.
“I researched their struggles in Afghanistan,” he said. “I wanted to die on the battlefield with the mujahideen brothers.”
In the spring of 2011, Chiheb emptied his bank account, bought a one-way ticket to Tehran, and planned to drive to Afghanistan.
“Buying a ticket to Kabul was too obvious,” Chiheb told me.
“Why didn’t you go to Pakistan?” I asked.
Most foreign fighters filtered in through the ratlines in Pakistan’s tribal areas.
“Pakistan is a friend to the United States,” Chiheb said. “Iran is not.”
I still didn’t know what pushed him to seek out the mujahideen, but I didn’t press it. I wanted him to tell his story.
When he landed in Tehran, a cab driver at the airport befriended him. The cabbie was a Sunni Muslim, like Chiheb, which is a minority in Iran. Chiheb stayed at the cabbie’s house for a few days. But his mind was still across the border in Afghanistan.
“I need to get to the border to cross into Afghanistan to help the brothers,” Chiheb told the cabbie.
“No,” the cabbie said. “Stop talking. That kind of talk will get you in trouble.”
Chiheb pleaded for his help, and the cabbie hooked him up with a friend who was more sympathetic. Chiheb paid thousands of dollars for a ride to Zahedan, a town in southeastern Iran that bordered Afghanistan and Pakistan.
“I just told him to drive me as close to the border as possible,” Chiheb said.
When they arrived in Zahedan, Chiheb and the driver stopped at a local mosque to pray.
“Everyone stared at us,” Chiheb said.
Right after prayer, a couple of young men wanted to know who Chiheb was and why he was there.
“I told them I was passing through on my way to Afghanistan. I asked to speak to the Imam so I could get some guidance on crossing the border.”
One of the young men got El Mofti, an old Iranian man in his late sixties. He limped out from the back of the mosque to meet Chiheb.
“Where is the easiest place to cross the border into Afghanistan?” Chiheb asked.
“Are you hungry?” El Mofti asked. “Come, I know a restaurant nearby where we can eat.”
Chiheb thanked the driver and followed El Mofti to a restaurant. They took a table in the back and ate.
“I was completely truthful with him,” Chiheb said. “I told him that I was ready to die for Allah and that it is my destiny to fight with the mujahideen in Afghanistan.”
Chiheb found out later El Mofti had thought he was a spy, but his truthfulness at dinner changed the Imam’s mind. El Mofti invited Chiheb to stay at his home.
“El Mofti kept telling me not to go to Afghanistan,” Chiheb said. “I stayed at his house for a few days until I needed a new visa.”
Chiheb got a cab and started his trek back to Tehran to renew his visa. On his way out, he realized he needed to change his Canadian dollars to Iranian rials. Chiheb stopped at the mosque to ask where he could change money. One of the young boys ran to the back and told El Mofti Chiheb was leaving.
“Don’t go, brother,” El Mofti told Chiheb. “There is someone I want you to meet. A very special guest.”
Chiheb tried explaining that he was just going to get his visa renewed, but El Mofti shooed the cab away and he brought Chiheb back to his house.
“Don’t worry about your visa,” he told Chiheb.
That night, a tall Afghan wearing a black robe and a black turban came to El Mofti’s house.
“The second I laid eyes on him, I knew I made the right choice,” Chiheb said.
It was Abu Hamza. He spent the evening getting to know Chiheb.
“He tested me,” Chiheb said. “Like I tested you.”
“You passed?” I asked.
“Yes,” Chiheb said. “Like you.”
Chiheb spent almost a week at Abu Hamza’s house. He learned al Qaeda’s codes and how to send messages to the brothers overseas.
“I wanted to learn how to shoot,” Chiheb said. “I wanted to be a soldier.”
But Abu Hamza had other plans. Chiheb had a Canadian visa. He had access to the West.
“Your brilliant mind shouldn’t be wasted on the battlefield,” Abu Hamza said. “You will be the best of the mujahideen because you will be able to do Allah’s work in the heart of the infidel’s land.”
Abu Hamza told Chiheb to go back to Canada and await further instructions. Chiheb spent almost a year working and studying in Montreal.
“My mother called me months later,” he said. “She said strangers came to her house and introduced themselves as my new friends.”
Al Qaeda was checking his story. Then in February 2012, Chiheb was instructed to return to Zahedan for his training. He bought a ticket and flew out the day after he got the e-mail. He stayed at Abu Hamza’s house.
“Tell me about him, brother,” I said.
“Abu Hamza was a general with the Taliban, but I was trained by a general in al Qaeda.”
“Who is that?” I asked.
“El Massoul,” he replied.
Abu Hamza drove Chiheb to the outskirts of the city to meet El Massoul, who dressed in a long white robe and wore a camouflage jacket like Osama bin Laden.
“It was the Sheikh’s jacket,” Chiheb said. “El Massoul wore it everywhere. Meeting him was the greatest moment of my life.”
Chiheb lived with El Massoul for six weeks, where he learned about the train plot, how to recruit like-minded brothers, and how to resist torture.
“Resist torture?” I said. “Did they actually torture you?”
“No,” Chiheb said. “El Massoul explained that it would be an honor to be tortured by the infidels in this life instead of the afterlife and to accept the pain. Because it will be nothing like the pain of hellfire.”
“Was there any Islamic studies done during your training?” I asked.
“Not once,” he said. “That’s not what this training was about.”
Of course not.
“El Massoul left for a few days, but promised to return before I went back to Canada,” Chiheb said. “When he returned, he had a note for me.”
It was handwritten in Arabic, Chiheb said.
“It said ‘Focus on your studies and don’t argue.’”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It’s like what your uncle told you,” Chiheb said. “Live amongst them, as them, to defeat them. Blend in using my work. The second part, I had to ask El Massoul. He told me it meant not to draw any attention to myself when I was finding good brothers.”
“Is that how you found me?” I asked, hammering home the fact that he chose me.
“Yes. El Massoul told me that when you try to bring a brother along and he argues with you, try again. If he argues again, leave him. Don’t fight with him.”
“That’s an amazing story, my brother,” I said.
But Chiheb wasn’t done. He took out his wallet. It was thick with notes, receipts, a small Quran.
“Tamer, that note that El Massoul gave me was from our Sheikh,” Chiheb said.
He held up his wallet.
“I carry it everywhere with me.”
He’d mentioned the note during our road trip to Toronto, but I didn’t really understand its significance. The Sheikh was Ayman al-Zawahiri, the leader of al Qaeda. El Massoul was one of a handful of people on the planet who could meet with the Sheikh in person, Chiheb said.
“Are you kidding me? Habibi, you have a note directly from our Sheikh?” I said. “Masha’Allah.”
Chiheb returned to Montreal soon after getting the note and continued his studies just like al-Zawahiri ordered. He also started working on the train plot. We met shortly thereafter.
“El Massoul told me to be ready by the end of the year,” Chiheb said. “He will send me an e-mail with the code word to attack.”
“What is the code?” I asked.
“Akbar.”