by David Wood
“What is that?” he said. “Some kind of tram?”
Bones stared at the line for a moment, and then began tracing invisible lines in the air. “Those tracks run northwest.”
Maddock consulted his own mental map and immediately saw what Bones was getting at. “Straight to CIA HQ.”
“I guess now we know where everybody went,” Willis remarked, sounding defeated. “They probably transferred Lia there as soon as they got her in the front door.”
“So much for our big rescue,” Bones said, and then with a sidelong glance at Maddock, added, “Unless you want to take on the whole CIA?”
“Honestly, I’m tempted,” he said, but knew better. Going out in a blaze of glory wouldn’t do Lia any good... If she was even still alive. He shook his head. “Let’s go see what’s behind door number two.”
The French doors opposite the arch were locked, and there was no visible keyhole. While Bones began probing the seam between the doors with the tip of his knife, Maddock moved to the remaining set of doors.
Unlocked.
They opened to reveal an enormous room—big enough to be an auditorium or the nave of a church, but without any pews. “Standing room only.”
Leopov suddenly gripped his arm. “Dane, look!”
She was pointing across the great hall to the back wall where a low dais rose a foot or two above the floor. On the front corners of the dais, American flags hung from upright poles, capped with bright brass eagle finials, but it was another flag that had caught Leopov’s eye.
Maddock’s heart quickened.
It hung center stage at an angle from a staff mounted to the rear wall. From where they stood, viewing it head on, it looked like nothing more than a large red banner, but when he tilted his head just a little, he could see the enormous white circle occupying the center of the rectangular scarlet flag, and the black swastika in the center of the circle.
The Blutfahne.
For a few seconds, all Maddock could do was stare. It was more than just a flag, more than just a piece of fabric. He had no idea whether he was looking at Helen’s Charm... A piece of cloth recovered from the ruins of ancient Troy... No idea if that even mattered. There was an aura about the flag. A supernatural aura?
Maybe. But the sensation that now gripped him wasn’t something he would ever associate with charisma.
It was the same feeling he felt in Bosnia, at the Omarska camp. A feeling of being in the presence of death. A feeling of evil.
“Holy crap.”
Bones’ voice, a low rumble, broke through the fog that seemed to have settled around Maddock. He shook off the sensation, turned to look at his friend. Willis was right beside him, and in their faces, Maddock saw a shared look of disgust, and of resolve.
Bones started forward. “I’ve got this.”
An amplified voice boomed out, filling the room. “Can’t let you do that, Cochise.”
Bones stopped in his tracks, still a good twenty yards from the dais, and brought his Glock up, pivoting in every direction, searching for a target. Maddock did the same, turning to check their six o’clock, but aside from the four of them, the hall was empty.
Huntley’s sardonic voice rang out again. “Took your sweet time getting here. I swear, I thought I was going to have to paint a sign or something.”
Maddock turned his head back and forth, trying to pinpoint Huntley’s location, and realized the sound was issuing from an overhead flush-mounted speaker.
“Son of a bitch,” Bones snarled. “Why don’t you come out here so I can kick your ass.”
Huntley’s laughter surrounded them. “Come on, kids, you know that’s not going to happen. I’m not alone and you’re boxed in. Now, why don’t you put those guns down. Then, we can have a little chat.”
Maddock looked to his companions and saw the reality of the situation mirrored in their eyes. Huntley had beaten them. Worse, he had outwitted them. They had congratulated themselves on picking up Huntley’s trail, when in reality, he had been luring them into a trap.
But Maddock wasn’t ready to wave the white flag just yet. “Where’s Lia?”
“Ha. Still think you can save the damsel in distress, Sir Lancelot? Well, you’re in luck. She’s right here.”
“Lia?” Bones shouted, regaining a little of his defiance. “Let me hear her voice.”
There was a brief silence, and then Lia’s voice came from the speaker. “Bones? I’m—”
She was abruptly cut off, and then Huntley spoke again. “Satisfied? Now, put those weapons on the floor and move away from them.”
Maddock exchanged a look with Bones. The big man shrugged. “Do we have a choice?”
Maddock shook his head. “If he wanted us dead, we’d be dead already. He wants something. Let’s find out what.”
He knelt, laid his pistol on the floor, and then deposited his back-up pistol and combat knife as well. If Huntley caught them with hold-out weapons, the consequences might be severe. Bones and the others gave up their weapons as well, and then all of them took a step back.
As the last pistol was surrendered, there was movement at the back of the hall. A pair of figures clad in black tactical gear stepped through the doorway. Both men held suppressed H&K MP-5 machine pistols at the high ready.
As the two men cleared the doorway, two more filed in behind them. The second pair carried their weapons at the low ready to avoid flagging their comrades, but moved up quickly, coming abreast of the first pair to form a picket line advancing up the length of the hall until they were only about ten yards from Maddock and the others.
One of the men snarled, “Back up!”
Huntley’s disembodied voice sounded again. “Just in case you’re wondering, they don’t have to wait for me to tell them to pull the trigger. Make the wrong move... Hell, make any move, and they’re liable to poke you full of holes before you can make another.”
Maddock didn’t doubt that it was the truth. The gunmen were almost certainly CIA paramilitaries from the Special Activities Division. Unlike the amateur third-generation Nazis they’d encountered on the beach near Villa Gessell, these men were trained killers—experienced killers—recruited from elite military special ops teams.
With exaggerated slowness, he took another giant step back. As the others followed his lead, one of the paramilitaries moved forward and collected the weapons, depositing them in a black gym bag.
“That’s better,” said Huntley. The voice did not come from the overhead speaker, but instead from the back of the room. Behind the gunmen, Captain Midnight stepped through the doorway and entered the hall. He sauntered forward, passing the paramilitaries, and took a position to Maddock’s right, staying well clear of their firing line. “Now we can talk like old friends.”
“Screw that,” Bones retorted. “Where’s Lia?”
Huntley strode forward. “Oh, she’s here. I’ll bring her out in a minute, but first there’s someone you need to talk to.” With a sweeping flourish, he directed their attention to the rear of the hall. “Meet the man who made all this possible.”
TWENTY-TWO
“Holy freaking crap,” Bones exclaimed. “It’s the dude from that horror show!” He snapped his fingers as if trying to trigger a memory.
Willis caught on first. “Dracula?”
“No, not Dracula,” Bones retorted with mock outrage. He shook his head. “How old are you? A hundred? No, there’s this crazy dead dude that introduces the story. Bits of stringy hair, desiccated flesh... The Crypt Keeper! Yeah, that’s it.”
Willis shook his head in evident bewilderment. “Bernie Sanders? No idea, man.”
Maddock didn’t get Bones’ reference either, and knew that his friend was only belaboring the point as a way to keep paralyzing fear at arm’s length.
And maybe to piss off Huntley a little bit.
He wasn’t wrong about the resemblance however. The ancient, wizened old man standing at the entrance to the hall did indeed look like a cross between an undert
aker and an undead creature from a horror movie.
The man was small, maybe five feet tall, though it was hard to say for sure given the pronounced hunch in his upper torso. Patches of lanky white hair sprouted from the liver-spotted, translucent skin that seemed to have been stretched over his skull. The hands that poked out of the sleeves of his black suit coat were gnarled and bony, and yet he gave no impression of frailty and his eyes—which despite looking rheumy in their sockets—were an unnerving shade of blue.
Maddock met the old man’s stare. “Gestapo Müller, I presume.”
Müller started forward. His steps were cautious—understandable as he had to be at least a hundred years old—but he covered the distance with surprising swiftness. “I haven’t been called that for many years,” he said as he drew up next to Huntley. His voice was low, but surprisingly resonant.
“So what do they call you, then?” Bones asked. He nodded his head toward the dais. “Der Fuhrer?”
“Watch it, Geronimo,” Huntley cautioned. “Show some respect. This man is a hero.”
Müller raised a hand to silence the spook. “They don’t understand yet. Go get the girl. I will explain it to them.”
Huntley flashed a menacing look at Bones, but turned and headed back toward the door.
“Why did he call you a hero?” Maddock asked.
Müller tilted his head to the side and gave him an appraising look. “I’ve heard a great deal about you, Mr. Maddock. Some people call you a hero.”
Bones gave a derisive snort. “When a Nazi calls you a hero, it’s time to retire.”
Müller ignored the outburst. “You are a warrior,” he went on. “Driven by duty and honor. I admire that.”
He took a step forward, almost but not quite close enough for Maddock to reach out and touch him.
One more step, you bastard, Maddock thought, and I’ll end your story.
“Your friend calls me a Nazi,” Müller went on. His German accent made his pronunciation of the last word sound contemptuous. “I never was, you know. A National Socialist. Not in my heart. They were all quite mad—Hitler, Himmler, all of them. Deluded. All that Master Race nonsense. Chasing after a fairy-tale kingdom. I never believed any of it.”
Maddock shrugged. “Just following orders, right?”
Müller made an abrupt dismissive gesture. “I did what had to be done. Just as you do. I would have done anything to destroy the enemies of the Fatherland.” He leaned forward. “And I did!”
“Which enemies were those? The Jews? The gypsies?”
Müller’s thin lips tightened into a sour frown. “If you think otherwise, you are naïve. But I was referring to the Russians.”
“Maybe you haven’t heard,” Leopov said, her voice cracking a little at first, but growing more forceful with each syllable. “But the Red Army destroyed your precious Fatherland.”
Müller’s frown transformed into a satisfied smile, as if she had just unwittingly played into his hands. His blue eyes held hers for several seconds, then returned to Maddock. “Do you know how we won the Cold War?”
Maddock noted the conspicuous use of the pronoun we. “Sure. We—that is to say, the American government, goaded the Soviets into an arms race that ultimately bankrupted them. And saddled us with a five trillion-dollar national debt, but hey—that’s our grandkids’ problem.”
Müller’s head bobbed. Was he chuckling? “We beat the Russians because we had resolve.” He thumped a fist against his chest with surprising force. “We did what had to be done, damn the consequences.”
“You keep saying ‘we,’” Bones said. “Like you had something to do with it, sitting down here in your mom’s basement for the last fifty years.”
“I had everything to do with it,” Müller hissed.
Before he could elaborate, Huntley returned, dragging along a young woman that Maddock had never met, and only seen briefly, on a roadside in Argentina.
“Lia!” Bones cried out.
Her eyes, red-rimmed from weeping or exhaustion or both, flashed with hope. “Bones!”
He looked as if he was about to run to her, but Huntley brandished a pistol—a SIG Sauer P226—pointed it at Bones, and then pressed the muzzle under Lia’s jaw. “Stay put, Big Red.”
Bones’ nostrils flared but he did not move.
“Ah, good,” Müller said. “Come. I will show you how we... How I defeated the Soviets.”
He made a come-along gesture and then continued up the length of the hall. Huntley followed, pulling Lia with him. One of the paramilitaries jabbed his MP5 meaningfully in Maddock’s direction, signaling them to get moving.
Müller stepped up onto the dais and faced the Blood Flag.
It looked enormous, especially when contrasted against the shrunken old Nazi. Up close, Maddock could see rust-colored splotches on the white circle—the bloodstains that had consecrated the Blutfahne and inspired its name. Harder to see, but still visible were the seams where the two pieces of red cloth had been joined to widen the flag, and another irregular stitch where a tear had been repaired.
“You know what this is,” Müller said, not looking back at them.
“Eva Braun’s beach towel?” Bones suggested.
Müller ignored him. “For nearly six decades, they have wondered—how did he do it? How did Hitler seduce an entire nation into joining his madness?”
“It’s not such a mystery,” Bones retorted. “Most people are idiots.”
Müller abruptly turned toward him, but instead of looking angry, he was smiling. “Yes, that certainly helps. But even an idiot will think twice about sacrificing his life for a pipe dream But this...” He turned to the flag again. “With this... Even the strongest will can be turned. I saw him do it, time and time again. I felt it happen to me.”
The uneasiness Maddock had experienced upon first glimpsing the flag now returned tenfold. He now understood why Müller had kept them alive.
“How?” he prompted. “How is that possible?”
If the Nazi knew about Helen’s Charm, he declined to say. “Does it matter? It simply is. When I finally grasped its potential, I knew what I had to do.”
“You took it from Himmler. Used it... Its power... To help you escape to Argentina. And then, when the CIA started closing in, you managed to turn a few of them to your cause.”
Müller laughed again. “You are naïve. You think they were pursuing me like some war criminal. Not so. They sought me out. They begged me to help them fight the Soviets... A cause that I was only too willing to join. I did not need to turn anyone.”
Maddock shook his head in bemusement. “Then what do you need the flag for?”
“Resolve!” Müller thrust his fist into the air like a declaration of victory. “War is not a game for the timid. You can’t know how many times your elected leaders lost heart, equivocated, tried to appease, retreat... Surrender. And why not? America had become a nation of spineless cowards, too weak, too afraid to bear the cost of victory. I supplied the courage they were lacking. An entire generation of cold warriors stood where you now stand, and swore undying allegiance to me... To my cause.”
“Frigging Nazis,” Bones snarled, and spat on the carpeted floor.
“Nazis. Nationalists. Fascists. Those are just labels. Strength. Honor. Duty. Victory. That is what matters.”
“A shadow government?” Maddock countered. “That’s your idea of honorable?”
Müller inclined his head as if to cede a point. “You are correct. The time has come for the secret warriors to step out of the shadows. To seize the fruits of our victory before the cowards and intellectuals piss it away again.”
“Just like in Bosnia,” Huntley said, breaking his long silence. “You saw it for yourself. Politicians don’t have the stomach to take down guys like the Rat.”
“Speaking of time,” Bones said. “I’d say you’re running short on it. Who’s gonna take over this freakshow when you finally kick off?” He turned to Huntley. “You angling for that j
ob, Captain Midnight?”
“Preparations have been made,” Müller said, dismissively. “It is true. I may not live to see it, but I will go to my rest knowing that I have laid the foundation for victory in the war to come.
“A storm is coming. Our enemies multiply, rising from the corpses of the defeated like the heads of the hydra. The Soviets are gone, but the oligarchs who have feasted on the bones of the old order imagine that they will rule as the Tsars once did. We must act first. Strike without hesitation or mercy.
“You keep talking about war and strength and victory.” Maddock shook his head. “I get it. When you’re a hammer, every problem looks like a nail. But there’s more to life than just fighting and killing and...” Emotion rose into his throat. “And dying.”
Müller’s blue eyes seemed to focus on him like laser beams. “Not for men like us, Mr. Maddock. We are hammers. And you belong with us.”
And there it was—the reason why Müller had lured them in.
Not to kill them, but to recruit them.
He held Maddock in his stare for a few seconds, then turned away again, stepping closer to the hanging Blood Flag. He reached out for it, grasped it with one gnarled hand. “With this, I could compel you to join me.”
Could he? Maddock wondered. Everything they had learned about the history of the Blutfahne and the connection to Helen’s Charm was supposition. Müller had as much as confirmed that the American intelligence officers who recruited him—or was it the other way around—had been willing converts. Hitler’s charisma did not require a supernatural explanation any more than did the willingness of the masses to rally behind populists and nationalists.
But what if there really was something to it... What if the Blood Flag really could brainwash a person into becoming a Nazi?
“Then why don’t you?” he retorted.
“When the choice is not made freely, willingly, the effect can be... Shall we say, unpredictable. I am living proof of that. I swore the oath of allegiance to the Fuhrer, but in my heart, my allegiance was only ever to Germany. When he took his own life... It was as if the spell was broken.” He shook his head as if trying to banish an unpleasant memory. “But when the oath is sworn without reservation, the effect is... Transcendent.”
