The next morning the whole team met in the suite. We were hanging around bullshitting when Kenny got the call from Headquarters.
We all watched him talk, trying to read his body language. He said little. His body language was neutral. A bad feeling fell over me. Kenny thanked the person on the other side of the call and hung up.
“It’s over,” he said. “The Canadians are executing their arrest and search warrants. They’re going to wait until you and Abassi get to JFK. Nelly is heading the arrest team in New York.”
I went numb.
It was April 22, 2013. The week before, two homemade bombs had detonated twelve seconds apart near the finish line of the annual Boston Marathon. Chechen-American brothers Dzhokhar Tsarnaev and Tamerlan Tsarnaev killed three people and injured hundreds of others.
Everyone was on edge. No one wanted to let a terrorist slip out of our grasp.
“They are aware of the latest intel about the American sleeper, right?” I said.
Kenny nodded.
“They know everything,” he said. “It’s over.”
Joey crashed on the couch and made a blanket out of the USA Today. He closed his eyes. Kenny and Johnny sat down and stared blankly out the window overlooking the Strip.
“How could we let the fucking Canadians dictate our national security?” I said, taking Joey’s place pacing around the room.
Kenny leaned back in his chair.
“Headquarters actually congratulated us just now,” he said. “We should be proud of this case. We saved lives, they said.”
While management on both sides of the border were high-fiving, everyone in that suite, along with Nelly back home, felt like someone had kicked them in the balls. I collapsed on the bed and tried to make sense of what was happening. A small part of me was relieved. It was over. I could go back to my life and all the other cases the Bureau had on hold. But mostly I was angry.
I felt like the Canadians and the FBI wasted all of our hard work. We had a platform set up to actively vet any and all known threats on both sides of the border. What about the American sleeper?
Looking back, I understand the impossible position our government was in with the Canadians. We never had any concrete proof of the American sleeper. For all they knew, Abu Hamza was a fifteen-year-old kid in Iran stringing Chiheb along. The cop in me knows that. The boss in me knows the decision had to be made. The case was done. We took three terrorists off the street, and our government could preserve an important relationship with a foreign partner that was already strained because of multiple extensions.
But this wasn’t a victory. Best case, we tied. But really you could say we failed. Every time I hear about someone committing a terrorist act on U.S. soil, I wonder if that was the American sleeper. Chiheb was a lot of things, but he was never a liar. Personally, I have no doubt that there was an American sleeper. My biggest regret is that I couldn’t find him.
I spent months imagining what the American sleeper looked like. Every time the image was the same. He was the real Tamer Elnoury in my mind. In my daydreams, he was always in a business suit. I could see him watching the press conference announcing Chiheb’s arrest on the flat-screen in his office. Rattled, he dumps his cell phone in the trash outside his building and disappears into the crowd walking down the street.
I was in a bad mood when I met Abassi in the lobby a couple of hours later. He couldn’t stop fidgeting as we stood in line to get a cab to the airport. He was giddy with purpose. Even though Farris wasn’t receptive, Abassi was energized by the trip. I think he liked being on the road trying to recruit like-minded brothers and making plans.
I pretended to care about all his visions and plans, but it was hard because I knew what was waiting for us when we landed. The more he spoke, the happier I became about ending the case. I couldn’t get arrested fast enough.
At the airport, I upgraded to first class as one last fuck-you to executive management. I decided to blame them for the case ending. I was acting out instead of taking the blame. It’s embarrassing looking back on it now, but it did make the flight back to New York more comfortable. Besides, it was the only way Abassi and I could sit together.
About midway through the flight, it hit me: I was probably never going to see Chiheb again. We weren’t friends and it wasn’t like I felt sorry for him. It was just strange knowing someone so well. I knew more about him than his family. I had seen his dark side. But I’d also met a brilliant scientist with girl troubles. A goofy guy who liked lobster. I knew the terrorist and the man. While I was happy the terrorist would never be free, I felt sorry for the man. I felt bad that a man with so much to offer to the world got duped by murderers posing as holy men. It made me sad that they’d used my religion to pollute him. I was still frustrated I couldn’t save him. What a waste.
When the pilot told the flight attendants to take their seats for landing, I got anxious. I knew what was coming. Getting arrested is an unnatural act. Even though I knew it was fake and I had been arrested many times, it always left me with a peculiar energy. Not anxiety or stress. A mix of both with a side of adrenaline. My skin started to tingle and my legs felt rubbery as I left the plane and walked toward the gate.
We were first off the plane. It was cold as we entered the airport. Abassi was still talking at me while I scanned the airport. I noticed seven or eight agents dressed in plain clothes following us as we walked from the gate toward baggage claim. I recognized a couple of them. Nelly was standing near the baggage carousel. We made eye contact.
I watched the bags on the belt. Abassi got his bag first. I could feel the agents close in a little when Abassi reached down and grabbed it. A few more suitcases passed me. I shot a glance at Nelly. He looked calm. My big, gaudy Samsonite silver hard case parted the rubber flaps and trundled toward me a minute later. I took one more look around and noticed the surveillance guys getting closer. I grabbed my bag and started walking to the exit with Abassi. The surveillance guys surrounded us as Nelly blocked our path. He slid his suit jacket open to show us his shield.
“FBI,” he said. “Would you folks please come with us?”
“What’s this about?” I asked.
Normally, I would have put on a song and dance, but I was exhausted.
“Please come with us and we’ll explain everything to you,” Nelly said.
Nelly and another agent bracketed Abassi. Two agents I didn’t know stepped next to me. They took us toward two different SUVs.
“Where am I going?” Abassi asked. “Where are you taking him? Why are we being separated?”
Abassi gave me a confident look, as if to reassure me that he was in control. He knew the drill. We were taken to separate interrogation rooms at JFK. Nelly left Abassi and came to see me. He took my cuffs off and gave me a hug.
“You good, habibi?” he asked.
“I will be.”
“What do you want to do?”
FBI protocol was to keep me under lock and key until the dust settled. I knew I couldn’t go home till at least the next day, but I didn’t want to be around anyone. I just wanted to be alone.
“You have someone who can take me to my undercover apartment?” I asked.
Usually, I would get my gun, credentials, and phones back at this point, but I wasn’t ready to plug back in just yet. I took the backpack with my true identity in it but didn’t turn on my phone.
One of the surveillance agents drove me to my apartment. The poor guy was feeling pretty good about being part of this “huge success,” but he wasn’t getting that vibe from me. I didn’t say a word the whole ride back.
The agent dropped me off and I called over to the operations center and asked them to take the cameras off-line. I didn’t want anyone watching me anymore. I turned the TV on just in time for the breaking news alert. The Canadians were holding a press conference. It felt rehearsed, and no one on that screen had a clue about what had actually transpired over the past year. ABC News was the first to connect the Abassi arrest to the VIA Rail plot in Canada a few days later. But I still wasn’t sure why the Canadians were in such a rush to end the case.
The very next week the Canadians announced their version of the Patriot Act, which passed swiftly through Parliament. This was the win they needed and just cause for this new legislation.
I found out later Chiheb was arrested in Montreal outside a McDonald’s. He was flown to Toronto and informed of his right to counsel, but he declined. Chiheb told the Canadians he refused to be judged by man-made laws and that he only wanted to be judged by Sharia Law.
During the interrogation, Chiheb spoke freely. He even corrected his interrogator about the plot details. He was trying to find a bridge with as little water as possible to maximize casualties. He pointed to the officer’s notepad and told him to write that down. When Chiheb was told that I was an undercover FBI agent, he didn’t believe it. He protected me through every interrogation, but gave up Jaser and Abassi. He even talked about Abu Hamza and El Massoul. But he wouldn’t give me up. The money Tamer was providing to the mujahideen was critical. It was so important Chiheb dedicated his doctoral thesis—his life’s work—to me and my company instead of his professors, family, and research partners. It was his way of thanking me and acknowledging that nothing else matters besides helping the brothers overseas. When they played recordings from our conversations, he just assumed that the government wired us up and I had nothing to do with it. Chiheb was given enough discovery documents to finally believe that I was an FBI agent.
A month after his arrest, Chiheb gave an interview to a Toronto newspaper. Nelly forwarded me the link. Chiheb was savvy enough not to discuss the particulars of the case, but I was confused why he would break his silence to the media, until the last paragraph of the article. Chiheb told the reporter that despite being in jail, he was eating, sleeping, and praying. He had all he needed. Translation: Fuck you, Tamer.
Jaser was arrested in his home the same day the RCMP got Chiheb. A SWAT team executed the search and arrest warrants. He lawyered up right away and didn’t say a word.
I didn’t get much sleep the night of our arrests. I started packing up the apartment before dawn. The FBI told me I was clear to leave in the morning. I took one last look at the white Egyptian porcelain teapot on the stove I’d used so many times to make tea and left shortly after the sun came up. On my ride home, I got a phone call from my supervisor at the National Security Covert Operations Unit—the Dirty Arabs Group.
“I know you must be exhausted, but is there any way you could get to Portland tomorrow?”
In all my years in the FBI, I never said no to any other case. But this time, I did. I didn’t even ask what the case was about.
After a few weeks, I came out of my funk and dove headfirst into my caseload. About a year later, I received a subpoena from the Crown Counsel, the prosecutors working the case. Chiheb’s refusal to even acknowledge the charges forced the Canadians to give him a trial. He and Jaser were being tried together, despite Jaser’s lawyers’ argument for separate trials.
I called Nelly.
“Is this for real?” I said. “They’re really taking this to trial?”
I’d testified many times in drug cases but never in a counterterrorism trial. The defendants always pled guilty. I stared at the subpoena in disbelief, my heart rate rising. I thought about my family. This was the nightmare I worried about before I took the case. Vinnie’s words echoed in my head.
This case is going to change your life.
He had no idea.
I called Heidi in our National Security Law Branch. The subpoena was legit. The Canadians’ case was based on my investigation. It was impossible to prosecute Chiheb and Jaser without me. But before I could testify, Heidi told me the Canadian courts had to rule on her thirty-three-page affidavit, signed by the assistant director of the FBI, requesting that the Canadians honor the same protections afforded to me in the United States. The RCMP had already agreed to it, but the court had to now. It didn’t take much convincing for the Canadians to agree.
The court let me testify as Tamer Elnoury. The prosecutors, defense team, and court personnel all signed a nondisclosure agreement promising not to reveal anything about my identity. The media wouldn’t be able to cover my testimony in the courtroom, but they could listen to it.
The Crown and FBI were happy, but now I had to be Tamer in front of Chiheb and Jaser, one last time.