A predictable flurry of last-minute suggestions followed my e-mail. Eventually I incorporated the last of them into the brief; my work was done. As I headed out, I stopped by Bob’s office to see if he needed anything else. Bob sat at his desk, looking genuinely relaxed for the first time since the case began.
Bob took a drag from his cigarette, exhaled, then leaned back in his chair. “You’re good,” he said, reclining slightly. Then he nodded. “You’re good.”
“Thanks, Bob.”
He offered to call a car service for me, but I declined. I lived only twelve minutes from the firm in White Plains, and had enough energy to make it back to my apartment. I walked to my car and, when I got there, took a look back at Boies Schiller’s offices. The firm’s Armonk, New York, office was in a three-story neo-Georgian building reputedly modeled after David Boies’s house. It was a crisp February morning, I’d finished the brief, Bob Silver had been impressed by my work, and my three-day weekend was beginning. Does it get any better than this?
The victorious feeling wasn’t gone when I woke up later that day. I grabbed a beer, flopped down on the green leather couch in our living room, and flipped aimlessly through the TV channels. When Amy came home she gave me a kiss, and I told her how work on the brief had gone, how pleased Bob Silver was with my work.
Amy has the most expressive face I’ve ever seen, one that communicates many thoughts with no spoken words. In response to the crinkle of Amy’s eyebrows and her amused grin, I said, “Yeah, I know he’s crazy. But he’s the number four partner at Boies Schiller. I want him to like my work.”
Amy was cooking dinner when the phone rang. It was my parents. They sounded worried.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s Pete,” my dad said. “Al Haramain’s offices got raided.”
“What?” Suddenly the victorious feeling vanished completely. I had hoped to keep my life at Al Haramain separate from my current life, but now Al Haramain came crashing back in.
“It’s in all the papers,” my dad said. “The FBI raided the offices yesterday. ”
“Not good.” I’d only begun to think through the consequences. Would I be investigated? Was I already being investigated? Almost involuntarily, my thoughts turned to my security clearance.
My dad voiced these concerns. “Is this going to affect your ability to get a security clearance from the government?” He knew that I had applied for one when I clerked on the D.C. Circuit.
I put the best face on the situation for my parents. “Who knows? It might actually help me get a clearance, since they’ll be able to see all of Al Haramain’s records now.”
Dad wasn’t buying it. “How could it help you get a security clearance?”
I walked to the balcony outside and looked at the playground across the street. The night remained peaceful, in contrast to the panic that I felt. “Now that they’ve raided Al Haramain, they’ll be able to verify what I told them in my last FBI interview. I didn’t sugarcoat what was going on behind closed doors. They’ll be able to see some of the hateful things that Pete said about non-Muslims.”
Dad sounded surprised. “Pete said hateful things about non-Muslims?”
“Yeah, he would. What went on behind closed doors there was different than their public image.”
“Do you think Pete was just tricking Rabbi David when he built their friendship?” my mom said. She was referring to David Zaslow, a local rabbi who had been friends with Pete, and who was his biggest defender after Al Haramain garnered unwanted attention for alleged ties to al-Qaeda.
“I don’t know. I didn’t hear him say anything about David while I was there.” My answer was curt. It was cold outside, and the living room’s lights seemed appealing. “Look, I’m tired. I’ve been working on a case nonstop for the past two weeks. I can’t deal with this now.”
I got off the phone with my parents, walked back into the apartment, and sat down on the couch, placing my forearm over my head. “What’s wrong?” Amy asked.
“Al Haramain was raided,” I said.
We tried to talk it through. Should I approach the FBI? During the FBI interview at the Washington Field Office, it became obvious that they were investigating Al Haramain, but I didn’t know why.
The newspaper stories provided more detail. Federal agents believed that Pete and Soliman al-But’he had smuggled about $130,000 out of the country to aid the Chechen mujahideen in March of 2000. Something clicked: I realized that this smuggling had occurred at the time that Soliman was passing through New York City, around the time that Pete had wanted me to meet with him at the airport.
Pete and Soliman had gotten $130,000 in traveler’s checks from an Ashland bank. At first, when they asked for this much money, a bank employee told them that the branch didn’t have that many traveler’s checks on hand and suggested cashier’s checks instead. Pete replied that the money was going to help people who couldn’t cash cashier’s checks. He was eventually able to get the money in traveler’s checks.
Shortly afterward, Soliman left the country with the traveler’s checks and failed to declare them at customs. An article in the Medford Mail Tribune, a local paper, explained:The IRS does claim Seda lied about the money in the foundation’s 2000 tax return, reporting that the $130,000 went toward the purchase of a prayer house in Springfield, Mo. The government suspects the pair acted in such a way to avoid government scrutiny and retain the foundation’s tax-exempt status as a charitable organization, the affidavit states. The allegations could lead to violations of federal tax and financial-reporting laws, felonies together punishable by up to 13 years in prison.
I didn’t know before why Al Haramain was being investigated. I had thought (and wished) that this might be part of a wild goose chase on the government’s part. But I thought about Pete’s contempt for U.S. tax laws. I thought about his support for the Chechen mujahideen. And the allegations made sense.
I asked Amy if she thought I should get in touch with the FBI.
“You already said that they could call you if they needed anything,” she said. “They probably would have gotten in touch with you if they thought you could be helpful.”
All weekend, I could think about nothing but the Al Haramain raid. I wished I could go back to Thursday. Life was so much simpler when all I had to worry about was pleasing the firm’s partners.
I finally decided to call the FBI. I knew I had information that might be useful. It had been my choice to hook up with Pete Seda and the Al Haramain Islamic Foundation in the first place. The least I could do was try to make the right choices now.
I called the Portland Field Office on Sunday, and said that I wanted to talk to someone about the Al Haramain investigation. I was told that the Medford Field Office was handling the case, but that nobody would be there until Monday.
On Monday, in my Boies Schiller office, I made the call. My office door didn’t have a lock, but I shut it anyway and sat at the desk. The phone felt like a lead weight in my hand. I dialed slowly.
A woman answered. I stumbled through my introduction. “Um, I know that the FBI raided the Ashland office of the Al Haramain Islamic Foundation last week. I thought I could provide some useful information because I used to work for them.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
“My name is Daveed Gartenstein-Ross. I worked for Al Haramain back in 1999.”
“Oh,” she said. “I know who you are.”
I know who you are? That single comment triggered every paranoid thought I had over the previous two years about the FBI carefully monitoring my every move.
But I pressed on, telling her that after learning about why Al Haramain had been raided, I realized that I may have information that could be useful. As I began to describe Abdul-Qaadir’s e-mail list that had been used to spread propaganda for the Chechen mujahideen, she told me she was going to hand the phone to another agent who had more experience in dealing with technology. And she handed the phone to Dave Carroll, who had writt
en the questions that I was asked in my first interview with the FBI.
Our conversation lasted over an hour. I was nervous that the door would burst open in the middle of my talk with the FBI. At the end, I told Dave, “You know, I spent a long time trying to decide whether to call you guys. My wife thought that I shouldn’t. She said you probably would have gotten in touch with me if you thought I could be useful.”
He burst out laughing. “I’d like to come out to Westchester,” he said. “I want to sit down with you face-to-face, ask you some questions, spend a day with you.”
My reaction was probably unusual for someone whose former employer was raided by the FBI, and is told that an agent wants to spend a day with him and ask questions. I couldn’t wait.
I felt a great sense of relief. My transition wasn’t yet complete, but it had begun. I had once worked for an Islamic charity that conspired to fund terrorists abroad while spreading radicalism at home. After that, I never understood how to explain this unusual episode to others, nor how it would affect my present life. But that was changing.
Now, for the first time, I was no longer trying to simply wish away that part of my life. I was beginning to embrace all that had happened to me—my conversion to Islam, my radicalization, my association with Islamic extremist figures—and to realize how it could be used for the good. Just as I knew that I was journeying into a new world after I became a Muslim in Rimini, there was another new world before me now, one far less charted.
fourteen
REUNION
It was a bright, hot day, and I felt nervous.
June 5, 2006, was the first time I set foot on Georgetown University’s campus. I was walking toward the Intercultural Center. My pace was slow because I was twenty minutes ahead of schedule, but I was nonetheless focused on my destination.
The small details weren’t lost on me along the way. There was a smell of fresh-cut grass that, appropriately enough, reminded me of Wake Forest’s quad. Some of the summer session students were outside. A few, wearing backpacks and clutching new textbooks, were headed to class. Others stood around talking with the nervousness typical of the newly acquainted. A few students smoked—but not as many as I remembered puffing on cigarettes a decade ago in the tobacco mecca of Winston-Salem.
Using the campus map that I had printed off the Internet, I spotted the Intercultural Center. It was an ugly, square brick building with windows set far back in the walls that gave it the appearance of a parking garage. I entered through the plate-glass double doors and walked through the student common area, past a coffee stand that had just closed down.
The room number that I had jotted down was located in the basement. The building had thick metallic stairs, and each footstep I took echoed ominously. When I reached the dimly lit basement, I made my way through a maze of hallways until I found the room I was looking for. It was partially hidden at the back of an alcove. I entered the classroom, took a seat near the back, and watched as the students trickled in.
A man walked up to the podium and introduced himself as the head of Georgetown’s Arabic program. He was somewhat dismayed because this was the first day of class and the instructor was supposed to arrive early for orientation. Eventually the instructor did arrive, a tall man of Indian descent with a close-cropped beard and very thin mustache. It was my old friend al-Husein Madhany, whom I had not seen since his visit to New York City in late 2000, when he had tried to help me through my crisis of faith.
As I was struggling with the manuscript for this book, I felt compelled to track down al-Husein. I was surprised to learn that he was just across town, teaching a summer session of Arabic at Georgetown University.
I wasn’t sure how al-Husein would receive me. Is he now a moderate, or a radical? Is he still my friend, or has he left me behind?
This was the first class that al-Husein would teach in the summer session. As soon as he entered, I took note of his quiet confidence coupled with an apparent humility. This was a change from our Wake Forest days, when al-Husein’s confidence was louder and more gregarious.
I looked for smaller signs. I noticed al-Husein smiling a lot. When I last knew him, when he was moving deeper into the world of Islamic extremism, he looked much sterner, his expressions a mixture of scowls and intense stares. I wondered, though, if I could be sure. I wondered if he was just another smiling salesman for radical Islam; surely that was within his power and personality.
When the class ended, a few students stuck around to ask al-Husein questions about the course. I stayed in the back of the room, jotting down a few ideas in my notepad.
As the last student left, al-Husein walked toward the back of the room. “Bro!” he exclaimed, arms outstretched.
“Husein, it’s great to see you.”
We met in a warm embrace.
“It’s been a long time,” he said.
I asked al-Husein about his plans. He had earned master’s degrees from Harvard’s Divinity School and from Georgetown. He was now finishing up a Ph.D. at the University of Chicago, with his general exams coming up this fall. Liana was working as a lawyer in D.C. and al-Husein would move here as well.
“It’ll be nice to have you here, bro,” I said. “I’m really looking forward to catching up with you.”
We both leaned against the wall slightly as we spoke, perhaps a sign of nervousness on both our parts. “Likewise,” al-Husein said.
“So are you planning on looking for a teaching job in D.C.?”
He didn’t know. He was put off a bit by the impracticality of academia. He said he was interested in “institution-building”—building up new Islamic institutions in America. “I’m interested in working with other moderate Muslims,” he said. And by now I had no question that this is what he was: a moderate Muslim. Although it had been years since I last saw him, I knew al-Husein pretty well. There was a marked difference between the man who stood before me now and the friend who I feared I was losing seven years ago. But still I wondered about the path he had taken to arrive here.
“Al-Husein,” I said, “I miss the days when we used to talk all the time. You were an incredible friend. It would mean a lot to me to have you back in my life as a close friend.”
Al-Husein nodded. “I agree,” he said. “Remember that time I visited you in Oregon? Do you remember when we made loud dhikr on the beach?”
I smiled, thinking back to our time together. I thought back to how al-Husein told me, after we had finished making dhikr together, that I had learned how to be a brother that day. Al-Husein, I realized, was the only brother I had ever known.
“That’s what this religion should be about,” al-Husein said. “Forget these people who are trying to make it too difficult for anyone to follow. It should just be about pure worship of Allah.”
“I can’t wait to hear about where your life has taken you,” I said.
The smile on my face then turned to a more serious expression. This was the reason I had tracked him down. “Did I ever tell you about what had happened during my time at Al Haramain?” I asked.
“Not really,” al-Husein said. “Nothing good, I assume.”
I gave a half-laugh. “Nothing good is right. The branch I worked for was designated a terrorist entity by the Treasury Department, and two of the directors were indicted. That’s kind of why I’m here.” Al-Husein said nothing, so I continued, “I’m writing a book about it.”
It was hard to read al-Husein’s reaction. I realized that I was moving quickly, but that’s the way it had to be. I had my publishing deadlines, and didn’t want the book to blindside al-Husein. But suddenly I felt something else, something that I hadn’t felt in more than half a decade. I was overcome with the feeling that al-Husein, even after all this time, even after both of our religious transformations, was still my brother. And as my brother, he wasn’t going to judge me harshly. So I pressed on with renewed confidence. “I’m sure you understand what a big part of my spiritual journey you’ve been. That’s reflected in the
book, bro. Let me put it this way: the book is dedicated to three people, and you’re one of them.”
Al-Husein still remained silent, but looked both touched and suspicious. Both reactions were justified, and probably wise.
“I’m editing the book right now, and I want you to see it,” I said. “I want you to get a chance to see if my recollections are right, to see if I’ve included anything that you don’t think should be in there.”
“I’d love to see it,” al-Husein said, nodding.
I had gotten what I came for. “I’ll e-mail the manuscript,” I said. “You can look at it at your convenience. When you’re done, I’ll take you out to dinner. We can talk about the book, and we can reconnect. I want to do both.”
“Me too, bro.”
We parted with another embrace. I then walked out of the classroom, out of the Intercultural Center, back into the bright summer day.
Fifteen days later, I summoned the guts and sent al-Husein the manuscript.
And waited. And waited. And waited.
Eight days later, I opened my e-mail and found a surprise. It was from al-Husein.
He and Liana had finished reading the book together the night before. I skimmed through the first couple of paragraphs of his message, then seized on his thoughts about the book: “Overall, we both have positive feelings about your publishing it and including us in it. In fact, we are honored. There are, however, a few content matters we would need to clarify with you.” He proposed that we meet up for dinner to discuss the book.
The fact that al-Husein wanted to clarify certain matters of content came as no surprise. Over the past several months, I had made an effort to show the book manuscript to as many people mentioned herein as was possible and wise. Even figures who played little role in the narrative could offer voluminous suggestions about small details that they remembered differently, or about what they had actually meant by remarks they made years ago. I would have been surprised if al-Husein hadn’t wanted to the opportunity to clarify some things.
My Year Inside Radical Islam Page 26
