“Frankly, you sound a little crazy too.”
“Have to. If I’m going to sell that I’m still a big-shot neo-Nazi I’ve got to talk the talk.”
“It’s hard to listen to.”
“You’re just not used to people speaking their minds. In the PC world nobody says what they think anymore. Which we love. Because then when we do, people eat it up. It’s what they’ve been secretly thinking. Nowadays we have to pretend like all people are the same even when it’s obvious to everybody who walks on the earth that that’s just not true. So you have this tension out there. The politically correct bullshit says, we’re all the same, and if we’re not it’s because of ‘discrimination,’ and its complete crap. It makes people not trust the media, not trust the politicians, not trust anybody, except the neos, once we get a hold of them. They trust us, they hang on every word, because it feels true to them.”
“So you used to believe all this stuff.”
“Absolutely.”
“What happened?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“How do I know you’re different?” I moved slightly closer to him and gave him my own hard look. “How do I know you’re not just trying to figure out what the FBI is doing? Spying on us for the Southern Volk, a sort of double agent?”
Jedediah turned and walked back down the path. I called after him. “Hey!”
He kept walking, shoulders hunched. He walked faster. I hurried after him. “What’s up?”
“I don’t need this, and I don’t need you. I don’t really give a shit if you understand. And your big plan to come up with some genius idea to make us all look good is just smoke. You’ve got nothing. Then you accuse me of infiltrating the FBI. You’re unbelievable.”
He turned to go again.
“Wait. Just tell me one thing.”
He stopped and looked over his shoulder without turning his body. It was a very sinister look. I could feel the tattoos burning through his pullover, like they were already imprinted on my mind and went with him in my head wherever he went.
“Pick one thing, pick the most impressive thing that you have ever heard of or seen in any neo meeting or conversation. What has gotten the most comments, the most excitement?’”
“Like where?”
“Anywhere. Any neo meeting you’ve ever been to, some indoctrination, some . . . whatever. What has gotten everybody’s attention the fastest.”
“Somebody with authority. Somebody who goes way back.”
“Like somebody from World War II?”
“Not really a person, but something he has. People love having Lugers, or old German rifles.”
I thought for a minute, and he turned to face me as I pondered. He put his hands on his hips, growing impatient. I said, “What if we brought your guy a whole cache of World War II German weapons. Machine guns, Lugers, bayonets with swastikas on them. The whole bit. All authentic.”
He thought for a minute. “I don’t know. Maybe. That would be hard as hell to get into Germany.”
“I could do it.”
“Yeah, but the fact that you could do it would make them suspicious. They’d think you had German government help and that it’s a setup.”
“What about an original signed copy of Mein Kampf?”
“That might get you somewhere. But you can just buy it on the Internet. Not that creative to get it.”
“You think he’s thinking of something like that? You said you weren’t going to blow up a federal building or anything.”
He turned back around, more calm. “He left it wide open. We just have to impress him. I’m sure he’d love something big and violent. But he also might think that is exactly the wrong idea. Draws too much attention. Now is not the time to go blowing shit up, as much fun as that is.”
“Alright. Give me some time, let me think about it.”
Jedediah didn’t seem impressed. “Yeah, you think about it. You come up with something brilliant, you let me know. Otherwise, I’m going to have to come up with something on my own.” He walked ahead of me out of the woods. I waited until he was out of sight then headed to my car.
* * *
When I returned to D.C. I turned back to tracking terrorists. But I found myself drifting back to my conversation with Jedediah and what I’d heard. Right before lunch Alex burst into my office. “Go to CNN.”
“What’s up?”
“Bombings in Germany.”
“What?” I said, sitting up. “Where?”
I went to the streaming video of CNN and put it on full screen. Alex watched over my shoulder.
I ignored the reporters and focused on the images. The screen was split. The images on the left were from Munich and on the right from Berlin. People staggered out of a subway entrance with blood streaming down their faces. Some fell to the ground. The cameraman in Munich moved against the flow, down into the subway, the U-Bahn. People pushed past him, fighting for air. Police and medical teams rushed by, heading down toward the subway trains.
“What happened?”
“Bombs on the subway in Munich and Berlin. Went off at exactly the same time, 5:00 p.m.”
“Anybody take credit?”
“Not yet.”
“Coordinated attacks sounds like al Qaeda.”
“They haven’t said yet.”
I looked at the images from Berlin. The graphic on the bottom of the screen said forty-five dead, at least ninety more injured. I listened to the reporter. “ . . . a few minutes ago. The bomb went off at a station where many people change trains. Five lines come together at this stop,” she said, indicating over her shoulder, “Alexanderplatz, and apparently a bomb went off on one of the trains, and at multiple locations in the station itself, all at exactly the same time. It has completely shut down the U-Bahn.”
They switched the audio to the reporter in Munich. “Yes, thank you. Here in Munich the bombs were the same. In the station and on one of the trains. Simultaneous, and apparently set to go off at the same time as in Berlin. Here the bombs went off at Marienplatz, where ten lines pass near to each other. The entire system is shut down, the city is frozen, and many are dead with dozens more injured. We will get casualty figures as soon as they are available. The blast in the station was so strong the ceiling of one of the platforms caved in and the train that passed overhead fell down into the lower area. The explosion was devastating. It is unknown how someone got a bomb with such force into the station, let alone onto a train.”
The reporter held her hand to her ear and said, “We now have images from the subway tunnel.” The view switched from outside to the underground platform by the damaged train. The video zoomed in. The front of the train was blown off like an exploding cigarette. The second car was heavily damaged and the entire train was off its tracks. Dead and injured lay all around the platform as emergency personnel attended to the injured. You could hear the crying and screaming of those suffering. A police officer turned and saw the cameraman and immediately ordered him to turn off the camera. He grabbed it and forced the lens to the ground. CNN switched back to the reporter outside the subway entrance. “As you can see, the damage to the train is shocking. This was clearly a powerful bomb, as were the other two that went off inside the subway station at the height of rush hour, with people of Munich returning to their homes . . . ”
I looked at Alex. I was about to speak when my phone rang. I picked up the receiver. “Morrissey.”
“Kyle. You watching this?” It was Rebecca Anderson. CIA. My counterpart at the Agency who tracked international terrorism and finance.
I answered, “Unbelievable. Who’s behind this?”
“Not sure yet. But there are some who think it’s your boy, the one you told us to pay attention to.”
“Al-Hadi?”
“They think he’s moved up, from pure finance to running operat
ions. They think this is his first.”
“Damn. What a way to start, if it’s him. He’s sure painting a target on his chest.”
“I’ll give you updates as soon as I can, but you might check any sources you have that I don’t.”
“Will do.” I hung up.
I talked to Alex while I watched the images on my screen. “They think it may be al-Hadi.”
She frowned. “He’s too smart to go at it directly.”
“That’s my thinking. We follow him, trace him. But we don’t send a predator to put a hellfire through his bathroom window. But if he did this, we sure as hell will. Or Germany will.”
* * *
A few days after I got back to D.C., while researching everything I could on al-Hadi, I began my baptism into Nazism. I finished Mein Kampf then stayed up past midnight for several nights as I read Ian Kershaw’s massive two-volume biography of Hitler. Then I watched films on the Nazis from Netflix and Time Life, and one in particular, Nazism in America. Finally I watched Triumph of the Will, the 1934 film by Leni Riefenstahl. I started to get it. Hitler’s core belief was that Germany was being ruined. Morally and politically ruined. And he knew who was doing it. He fomented hatred against them for what they were doing to Germany. He called for hatred of those who would destroy his great country. It was the Jews, the Communists, the immigrants, and they all deserved hatred. He called on Germans to hate those causing the moral and political decline of the German people. But that was only half of the story. The other half was his message to his followers on who they were. He persuaded his downtrodden followers that they were not worthless people from a bankrupt country; they were proud Aryans, the greatest people ever, from a country which would rise again from the ashes if they would trust him! They belonged to a great nation that would be great again under National Socialism and its mesmerizing symbol—the swastika. My wife thought I was going over the edge. My children said I was neglecting them. But I had to understand Nazism under Hitler, and I had to understand neo-Nazism now.
I went to see Karl again. I had mostly stayed out of his way after I had come back, other than telling him about my Asheville meeting. I said, “I need to get over to Germany.”
“Germany? Not on our nickel.”
“On my own. On vacation.”
“Got to give you credit for determination.”
“But I need a contact. Who do you deal with at the BKA?”
Karl seemed to be thinking about whether to tell me the man’s name. “Why do you need him?”
“I’ve got to understand what’s going on in Germany. What do they know about Eidhalt? And to help me figure out what will make him interested in the Southern Volk.”
He took a deep breath and finally said, “The BKA guy I know spends a lot of his time in Munich. He gets all over Germany, especially Dresden, where a lot of the stuff is happening. His name is Florian Köhler.”
“Do you have his email?”
He turned toward his computer, looked up his contacts, and forwarded his contact to me. I looked at my BlackBerry and saw that it had arrived. “Thanks. Does he know about Jedediah?”
“Just that we’ve got a guy.”
“You got any problem if I call Florian today?”
“Go ahead.”
I nodded, gave him a wave of thanks, and returned to my office. I didn’t want to waste any time at all. I picked up my phone and dialed.
* * *
Germany was six hours ahead. The phone rang three times and an energetic voice answered in German.
“I’m Kyle Morrissey. I’m with the FBI. Trying to reach Florian Köhler.”
“Yes,” he said switching to English. “This is Florian Köhler.”
“Sorry to bother you. You’re probably pretty tied up with the bombings.”
“No, that’s another department. I’m not involved.”
“Okay. Then let me tell you what I’m doing. I’m working with Karl Matthews, developing something that I think I need your help with. I’d like to come over and meet with you.”
“What is it you’re working on?”
“I’d rather not discuss it on the phone. It’d be better in person. I can come to Berlin, or Munich, or wherever you’d like to meet.”
“Why here?”
“To learn from you, and to discuss what I am trying to accomplish.” He was skeptical. “And exactly what is it you are trying to accomplish?”
“Well that’s what I want to talk to you about. I think at this point, you’re just going to have to trust me.”
He sounded annoyed. “It is a very busy time, even without the bombings.” He hesitated. “If Karl sends me an email, I will meet with you for an hour or so. In Wiesbaden.”
“Yes, that’s fine. I appreciate it.”
I made a reservation to Wiesbaden for later that night. I sent a request for three days of vacation and didn’t even wait for the response. I rushed home, packed a bag, and headed for Dulles.
CHAPTER FIVE
I had never been to Wiesbaden. The hotel was beautiful and old, and it had clearly been restored at great expense. I attempted to check into my room, but was told that check-in time was three o’clock. If I wanted to check in now I’d have to pay for another night. I needed to shower and change so I found the fitness center and changed in the shower room. I asked them to press my shirt, and I hung my suit in the bathroom while I showered to let the steam move through it and relax the wrinkles from being triple folded into my roll-aboard. I turned on the television and watched CNN International in English.
I grabbed a cab and asked him to take me directly to Thaerstraße, the headquarters of the Bundeskriminalamt.
We pulled up in front of the imposing white building and I climbed out. It wasn’t quite as ominous as the J. Edgar Hoover building, but it had its own impressiveness. The BKA’s reputation was excellent. They were serious, diligent, trustworthy, and clever. Their opinion of us was slightly less elevated.
I approached the man behind the counter and asked for Florian Köhler. He typed in his computer, looked up the extension, and called. He looked up at me and said in English, “Mr. Köhler said he was not expecting you yet and that you did not have an appointment.”
“I came as soon as I could. I’ll wait until he’s available.”
He tried not to show that he thought that was a bad idea. He spoke again to Florian. “He said he can come get you in a half hour.”
I nodded. “Perfect.”
The large sterile lobby had a modern chrome couch with black leather seats. I sat down on the supple leather and opened my briefcase on the glass coffee table. I pulled out a binder into which I had put articles and information about various neo-Nazi groups around the world. They were large, growing, ambitious, and dangerous. I turned to the German neo-Nazis. They had become increasingly bold. And the rate of increase, both in size and number of groups, was increasing at an exponential rate. They were drawing in the disaffected German youth. Unemployment was the starter fuel, Europeanization was the kindling, and Islam was the firewood. There had even been a series of murders of Turks by German neo-Nazis. The murders had a name—the Doner Kebob killings—because many of the murdered men ran small kebob shops or carts. Innocent men going about their lives trying to carve out a living in a country where they felt like outcasts and strangers, cooking their kebobs on the vertical spits common to Doner cooking, and now exposed to vicious murder.
I was reading about the marches in Dresden when I realized there was someone standing right next to me. I looked up from my notebook and he said, “I am Florian Köhler. Welcome to Wiesbaden.”
I stood and put the notebook on the coffee table and extended my hand. We shook hands and I evaluated him. He was at least two inches taller than me. He was very athletic, had spiky blonde hair and stylish glasses. He was smiling, which surprised me. He actually seemed pleased to
see me. A very different tone than in our phone call. What surprised me the most was his age. He was perhaps thirty-five; very young for the responsibility he had in the BKA.
He said, “I hope your flight was uneventful.”
“Lufthansa. Nonstop to Frankfurt.”
“An excellent flight. I have taken it many times. I hope you flew business class.”
“That would be the day.”
“Ah. Too bad!” He smiled even more broadly. “Please come, let’s go to the café and have an espresso.”
He motioned me in a direction away from the reception desk and through security. We passed through two automatic glass doors into a gleaming new, mostly white modern café. It was set up for the purpose of receiving guests and having casual conversations over coffee.
“Espresso?” He asked as he walked toward the counter area. “Americano?”
There was an attendant there but also a fancy coffee machine for self-service.
“Sure. Americano, please.”
He took two white cups with saucers from the stack and pressed a single button on the face of the machine. It hummed and hissed. Florian handed me mine then poured cream in his own. He pointed to a table toward the window and said, “Let’s sit over here.”
The coffee had a slight brown foam on the top. Florian took a sip and said, “So. What is this that you wanted to talk about?” Florian spoke excellent English, with a slight trace of an accent.
“It’s sort of a long story.” I hesitated. I’d never had a conversation about World War II with a German. Ever. I had no idea what he thought about the war, or what they were taught in school. I told him the story of my father’s division and the anniversary celebration of D-Day at Normandy. Then I told him about Recklinghausen. He listened carefully. Then I told him about the coming meeting in Germany with Eidhalt. That got his attention.
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