I parked my rental car in front of Chiheb’s apartment. I’d made the drive to his house so often I didn’t even use the GPS. The streets of Montreal were comfortable. I fished out my BlackBerry and scrolled through my contacts until I reached Chiheb’s name. He answered after a few rings.
“I’m in front of your house,” I said.
It sounded like he was outside. I could hear him walking.
“I just finished praying and I’m walking out of the mosque downtown,” he said. “Let me give you an address so you can come pick us up.”
I heard some other voices in the background. Us? I thought.
“Chiheb, who are you with?”
“I’m with a good brother that I met at the mosque,” he said. “I think you should meet him.”
I was silent for a minute. I had to talk about Singapore and there was no way I was going to do that with a stranger present. I didn’t have time for Chiheb’s recruiting tonight. He was spending time in the mosques looking for a replacement for Jaser.
“Listen, get a phone number from him,” I said. “Tell him you’ll call him later tonight. We need to meet alone to talk about some things first.”
“Yes,” Chiheb said. “Yes. Okay.”
He gave me the address of the mosque and I picked him up. We went to a nearby Tim Hortons. He ordered a hot chocolate. I got a tea. We went back to the car. Chiheb blew on his hot chocolate as I talked about my meeting with Abassi.
“He said a few things that caught my attention,” I said.
“He didn’t ask you for money, did he?” Chiheb asked.
“No, no,” I said. “Not at all. He just talked to me about his degree and how he knew chemicals and how with that knowledge he could make anything blow up. He also told me it was our duty to do jihad. What do you need more than manpower for jihad? You need money.”
Chiheb shrugged.
“Of course you do,” he said. “Everybody knows that.”
“Well, it caught my attention,” I said. “It sounded like he’s got some thoughts.”
“Yeah, well, does he have a plan?”
“We didn’t go that far,” I said. “I didn’t go that far because as much as I feel like you’re right—he seems like a good brother—I don’t know him and I can’t trust him like that yet. I just can’t seem to bring myself to go there with him just yet.”
Chiheb turned to face me to make sure I understood what he was saying.
“No, listen. He is a true mujahideen. But he doesn’t want to do anything right now. I bet he is going to want you to pay for his PhD and get him through so that long-term he’ll be able to help the brothers. But you’re supposed to be doing projects along with what you’re doing, your everyday work. You should run them parallel.”
“Okay,” I said. “We’ll get back to that once I talk to him again.”
I told Chiheb I was headed back to Quebec City in February to finish my conversation with Abassi.
“Listen, brother,” I said, trying to sound serious. “I need a favor. You know what’s going on with my uncle and everything. He’s over in Cairo and he’s helping the brothers.”
“Masha’Allah,” Chiheb said. “May God protect him.”
I set my tea in the cup holder and turned to face Chiheb. It was important I sold this pitch. If we couldn’t get Chiheb to abandon his trip to Singapore, our case was sunk. We’d never identify the American sleeper.
“He needs money,” I said. “The banks are screwed up because of the Arab Spring and he needs cash.”
Chiheb had a look on his face that said whatever I needed he would provide.
“No, no,” I said. “I’ve got the money. I have it. I’ll put it together. But he’s sending a brother, a Palestinian brother, over from Egypt to the United States. A brother that I know and he’s a trustworthy brother. He’s good. But we’re talking about a lot of money that we’re going to hide inside a suitcase. That kind of money sometimes . . .”
I paused for a second, building up the tension, the gravity of our mission. I wanted him to come to me. Chiheb finished my sentence.
“The devil can come in,” he said.
“That’s why I need you,” I said. “I can put a million dollars in cash with you. I’d leave. I’d come back and it would be a million dollars plus ten thousand. That’s the way you work.”
Chiheb laughed.
“You’re right, brother,” he said. “I’m as loyal as you think I am.”
“I trust you with my life, let alone my money.”
“Absolutely,” Chiheb said.
I told him the Palestinian brother was coming to New York in mid-December to pick up the cash. Right when Chiheb was supposed to be in Singapore.
“Are you okay with everything? Your schedule?”
Chiheb looked concerned, like he was weighing his options.
“Well, there was this Singapore trip,” he said.
“What’s going on with that?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, sipping his hot chocolate. “It’s no big deal.”
“Well, tell me about it. What’s the thought? What were you going to do?”
“I want to go there because it’s not just for work,” Chiheb said. “It’s great for work, but it’s also for religious purposes. Look at how I met you when I went on my last conference. But also there’s a lot of good brothers over there in Singapore and I was hoping to maybe make some contacts over there.”
But we both knew getting money to the brothers was more important.
“Did you pay? Did you buy a ticket or anything?”
“No, no,” Chiheb said. “I didn’t book anything yet.”
But I could still tell he was hesitating.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“What?” I asked again.
“Well, there was the registration fee, but don’t worry about that.”
“How much was it?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Tell me.”
“Three hundred dollars.”
I smiled as I imagined handing Doug the receipt. The Canadians were going to reimburse him.
“Do you have a receipt?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Here’s what you do. See if you can get your money back. If you can, great. If you can’t, don’t worry about it. Give me the receipt when you come to the States, when you come to New York, give it to me. We’ll put it on your trip. We’ll write it off.”
“You can do that? That’s wonderful. That’s great.”
“Listen, brother,” I said. “I’m sorry about the conference. I really appreciate the help. I hate to ask.”
Chiheb put his hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “It doesn’t matter what I have going on. It doesn’t matter. If you say you need me, I will be there.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Now go ahead and get your visa. Do it for a week. Until December 22. You still have the address, the name of the airport, location, my information, everything?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll e-mail the embassy tomorrow.”
“How do you feel about eventually inviting Ahmed to New York?”
We both knew that Abassi was going to Tunisia to celebrate his wedding at the end of December. I wanted to get in front of him in Quebec City, get his true colors on tape, and then arrest him in New York.
Chiheb looked up like he was thinking for a second.
“Hear me out,” I said. “You’re not sure if he’s about money or if he’s about jihad. You say he’s a mujahid.”
“Yes,” Chiheb said. “He’s one hundred percent mujahideen. But I’m afraid that he has some money things as well.”
We were back to the loaned money.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s put him to the test. We fly him to New York, we have him stay at a nice place, we have him go out with us, see the sights, and then the three of us sit down together. And then you do your thing. You put him to the test.”
I could just make out Chiheb’s smile in the thick hair of his beard as he let out a deep chuckle like he was Baba Noel.
“We’re putting him to the test so we’ll see whether he’s about the money or jihad,” he said.
“Exactly,” I said. “Don’t give me an answer now. Think about it. If you want to do it, we do it. If you don’t, we don’t need him. I need you right now. I don’t need him.”
I could see Chiheb’s pride swell.
“Wouldn’t it be great if we can get everything lined up with the American sleeper by the time you get to the States?” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “I just sent an e-mail a few days ago asking Abu Hamza for the phone number for El Massoul.”
“Why don’t you let Abu Hamza know you’re going to be in the United States to meet with a brother and that you could call him from there,” I said. “We’ll get a secure phone of some sort.”
“I’m not so sure about secure phones, and I can never tell him where I’m going,” Chiheb said.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m under orders,” he said. “El Massoul said I’m never allowed to tell anyone, even Abu Hamza, where I am or where I’m going. That’s rule number one.”
“Alright,” I said. “So that’s out.”
Chiheb said the delay was getting in touch with El Massoul. Only Abu Hamza could do it, and El Massoul was still in Afghanistan.
“They are both traveling,” Chiheb said. “I’m patient. I’m trying to be patient. We’ll give it some more time.”
“Okay,” I said.
There was nothing else I could do that night. I was happy with my Singapore victory.
“Tell me about this brother you met,” I said.
“I met him yesterday,” he said. “His name is Mohammed. We met at the mosque. He is from Tunisia too.”
Chiheb wanted me to meet him and test him. Mohammed was a promising lead, but I shook my head when he was finished.
“You know what, I don’t want to meet this guy,” I said. “Why don’t you go ahead and meet him. Figure it out yourself. If you feel like this is someone worth talking to, we’ll move forward. If not, then there’s really no reason for me to meet him, right?”
“Yeah,” Chiheb said, his shoulders slumped in disappointment. “You’re right.”
Chiheb called Mohammed and canceled. I could hear Mohammed on the line questioning Chiheb.
“Why don’t you want to meet me?” he said.
I tried to ignore the conversation, but something was nagging me about Mohammed. On the off chance that I might be missing something, I reached out and touched Chiheb’s arm. Chiheb asked Mohammed to hold on and covered the phone.
“Tell him we’ll meet him,” I said. “Where’s he at?”
We picked him up near the mosque and went to a Turkish restaurant downtown. Mohammed was a large man with a beer belly. Something was off with him from the minute he got into the back of the car. He always seemed to have something on the tip of his tongue.
We kept the conversation light. Current events. Islam, but not the heavy stuff. Small talk about our families. I kept my eyes locked on Mohammed throughout dinner. He was always trying to say the right thing. He was constantly thinking. Nothing was natural. I could see it in his eyes. His mind was working through the conversation, always looking for a gap to draw out information. He was either a wannabe jihadi or an informant. In the car afterward, Chiheb wanted to know my impression.
“There’s something there,” I said. “I don’t know what it is, but there’s something there. That’s your job to vet him.”
We both were perplexed and quiet because we couldn’t figure out his deal.
“One thing I know for sure is he’s fat,” I said.
Chiheb chuckled. “Yes, he is fat.”
We never brought him up again. I dropped off Chiheb at his apartment. Before he got out, I gave him a hug and thanked him again for coming to New York.
“I can’t thank you enough,” I told Chiheb. “I’ll get the paperwork together. Let me know when your visa comes in. Brother, do you need anything? Can we stop at a food store so I can stock up your fridge?”
“No, brother,” Chiheb said. “I am eating. I am praying. I am sleeping. I have all that I need.”
I drove back to the safe house. The more I thought about Mohammed, the angrier I got. I was convinced he was an informant, likely put in place by CSIS to keep tabs on the case. This was the second time they’d gotten in the way. The first was the dog walkers who interrupted my talk with Jaser and Chiheb in Toronto.
But this was worse.
Mohammed wasn’t a good informant. He didn’t actively listen. He tried to steer the conversation. Everything came out forced. We were lucky Chiheb was so desperate for help that he wasn’t picking up the tells. I slammed the safe house door shut and slumped into a chair. Nelly looked at Joey and Doug.
“He didn’t go for the New York trip?” Joey said.
“No, he is on board,” I said. “That worked beautifully.”
“What’s wrong then?”
I pulled my jacket off and put in a pinch of snuff.
“Fucking CSIS,” I said.
“What?” Nelly said. “They had surveillance out there again?”
“No,” I said. “The guy I had dinner with tonight is a fucking informant. His body language sucked. He was trying to give us his legend, which was full of holes. Everything was a lie. All he wanted to do was bring the conversation back to jihad. You better call CSIS. This shit has to stop.”
Joey looked at Doug and Nelly. Both men hung their heads. No one wanted to look at me.
“Well, the cat’s out of the bag,” Joey said.
“Calm down, brother,” Doug said. “He’s not CSIS.”
I looked at Joey.
“Don’t look at me.”
“That was our call,” Doug said. “Chiheb was in the mosque talking jihad and this guy walked into our office and said he had information about a terrorist. We interviewed him to keep him from knowing we had an ongoing op. We signed him up but we didn’t think you’d meet him. We didn’t want to tell you about him so it wouldn’t cloud your judgment.”
“That motherfucker knew who I was?” I said.
“No, we didn’t tell him shit,” Doug said. “As a matter of fact, he just called his handler with his assessment. He said you were an evil fuck and we should let the Americans know you’re a real terrorist and Chiheb is a danger to everything and everyone. His assessment was spot-on. But we didn’t tell him anything.”
I understood why they didn’t tell me. Under Canadian rules they couldn’t. I flew home the next day. Chiheb’s New York trip was paramount; that was where I had to be focused. At this point, the team was convinced if we identified the American sleeper, the Canadians couldn’t shut us down.
But Chiheb still confused me. He was a bad guy when he was in jihadi mode. But that wasn’t all the time. I’d spent so much time with him when he wasn’t talking about murder every minute. I knew how much he liked the Jordanian girl in his office. I admired his willingness to help me. That kind of selflessness you don’t see very often. I saw him as a human and not just a target. I wished there was a way to keep him from throwing the switch. A way for him to keep his deep, hearty laugh. Keep him in Baba Noel mode. Abassi and El Massoul had poisoned him. I knew he was going to jail and that was where he belonged. But I wondered if we could bring him back to true Islam.
It was Thanksgiving week and I wasn’t going to see my father, a tradition we’d held since my mother passed away. I called him as I drove home from the airport.
“How was your trip?” my father asked.
He knew I worked undercover for the FBI.
“It was alright,” I said.
“What’s wrong?”
He heard it in my voice.
“You know what?” I said. “It just weighs on you.”
“I know you can’t talk about what it is you do, but if there is anything you want to talk about generally, I’m here for you,” my father said.
“Let me ask you something.”
“Sure,” he said.
I still had Chiheb on my mind. The question of if he could be saved was nagging me. As a Muslim, I wanted to know if it was my duty to try to save his soul. I was stepping out of my cop mind-set when I called my father. I was searching for guidance in the same religion Chiheb perverted. I couldn’t go to an Imam, but I could ask my father. I knew few non-Imams who understood the Quran better.
“When someone misinterprets our religion,” I said. “When someone is so far gone and uses Islam as a weapon to kill, but that is their only bad fault, is there anything redeemable? Is there anything that can fix that person? Bring that person back to being a true Muslim?”
I heard my father let out a sigh. He was thinking. Searching his memory of the Quran and his experiences. It was a question all Muslims struggle with. Islam is what makes me who I am. So, how do I identify with the same faith as a small group of mass murderers? Being a Muslim didn’t make us villains.
“Listen, it has been my experience that it is very rare when someone is so taken by hatred and evil that they’ve reached the point where they are using God and Islam to take another soul, any soul, even a military soul,” my father said. “That person is far gone. Nothing you say or do will bring them back. But the only advice I can give you is to be sure that person is at that point.”
In my head, I was thinking about the Christian burial speech. How Chiheb had laid out his justifications for killing men, women, and children in the name of Allah.
“And if I am sure they are at that point?” I asked.
“If that is the case, it is your duty as a Muslim and as an American to not only stop them but stop them dead in their tracks and make an example of them,” my father said. “That is not Islam. That is not anything resembling Islam. That is an evil that needs to be wiped off our planet.”
As my father was explaining things to me, I became Chiheb. I argued his justifications for the attack, testing my father’s assertions. Each time my father shut it down.
“What you are describing is a warped rationalization,” he said when I was finished. “It is human. The Quran is from Allah. When you try to change what is black and white, that is human. That is haram. The Prophet said to you, peace be upon him, this is Islam. These are the rules of Islam. These are the rules of war in Islam. No innocent person can be killed. Women and children of your enemy are off-limits. Even the men of your enemy who are not fighting are off-limits. Never to be touched. The only people of your enemy that you are allowed to kill during times of war are the combatants. That is black and white in the Quran. Anyone who colors outside those lines is spitting in the eyes of God. Anytime you change the meaning of Islam, it is a complete desecration of the religion.”
Just hearing my father say that gave me the affirmation I needed. I never doubted my actions. I wasn’t seeing things in Chiheb’s way. I just saw the human side of a monster, and I didn’t want to abandon Chiheb if he could be saved.
But I knew he couldn’t.
My father was right. Chiheb was gone.