The Sheik of Massawippi Shakedown, or whatever happened to Saad Gabr?

The enigmatic millionaire left behind more questions than answers – and even more creditors.

When I first stood on the hill next to the barn of the Virgin Farm on a sunny fall day in 1986, I had no idea of the numerous undercurrents surrounding its owner, Saad Gabr. All I knew was that it had the absolute best view of North Hatley.

At the time I was a fresh out of high school college student, and completely new to this part of the world. My cousin Jim, a full year older than me and therefore more aware of the wider world, said it was owned by some rich Arab guy. Not much more than that. Just a couple of dumb farm kids amazed that such a magnificent property would sit there empty.

Gabr was born in either Morocco or Egypt, accounts differ on his birthplace. He was reputedly an inventor, with patents in electronics and audiology. But unlike most inventors, Gabr had money. Or access to money. Lots of it.

He first arrived in North Hatley in the early 1970’s and fell in love with the place. He bought a home in Hatley Acres, which in subsequent years would be transformed into a veritable palace, dubbed locally as Baghdad sur-le-lac. One winter’s night in 1977 he showed up at a restaurant in the village with an entourage of friends, including a Saudi Prince. And word got out that he wanted to create an Islamic school of technology and culture.

Pretty soon Gabr was buying up property all around North Hatley, including the gas station, hardware store, both marinas, a hotel and a laundromat. He also bought the Virgin Farm, which was still in operation. At one point it was estimated that he owned about a quarter of North Hatley. He announced plans to build a$50 million Islamic-oriented technology and training centre.

His shopping spree continued in nearby Sherbrooke, where he bought up numerous commercial buildings. At 101 Frontenac the SAAR Foundation set up its Canadian headquarters. That organization was a maze of over 100 think tanks, charities and shell companies, according to a later FBI investigation.

SAAR was also Gabr’s financial backer, covering the $1.8 mortgage on his properties. SAAR was there again when Gabr bought the recently defunct Space Research Institute in Highwater. Gabr was now emerging as what he was: an arms dealer. One who had designs on Gerald Bull’s so-called Super Gun. When Gabr failed to pay his property taxes, SAAR took care of it.

The Sheik of Massawippi, as the locals called him, kept wheeling and dealing. Though he seemingly held Canadian citizenship at this point, in 1982 he played host to General Zia ul-Haq, president of Pakistan. The general was kind enough to show up with a freshly printed Pakistani passport in Gabr’s name.

It turns out that as far as Canada, and more particularly the Eastern Townships, was concerned, the one thing Gabr didn’t have was money. In North Hatley the gas station reportedly ran out of gas. The hardware store couldn’t order new stock. The house at the Virgin Farm was vandalized, and eventually burned. Properties changed hands, from one numbered company to another.

In 1987, faced with mounting financial problems and likely under increasing pressure from Canadian and American authorities, Gabr fled to the Middle East.

One night that same fall about a dozen of us piled into cars and onto motorcycles and left Lennoxville to head over to the Virgin Farm to watch a lunar eclipse. It was, and remains, one of my favourite memories from that time in my life.

For the next decade Gabr’s compound at Hatley Acres fell into ruin. Once noted for its high security, curious folks now walked the grounds to gawk at the ornate lanterns and vast expanses of marble and concrete.

By September 11, 2001, 25 years ago, Saad Gabr had faded into the local folklore. But following the terror attacks in the US, Canada’s spy agency CSIS, began taking a closer look at the SAAR Foundation. Once the spooks found links to the Al-Qaeda terrorist network, its properties were later seized and liquidated. By this point SAAR was named in a $1 trillion lawsuit brought forward by the families of the victims of the 9/11 attacks.

Believed at times to be living large in Saudi Arabia and Pakistan, Radio Canada reporters eventually tracked down Gabr in the United Arab Emirates in 2004. He sat down with them for an interview, in which he candidly discussed his longtime membership in the Muslim Brotherhood, and his desire to get SRC’s Super Gun to “shoot down satellites that were spying on him and his friends.”

The interview would be his last known public appearance. He is believed to have died shortly afterwards, the time, date and location of his death a mystery.

Motorcycle Madness, or, why I can’t even sit on a motorcycle anymore.

If I ever see my bike again, I’ll have to bring it back home.

Every now and then I see one. Maybe in a parking lot. Maybe out on the road, chrome glistening in the sun, engine thumping rhythmically. And I get that old feeling. I miss my motorcycle.

The drive to ride kind of ambushed me in the fall of 1986, in the form of a three-cylinder Kawasaki owned by a distant cousin who would soon become a close friend. Being of the two-stroke variety (the bike, not the cousin), it rattled and smoked and had various things wrong with it that would come and go (which, with the exception of the smoking, sounds a bit like me these days). One ride and I was hooked, buying it off him for the princely sum of $150.00.

I brought it home and stored it in my mom’s basement for the winter and prayed for spring. My mom, I am sure, said a few quiet prayers of her own.

That’s me on the left with my first bike in 1987, seen here with my cousin Jim. Note the snazzy high-top sneakers.

As a college student, spring was a lean season, but I managed to scrape enough money together to cover the licence plate and the insurance. As for the obligatory motorcycle training course (I think that was another $150), it would have to wait. I was, technically, an outlaw biker. Which added to the cool factor.

Until one hot evening that summer in downtown Cowansville, one of the rattles became a very loud bang. Followed by a succession of smaller grinding noises as I coasted to a stop. Just like my dreams of being a biker.

But that fall I came into a financial windfall, known in those days as a student loan. Filled with the fiscal responsibility of youth, I went out and bought a lovely little Honda 450 from L’Ami Denis in Lennoxville. I was on that bike every chance I got. If I had an hour between classes, I was exploring. Being from the west end of the Townships, the world around Lennoxville was undiscovered country. But not for long. That sturdy little bike racked up the miles as I drove it late into November.

I resolved that the next spring I would get my money together and get my motorcycle driver’s licence. But by then the price had doubled. It did so once again the following year. A year after that the price went up again. By that point I decided to bin the idea of taking the course. The widow Crossfield’s boy was destined to remain an outlaw biker.

It’s not like it was all smooth sailing. I got stopped once in East Farnham on my first ride of the year. The cop didn’t notice the absence of a Class 6 on my permit and gave me a $40 fine for dangerous driving. Apparently, buoyed by the arrival of spring, flapping my arms like a bird was seen as dangerous.

And law enforcement was nowhere to be seen when a car backed into me in the parking lot at Bishop’s. The lady who backed into me happened to work at the Sherbrooke Hospital, and kindly gave me and my then girlfriend a ride. I came out of that with a broken nose and skinned knees, while my passenger had a gouge in one leg that left a scar, but no serious damage.

By then I was riding my all-time favourite motorcycle, my 1981 Honda CB 750. I drove it so late into November I got caught in a snowstorm bringing it back to East Farnham, ice forming on my chest and shellacking my helmet. By the time I got home I was in the early stages of hypothermia, that lovely bit where you feel warm and cozy and ready for a nap.

Two tone blue, I felt more at home on that bike than just about anywhere else in the universe. I felt, in those moments, cool. My usual lack of self-esteem paired with ever-present anxiety vanished at the touch of the starter, as it took me on trips to southern Ontario, and even all the way out to Prince Edward Island.

James and I on Prince Edward Island, 1991. Wild and free.

When I moved to Montreal in the fall of 1990, the bike came with me. Being a biker in a large city is a different experience, one that didn’t agree with me. In fact, city life in general didn’t agree with me.

The following spring I rode the bike back to Lennoxville, desperate to get out of the city. Walking into the Snack Bar on campus I spotted an old friend. And met his sister for the first time. My True Love, Sarah. It would be many years and more than a few twists and turns before we could get where we needed to be, but that was the moment. I knew. We both knew.

Eight years into my biker life, I was cruising through East Farnham one fine fall day, when the cop parked in front of the depanneur stepped out of his cruiser and waved me down. A routine traffic check. Suddenly I was looking at a $400 fine. As a recent addition to The Record’s editorial team, I was broke. I explained that I couldn’t pay a fine. The cop took pity on me, changing the partly filled out ticket into a 48-hour warning for a bald back tire.

“Go home, I don’t want to ever see you again,” he said.

I took his advice, taking my motorcycle home and putting it in storage. My years as an outlaw had been good ones, and I had been fortunate. When I got my licence and my bike back up to snuff, I would be back on the road.

Life had other plans, and a few years later I was a father. Then a divorced father putting his first home up for sale. And while that unexpected rupture opened the way for Sarah and I to finally be together, it also meant getting rid of my beloved Honda. One of my worst life decisions.

I still miss that bike. It’s been gone for over 20 years now and whenever I see one that looks like it, my head turns. If I were to ever see it again, I’d know, and I’d have to buy it. As I write this, I want to write in big letters: HAS ANYONE SEEN MY MOTORCYCLE?

In fact, I won’t even let myself sit on a bike, for fear the fever will take hold once again. That would also mean having to take the motorcycle driving course, which these days costs about two grand.

But I guess I’m getting to be a little old to be an outlaw. On the outside, at least.

My Austin Mini and the vanishing joys of the analog driving experience

It was small, rusty, unreliable and a bit ridiculous, but it opened up my life in so many ways.

I was sitting in my garbage truck the other day at an intersection when I saw an approaching Tesla. The car came to the corner and executed a right turn. I found the fact the driver wasn’t touching the steering wheel rather disconcerting.

I am a driver. I was driving tractors before I could ride a bicycle, and as a farm kid cycled many, many miles to get pretty much anywhere. When I turned 16, I got my hands on a metallic brown 1978 Austin Mini.

Back in the days when Britain still made things, Sir Alec Issigonis, an engineer that believed mathematics to be “…the enemy of every truly creative man,” created the Austin Mini. In 1959, no one had ever seen anything like it before. Tiny, surprisingly sporty, it boasted front wheel drive and a transverse mounted engine. Much smaller than the modern Mini, it held to the road like it was on rails. Not the fastest in a straight line, the Mini Cooper S nevertheless won the Monte Carlo Rally in 1964, 1965 and 1967 because of its phenomenal handling. I didn’t do much racing, except against a buddy who drove a two door Ford Pinto station wagon. I could lose him in the curves every time. The Austin Mini would stay in production until 2000, with over 5 million of them being sold around the world.

By the time I got my mini in 1984, its best days were quickly disappearing in the rear-view mirror. The previous owner had beaten it up pretty badly, and the front bumper had once served on the front end of a Jeep. The ceiling was adorned with brown shag carpet, and before I took possession, he had removed six of the eight speakers and the radio. I couldn’t handle the shag, so the first thing I did when I got it was to rip it out. Bad move: he used contact cement, so I was left with a snot-like residue all over the ceiling.

It was also unreliable. The gas gauge didn’t work, the brakes were always a bit dodgy, and the lights would randomly stop working. It took all your senses to operate, as you watched the gauges that did work, listened for odd noises, and be on the alert for bad smells. If the smell wasn’t generated in the passenger seat, it could have been burning brakes, singed wiring, or the sweet smell of boiling antifreeze.

That learning process put me on good terms with my mechanic. Who would later become my boss, friend, mentor. A relationship that endures to this day.

It took all my attention to keep my Mini on the road. That’s the way it used to be for any motor vehicle. In my opinion that’s the way it should be still. Instead, modern automobile design is focused on separating the driver from the machine and losing a little something in the process.

Besides driving being the most dangerous thing most of us ever do, it’s also a place to enjoy certain freedoms. In a world where we are tied to subscriptions for our music, television, Internet, our ability to contact loved ones, or are bound to be in line for any number of things, the modern vehicle frees us to move about our environment, go where we want, when we want, how we want. It’s a rare moment of liberty in the day-to-day.

For a person who battles anxiety like I do, driving has been a coping mechanism. It’s an opportunity to have a moment where no one can ask anything of me. Don’t bother me, I’m driving. And in the days before cell phones, it was a time where one could, justifiably, be unreachable.

Here’s an exercise for you: Leave your phone on the counter for a few hours and go for a drive. See how that makes you feel. Feels pretty good, eh?

Instead, we live in a world where leaving your home without your cell phone is akin to going out with one shoe on. And then your car immediately pairs to your phone. In the pickup trucks at my work the screen tells me to connect my phone. Even if I don’t want to. You can read your text messages on the giant screen, plan your route, call someone.

But wait! Distracted driving is supposed to be a bad thing. Don’t let yourself be distracted by that big screen that tells you to connect your phone. And there’s so much sound deadening material that you can’t listen for odd noises, and the odd smells get removed by the cabin air filter. You’re going to the store in a space shuttle.

A space shuttle that tracks everything you do. Are your eyes open? Are you too close to the yellow line? Do you need to stop for a coffee? LEAVE ME ALONE FFS!

Increasingly cars, especially the ones with driving assists, have become more like appliances, the act of driving incidental. Like it is for those ride share people. If there’s a motorist who drives like they are lost, or don’t know the rules of the road, or simply don’t seem to care, chances are there’s a ride share logo on the door. For these people driving isn’t a moment of freedom, it’s an incidental act required to get somewhere. A necessary evil. They are missing out.

And now there’s the increasing use of Flock cameras. Look that up sometime. These cameras automatically log your licence plate, vehicle make, model. They even read your bumper stickers. And it all gets logged to a server farm somewhere for the authorities to look up whenever they feel like it. It’s common in the US, and apparently starting to make an appearance here in Canada. Echoes of 1984.

Freedom and a social life

For all its quirks (like the eight-track player I installed where you had to keep a hand on the tape to keep it playing at the right speed), I loved my Austin Mini. It gave me a social life. Not every teenager has a car, and parties could be hard to get to. It might not have been very impressive, but it got me and my friends to where the action was. I wasn’t cool, but I was becoming known.

The cool came later. When I got a motorcycle.

I think every new driver should start with a cheap, rundown car. No screens, no bells and whistles. No distractions. Analog driving. The inevitable breakdowns will teach them how vehicles work, and if they bump into something, they learn to avoid similar mistakes in the future. Put the phone in the glove box and go.

Because getting there should be half the fun.

Everybody loves to be buttered up, even writers

Sure, they might be phishing, but I’m fully willing to let them compliment my talents. Even if they haven’t read a word.

In these waning days of a long, cold winter, sometimes I need a little pick me up. And that’s when I check my email. Hmm… The old Inbox is looking good today. A few samples:

“My name is Anabel Brooks, the curator of the Good Morning America Book Club.

As we prepare our Valentine season reading feature, I wanted to personally reach out. We’re highlighting a select group of authors and introducing their work to our community of over 151,000 engaged readers, and your work stood out during our selection process.”

Well, isn’t that nice. Good Morning America, a top US morning show has discovered little old me. Let’s scroll to my next email, this from one Gilmore Schaffer:

“I’m reaching out because The Granby Liar struck me as the kind of novel that lingers with a reader long after the final chapter—not because it shouts, but because it observes carefully, trusts the intelligence of its audience, and allows tension to unfold with restraint.”

Gilmore is obviously insightful, with discerning taste in elegantly written crime novels. Man, I’m on fire.

“Dear Author Maurice,

My name is Angela Morrettis, and I serve as the Member Relations Lead Coordinator for Lucy’s Book Club, a 4.9★-rated Instagram reading community of over 15,000 engaged readers who meet monthly to read, reflect, and share meaningful conversations around books.

For our January 23 National Reading Day gathering, our members would be excited to read and discuss one of your books. We believe your work would resonate deeply with our audience and spark thoughtful dialogue during the session.”

Wow, 15,000 engaged readers. Throw in a few disengaged readers and my book sales will go through the roof.

“My name is Karin D, and I lead the Wellington City Book Club, the premier literary community based at the iconic Circa Theatre in New Zealand’s capital. I am reaching out because The Granby Liar has been officially shortlisted for our 2026 Author Spotlight.”

Oh my, New Zealand. I had no idea I was an international phenom. I really love it when a reader from the other side of the globe connects to my deep love of Townships storytelling.

Wait, there’s another email from Veronica Clara. I bet she really understands what I’m getting at:

“The way you explore the many layered, sometimes conflicting ideas around tzedakah, its spiritual meaning, its human implications, and its role in wealth, repentance, and redemption is both profound and deeply moving. Your careful comparison of the Babylonian Talmud and the rabbinic compilations of the land of Israel brings a richness and emotional depth that made your work feel incredibly alive and relevant.”

                  Okay, I wasn’t expecting that.

                  Welcome to the modern life of the small name author. It seems that when it comes to scams, the con artists are really scraping the bottom of the barrel. It’s enough to make one long for the days of the Nigerian Spam Scam, where a stranger asks if you would give him your banking information so he can move his millions out of the country, and in return he’ll reward you most generously.

                  Yes, it seems the Nigerian princes have all moved away, your Microsoft Outlook is up to date, and your nephew has gotten his bail money. So now it’s down to the ink-stained wretches to support the online scamosphere. Limited time, get back to us quickly, only a few spots left. You too can be as successful as Louise Penny.

                  Of course, there’s a flaw in all of this, one that seems to have escaped the keyboard kings of the seedy underbelly of the Internet: YOU’RE TRYING TO GET MONEY OUT OF WRITERS. Toiling in obscurity, that’s kind of our thing, and we have the bank balances to prove it. We work on laptops that are older than our college age children, shivering in our pilled sweaters as we try to stave off the winter chill. A scant few make the big leagues, sparking hope in the rest of us. And there’s a lot of us.

                  But of course, as writers we aren’t just broke, we’re also suckers for a good compliment. Reading things like “I was struck by the depth of your storytelling,” or that my work “resonates with readers,” really warms the heart.

                  Thankfully, I have a deep sense of cynicism, honed by years of working as a newspaper reporter and magazine writer. When everyone is out to get you, paranoia is just common sense.

                  So no, I won’t be part of the Good Morning America Book Club anytime soon. I won’t be the featured author for the 2026 Author Spotlight. But I still might take a shot at comparing the Babylonian Talmud and the rabbinic compilations of the land of Israel. Just dig in, see where it goes.

                  Time to dust off my Old Testament.

Albert Lisacek: A look back at Canada’s toughest cop

Raised on Montreal’s mean streets, he was a real life action hero.

If I ever decide to write a novel about a tough-as-nails cop who didn’t mind breaking a few rules to bring the bad guys to justice, I think I’d have to base him on the Sûreté du Québec’s own Albert Lisacek.

Albert Lisacek, seen here with his beloved Chicago Typewriter.

This guy had all the qualities you’d look for in a hard boiled, film noir cop. Born in 1933 in Montreal’s Mile End to Czechoslovak immigrant parents, Albert came by his physical attributes honestly. His mom, who was five-foot-eleven, gave birth to her three children at home, no doctor required. And dad was a former strong man in a Slovenian circus, who worked in shipyards and as a night watchman when he came to Canada.

Life in Montreal was rough in those early years, and Albert was often hounded by the neighbourhood bullies. One day, while being chased, 15-year-old Albert hid out in an old lady’s apartment until they went away. That was the moment he decided he wanted to become a police officer.

Fast forward five years and our young hero has been working out, tipping the scales at 250 pounds and standing at a respectable six foot-two. This made him ideal for his job as a bouncer at a St. Catherine St. night club. After some time working as a private detective, Lisacek joined the SQ at the tender age of 23.

His first job was guarding the jail cells at police headquarters. When one inmate in a group of eight got a little too mouthy, Lisacek went into the cell, locking the door behind him. He then proceeded to slap around inmates with his giant hands until the culprit was given up by the others.

Before long Montreal’s criminals were calling him “Dirty Albert.” This, more than 20 years before Clint Eastwood made Dirty Harry a household name. His colleagues called him “Little Albert,” and later “Kojak” when he shaved his head.

By 1961 Lisacek was promoted to detective. “I was good at getting rid of the bad people,” he told a reporter years later. Two years later he was a member of the SQ’s hold-up squad, where he became known for bringing his own Thompson submachine gun on raids. If you’ve ever seen a gangster movie set in the Prohibition era, you’ve seen a Tommy gun. Also known affectionately as a Chicago Typewriter. It spat out large, heavy .45 calibre slugs that could really make a mess. I really don’t think cops could get away with that sort of thing today.

So Lisacek is on the holdup squad just as bank robberies are on the rise. Before long Montreal will be given the dubious title of North America’s bank robbery capital. And by the mid 1970’s the city’s murder rate is three times what it is today. There’s a lot going on, and Lisacek is in the midst of it all.

In 1969 Lisacek arrested Richard “The Cat” Blass for a bank robbery in Sherbrooke. Blass was a very, very bad man who had survived four assassination attempts and escaped from prison three times. At one point during the trial Lisacek saw a man from the audience lean forward, seemingly to give Blass something. Lisacek grabbed the man, dragged him out of the courtroom and smashed his face into the elevator door.

Richard “The Cat” Blass, seen here smiling for the cameras, was about as bad as it gets. Lisacek can be seen at the far right.

Man on the scene

Lisacek became Quebec’s most notorious cop, often at the centre of the latest news on Quebec’s crime scene. He was there in October 1970 when the body of Pierre Laporte, Quebec’s deputy premier, was found, murdered by the Front de libération du Québec. Two years later, while intervening in a robbery, the big man gave chase to three suspects. One of them ended up with, uh, his testicles shot off. In another case, a robber was running so hard to get away from the big man that he lost his shoes.

In 1975 Lisacek was on the trail of Blass once again. Blass had escaped custody, and while on the lam he locked 13 people in the beer storage room at the Gargantua Bar in Montreal, and then set the building on fire. All 13 died in the blaze.

The pursuit led Lisacek and his colleagues to a chalet in the Laurentian town of Val David. With Blass cornered in a bedroom, Lisacek agreed to let Blass put his pants on before coming out. When Blass stepped out of the room, the police opened fire. Blass was shot 27 times.

Lisacek, who would later state that what appeared to be a weapon in Blass’s hand was nothing more than a sock, never fired a shot.

A study in contrasts: Note the other headlines.

Being at the heart of so much bloodshed caused Lisacek no shortage of grief at the hands of his SQ superiors. He was eventually moved to a desk job, his Chicago Typewriter retired. In 1981, at the age of 48 and with knee problems that made it hard to get around, Lisacek took early retirement.

His home life proved to be much quieter than working the mean streets. Devoted to his wife and dogs, he passed his days watching action movies and collecting John Wayne memorabilia. His beloved Claudia died in 1999, and he later remarried a cousin by marriage, Jacqueline Richer, who he doted on.

“He had a very tender heart,” said Richer. “When he saw there was no justice, he wanted to make justice.”

In 2012 Albert Lisacek, once the toughest cop in Canada, died of colon cancer. He was 79.

Quebec hasn’t had many homegrown action heroes on the silver screen. But they did have one in real life.