The Blood Flag

by James W. Huston

  “Yes.”

  “What’s up?”

  “So you pulled it off.”

  “Pulled what off?”

  “Atlanta.”

  “You said you needed to talk to me.” He was being evasive.

  “How did you know about the eight o’clock all-security meeting?”

  “Who said I knew anything about a meeting?”

  “Somebody did.”

  I could hear Jedediah breathing, but not answering. “Whoever did that job—they were pretty smart.”

  “Eye witnesses said there was a big guy—bulky guy—who pulled a torch into the museum and cut through the Plexiglas. I’m not sure who that might have been. I thought maybe somebody who, oh, I don’t know, runs a body shop. You have any ideas?”

  “Lots of bulky guys out there. Probably a fat guy.”

  “Said more like a bodybuilder.”

  “Probably hired the guy to haul that acetylene tank around.”

  “Who said anything about a tank?”

  “You said a torch.”

  “You use torches.”

  “Lots of people use torches.”

  I dropped it. “Are we still in business? Your guy who wanted all these Hitler relics. He now knows they’re all fakes.”

  “He knows what the Russians are saying, sure. But I’m not sure he believes them.”

  “He thinks maybe he has the real ones?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “What I care about—should we still be looking for the flag?”

  “I’m planning on it.”

  “Why if he’s satisfied?”

  “Maybe it won’t last. Maybe I have my own ideas.”

  “We’ve narrowed it down to two people. In Argentina. We’re going to go get it.”

  “And?”

  “We’re going to meet to talk about it today. Do you have another phone?”

  “I can get one. But this has to stop. Too much contact.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  * * *

  “How’d you narrow it to two?”

  Florian looked around. He wanted a cigarette. He grabbed the coffee pitcher off the credenza and poured himself another cup instead. “It was a long process. We are not saying it is one of these two. We can’t say with certainty, but we think they’re the most likely.”

  Patrick added, “There are other possibilities, but since we don’t know what happened we have to go based on those most likely to have it.”

  I grew more frustrated. “So we don’t really know. We’re just playing the odds.”

  “Like any investigation. Right?” Florian added. He then said, “But we think the odds are better than fifty percent.”

  “I need more.”

  Alex chimed in. “Fifty percent is pretty good considering we started at zero. I say we go for it.”

  Florian smiled. “Patrick, you explain.”

  Patrick nodded and opened the notebook again. It had new tabs and a diagram. “Yes, so we know that the man who was responsible for the Blutfahne from its earliest days was Hessler. Many Nazis, as we have discussed, went to Argentina. And as we said earlier, two of the senior officers who lived on Hessler’s street fled to Argentina. It is very possible that Hessler gave the flag to one of them. We know Hessler didn’t go to Argentina, and it is possible of course he kept the flag in Berlin or in Munich. But then why wouldn’t it have surfaced? It is our belief he gave it to one of the men leaving the country. Those two officers, who were both very young for their rank, are in Argentina living under false names. But we have located them.”

  “They’re both still alive?”

  “Yes,” Patrick said smiling.

  “No doubt it’s them?”

  “No doubt.”

  “How old are they?”

  “One’s ninety and the other’s eighty-nine.”

  I sat back and wondered how to go about this. We could go right up to them and demand the flag. Or we could threaten to disclose their past, but unless they were involved in war crimes no one would be very interested in old Nazis. I asked Florian, “What do you have in mind?”

  “We have discussed this at length with the BKA.” He glanced at Patrick who nodded. “And they believe it is best to go about it directly. To go right to the individuals, and confront them and tell them that we need to take possession of the Blood Flag, and if they give it to us without difficulty, we will leave them alone.”

  I thought about it for a second. “And they will of course, then just give us the Blood Flag and say thank you very much and that will be the end of it.”

  “Maybe not. But they thought that was the most effective way.”

  “What about using the actual threat more effectively. What about turning them over to the Israelis if they don’t produce the flag?”

  “The Israelis aren’t interested in just any Nazi. They really only want war criminals. The ones who worked in the concentration camps. The ones who killed Jews. A regular Nazi officer is not of great interest to them.”

  “Do these two men know that?”

  Patrick shrugged. “If they have looked into it at all they would know. I suspect they’ve looked into it from a computer at a coffee shop. I don’t think they’d have a great fear of being sent to Israel, unless they are actually war criminals.”

  Alex asked, “Are they?”

  “They were young and almost certainly had no role in the Holocaust. I don’t think they have much risk of being put on trial anywhere.”

  “Then why flee to Argentina?”

  “Would you have wanted to be a prisoner of the Russians?” Patrick asked.

  I asked, “Why would they have taken the flag? Why would they still be holding onto it? And if we go down there and just demand it, they’ll say they have never seen it, let alone possess it. And unless we’re prepared to use force to search their houses, and their storage, and their safe deposit boxes, and their farm fields, we’ll never find it.” I sat forward. I leaned on my elbows and pushed my sleeves up. “They want to have this relic of Nazi Germany. But why? To sell it? To make money? No. To make a difference. Whoever this guy is, whoever has the flag, he wants it to be used.” I considered. “I think the key is to give him the chance to do with it what he had hoped to do. We need to persuade him that this is the moment. This is the resurgence of Nazism. This is what he has been waiting for, and we will pass on that torch. We will take the flag back to Germany, and give it to the people who are going to take Nazism worldwide and challenge every government they can.”

  Patrick looked at Florian and back at me. “How could we do that?”

  I considered. “We have to present him with a compelling face of Nazism.”

  Florian replied, “How?”

  I stood up and looked out the window for a minute, thinking. “We take him to Germany with the flag. I had always thought when the time came, we’d buy it. We’d give this old man a million dollars and he’d gladly part with it. But, as I’ve been thinking about this, it’s not about money.

  “If he still believes in Nazism, he’ll want to do this one last great thing for the cause. And he probably won’t even care if he gets arrested. But the trick is how do we persuade him that we are the ones to take him to Germany? Unless we set it up perfectly, it will feel like a trap.”

  Florian stood up with me. He looked at all the materials on the table, and thought about the German implications. He said, “We look like we’re from the FBI and the BKA. He will smell us.”

  I replied, “We have to take our CI. He can persuade him how important this gathering is, and that he’s the one to take the flag back to Germany. They’ll never suspect an American. He’ll sell our story. And who else would have an iron cross tattooed on his throat?”

  Florian and Patrick nodded. Patrick said, “Good. But we will
still have to have a story. We have to explain it well when we surprise this old Nazi. And you have to have a story for you.”

  “I think it’s time to build my background, Alex. Western rancher, rich guy. Airplane. Behind the scenes supporter of Nazi causes, but uncommitted.”

  Alex nodded. “I’m on it.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I had never been to Columbia, South Carolina, at least not for any length of time. I’d been to Fort Jackson a couple of times, and I’d driven through or by many times in my work. But I’d never spent any time there. I knew about it, though. It was a proud city. Proud of its heritage, proud of its Civil War role, proud of its state capital that still has stars on the marble exterior to mark where the cannonballs struck it during the Civil War. It is the place where the unanimous vote was taken to secede from the Union. It is the place where, until recently, the Confederate flag flew over the statehouse with the United States flag and the state flag, one over the other. Notably, with the Confederate flag above the state flag. That finally caused enough controversy that it resulted in the Confederate flag being moved to a flag pole near some statues, but still on the capitol grounds.

  Columbia had a fairly modern look, unlike Charleston, which maintained its antebellum appearance, because most of Columbia was destroyed in fires during the occupation by the beloved William Tecumseh Sherman.

  I sat down on a bench by the Edisto River, watching it meander across the countless rocks in the middle of the riverbed, and opened my computer. I logged onto my Gmail account and emailed Jedediah, telling him that I was in Columbia and needed to speak. I asked him to name the time and the place. I didn’t think he would like it very much that I was there, but I really didn’t care. This couldn’t wait.

  Once again, he responded immediately. I was curious how he did that. He must sit at his office at his body shop with his Gmail account opened and minimized. As soon as I would write, he would respond. It was also possible that he used that account to email other people. A thought that gave me pause. He said, “You shouldn’t be here. Lake Murray. Midnight. End of Brady Porth Road.”

  I opened Google maps. I went to satellite view, then to street view and put the little man in the middle of the end of the street. I looked around three hundred and sixty degrees to see what was there. Nothing. It was a dead-end road that petered out at the water and Google street view didn’t go all the way to the end. No houses, no cabins, no structures. No streetlights, no painted lines, nothing else to note. Just lots of pine trees, glimpses of the lake, and a sign that said “End of Maintenance” long before the end of the road. At midnight it would be darker than a witch’s heart. I opened Weather Underground and checked moonrise for Columbia. 8:00 p.m., a waning crescent. We’d have a little light, but not much. I needed to get there before midnight.

  I turned onto the road just before eleven thirty. The rusted sign for Brady Porth Road stuck up from the ground at a forty-five degree angle, a remnant of an accident years before. After a mile or so the road narrowed and the pavement disappeared. There was a slight berm on the side from where it had been bulldozed out of the woods. The berm went straight down to what I assumed was the lake, though I couldn’t see any water from the road. The trees over the road formed a canopy that blocked the dim moonlight. I drove to the end of the road where the bulldozer had simply stopped and I was surrounded by trees. I looked in my rearview mirror and couldn’t even see the road behind. I turned off my lights, then the engine, and sat in my locked car to let my eyes adjust. I finally got out, put my keys in my pocket, and felt the reassuring presence of my Glock under my arm. I wondered if Jedediah had decided to end his relationship with the FBI, and me with it. It wouldn’t be smart. Karl knew who he was and would track him down if something happened to me, particularly in Columbia. But sometimes people like Jedediah weren’t exactly the most logical.

  I closed the door quietly and stood next to my car. There were no sounds other than insects. I looked at my watch, which had dots on the hour numbers and small green stripes on the hands. It was ten minutes before midnight. I listened for an approaching vehicle but heard nothing. Just stillness. I had no idea how far I was from the lake, or whether there was a path to the water. It occurred to me that he might take a different road and come through the woods by foot, so I wouldn’t see his vehicle. I stared hard into the trees all around me. I looked up at the sky, and through the few holes in the pine canopy I could see the vivid stars. The crescent moon was somewhere, unseen and not of much help.

  “You gonna arrest me?”

  The unexpected voice made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. It was spoken softly, but clearly. He couldn’t have been more than ten feet away. He stepped out from behind a large tree in a black turtleneck.

  “You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Needed to be sure you were alone.”

  “How long have you been there?”

  He stepped across the slight berm that formed the road and stood next to my car. He looked around as I’m sure he had a hundred times before that. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “If I wanted to arrest you you’d already be in handcuffs.”

  “Thinking about it?”

  “What? Arresting you? For Atlanta? No. They think you were involved, but they’ve got no evidence.”

  “So what’s so important?”

  I looked at the road and at him. “How did you get here? Where’s your car?”

  “Who said I drove?”

  I nodded with new understanding. “A boat.”

  “So what’s so important?”

  “I told you, I think we found the Blood Flag.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’re going to go get it. And we’ve gotta sell to them that we’re neo-Nazis and that they should come with us and bring the flag back to Germany, to the meeting.”

  Jedediah thought. He put his hands in his pockets. “And?”

  “Whoever this guy is isn’t going to believe a couple of Germans from the BKA and an American with an FBI haircut. But he’ll believe you.”

  “You want me to go to Argentina?”

  “Yes.”

  “And exactly what would the plan be? Ask this guy for the flag? Grab it?”

  “Maybe. If you tell the German guy with the flag that you’re bringing him to Germany for the big thing, he’ll come.”

  “Why would he come?”

  “He’s been holding onto the flag for sixty-five years. Why? What better chance to put it back in play than to use it to unify all worldwide neo-Nazi groups?”

  Jedediah shook his head slowly as he thought, clearly not impressed. “So, we all walk down there, knock on this guy’s door, say hello, how about you take the Blood Flag back to Germany because we’re a bunch of neo-Nazis and it’s going to be great. That about it?”

  “I’d hope for a little more nuance, but basically yeah.”

  “How will we say we happened to find him?”

  “We did the research. Most of those are public documents. He won’t know what’s public and what’s not. We’ll tell him we did our homework. We expect that someone in his place will be surprised nobody had put it together before now.”

  “You guys just don’t think like criminals.”

  “There’s probably a reason for that.”

  “I can pull off going to Argentina. I can sell that. I can even tell him the real reason. But you’ve gotta give me some documents. I’ve gotta pretend like I’ve done all this homework myself. And I gotta have traces to U.S. sources. Preferably, on the Internet. I can get down there, but I’m not traveling with you, and I’m not associating with anything you guys are doing. I’ll meet you there. You tell me where to be and when and I’ll be there. If all you need is for me to look big and tough and glare at this guy, that’s easy enough. But I’m here to tell you, that if you just walk in there, like three govern
ment guys, he’s not going to give you shit. He’d rather die.”

  I thought he was probably right, but I didn’t see any way around it.

  “Then give us a better plan. Tell us how you would do it.”

  Jedediah asked, “These guys that you think may have the flag. Either of them SS? Any unique units or background?”

  “No. Plain vanilla. Routine. That was one of the reasons they were hard to trace. My German friends did it by where the Blood Flag was kept and the men in the same neighborhood were traced to Argentina, and the time they left the country. We don’t know if either of them has it, but they think these are the two most likely. If it still exists.”

  “Oh, it exists. I’m sure it exists,” he said.

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s the holy grail of the Nazi world. The magic flag that blessed everything else. So, maybe you should just tell me who these guys are and I should go down there and get it.”

  “How would you do that?”

  “I’d have a chat with them.”

  “A friendly kind of chat?”

  “Depends on how friendly they were to me, but I’d come away with the flag.”

  “Maybe I’m your financier. I need to be ready to write them a check for a million dollars for this flag.”

  “The FBI will let you have that kind of money?”

  “Not a chance, but they don’t know that and they’d have to let us see it.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then my German friends will persuade them, or him, that he doesn’t have to let it go at all. He can still keep it. That he should come to Germany with us to put it back into circulation in any way that he sees fit. With him or without him, selling it or not, we’ll decide that in Germany, but he should come and raise it back up to where it belongs. At the top of the Nazi movement.”

  “Might work. When we going?”

  “Next week. Can you get away?”

  “Yeah. Send me the stuff to my post office box in Irmo.”

  I hesitated, wondering what else to tell him. Taking him to Argentina could be our smartest move; it could also be a disaster. Finally I said, “See you in Argentina.”