Wednesday came quickly. I flew to Columbia in the morning, then waited until midnight passed. At one thirty I drove to the Traveller and parked by the dozens of cars already there. I sat in my car, pretending to work on something as I watched the members of the Southern Volk arrive for the meeting. Most of them came two or three to a car. Although I’d seen them in the video, seeing them in person was even more disturbing. Many of them were young, early twenties, and full of piss and vinegar, as my Marine friends used to say. They were looking for a fight, at least when they outnumbered the opposition.
Alex had worked tirelessly to create my Internet existence. Enough to convince even a diligent researcher of my authenticity. Jedediah hadn’t told them I was coming, so no one would have done any research. But I was sure they’d look after I’d gone. And if they found any holes, it could mean the end of Jedediah.
I opened my car door and stepped out. I was wearing my jeans and cowboy boots with a black windbreaker. I fell in behind two young men headed for the basement headquarters. They glanced at me, then stopped and turned.
“Who are you?” one of them said.
“Friend of Jedediah’s.”
“Really.”
“Yes, really.”
“You coming to the meeting?”
“Yeah.”
“We’ll follow you,” the other said as they walked around behind me, waiting for me to move.
I walked toward the basement following others, and down the stairs, which were steep and dark, with a railing built out of steel pipe. Several men descended in front of me and my two escorts followed behind me. At the bottom of the stairs was a flat area and an open steel door. Two large men stood at the door like bouncers. They waved the men in front of me into the basement, but stepped in front of the door opening when they saw me. One of them put his hand on my chest. “May we help you?”
“I’m here for the meeting.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jack Bradley.”
“And who invited you?”
“Jedediah.”
One looked at the other. “Go get him.”
The second one left while others poured in around me getting nods from the remaining bouncer who had to be at least six feet four inches and had long stringy hair. The second man returned and gave a nod to the first, who stepped aside and let me pass.
I walked into the room, which was filling fast. It looked smaller than it had on the video. Aggressive rock music played loudly as the men milled around laughing and pushing each other. Some drank beer, others smoked. All waited for the beginning of the meeting. The meetings all started in exactly the same way, Jedediah had told me, like any good club. At some signal I didn’t see, the two bouncers slammed the steel door closed and threw the bolt home. They ran a massive padlock through the bolt, slotted it home, and the one with stringy hair put the key in his pocket.
But this was already different than the meeting I had observed under the direction of Brunnig. The lights went down, and the music changed to restrained martial tunes. John Philips Sousa. “The Washington Post March,” then, louder, “Stars and Stripes Forever.” The effect was surreal. The stately, historic, patriotic music rolled over the mob of neo-Nazis who were taken aback by the change in theme from Brunnig. Jedediah was merging their neo-Nazi inclinations with their childhood patriotism. American songs instead of German. As “Stars and Stripes Forever” approached its climax the volume rose and rose again, until the rhythm thumped through the high-quality sound system. Some marched and stomped their feet while others looked around, wondering how to respond to the new way.
The music stopped, and the lights went out. I stood to the side. As the music began again I immediately recognized it. The march that started with “Auld Lang Syne.” George M. Cohan. A spotlight pierced the darkness and illuminated the back of the stage, where the flag of the Southern Volk was proudly displayed, the Battle Flag of the Army of Tennessee, the flag commonly called the Confederate Flag, with its red background and crossed blue bars with stars. But unlike the Confederate flag, it had a white circle with a Swastika in the middle. Up came the music, louder and louder as it finished the “Auld Lang Syne” introduction and rolled into a booming deafening version of “You’re a Grand Old Flag,” one of the greatest patriotic songs in American history.
It was a twisted, disturbing development. Jedediah had melded neo-Nazism with American patriotism. I had always loved the music and even had an old record album with nothing but martial marches on it that my father had given to me. When I was a boy he had taken me to see the United States Marine Corps silent drill team perform at Headquarters Marine Corps at 8th and I in D.C., where their stirring finale featured “You’re a Grand Old Flag.” I tried to look enthusiastic instead of how I felt.
Finally the introduction was over and the lights came up, but only slightly. Jedediah stepped to the microphone and into the spotlight. He extended his arm in a Nazi salute and began a pledge of allegiance. No one knew it was coming or what he was saying. They extended their arms and listened carefully as Jedediah yelled the pledge into the microphone.
“I pledge allegiance! To the flag! Of the Southern Volk of America! And to the future, for which it stands! One people, pure and right, with Liberty and Justice above all!”
He started it again and they all joined enthusiastically. He led it again and they all yelled out the pledge with eagerness.
He spoke. “Men, tonight we take a new course. Brunnig has gone his own way for reasons we don’t know. But the Southern Volk live on!” Clapping. “We will continue to grow, and continue to thrive. And we will get to Germany to join the other Nazi groups who will change the world! Tonight, as you know, we have numerous things to plan, and will break into our planning groups shortly. But before we do, I want to introduce someone to you. Someone who is going to make a very big difference in our future, in our finances, and in getting us to Germany. Once in a while someone comes along who really can affect things. And that person is here. I have been talking to him for over a year to persuade him to join us. He is one of us already in ideas and beliefs. But he’s one of those people who are usually behind the scenes. Tonight, I persuaded him to come meet you, to hear you. And I wanted you to hear him.
“Why do we need him? We don’t really. But sometimes people on the same path can help each other. He has things we don’t have—like money—and we have what he’d never have. An army!” They erupted in cheers and screams. Several of the men tore off their shirts revealing their Nazi tattoos as they flexed and yelled.
“Let me invite him up. Jack!” He motioned for me to join him on the stage. I stepped up and the room lights came up a little more. I stood next to him. “This is Jack Bradley, a rancher from the west—although he has ranches elsewhere too. He has been on the fringes of the movement for years, but has never come out of the shadows until now. He has picked us as the group most likely to succeed, to achieve some real progress, and has thrown his lot in to back us. Not the Aryans, not the Supremes, us. He has agreed to finance us, and, I can now tell you, gave us the idea that will get us to Germany. Not only did he come up with the idea, he helped us execute it. And I can now tell you what we have.”
“As you know, someone tried to take Hitler’s things from Atlanta.” They hooted and screamed.
“And while whoever it was got what they were after, the Russians outsmarted them and had fakes in place. So those people—whoever they were—accomplished nothing.” They hissed and booed. He held up his hand.
“But we had another plan. Jack and I planned it, and two of you who had been sworn to secrecy helped. We went and got the most coveted thing in all of Nazi history. Any guesses?” He waited. They looked around confused, wondering.
“The Blood Flag! We found the flag that holds the blood of the first Nazi martyrs! We have it! And we will take it to Germany, where we will take leadership of the international Nazi movement! The Southern Volk will be the World Volk and we will be in charge! And Jack financed it, and planned it. And we have it.”
They roared approval. So I wanted you to meet him. Please give a Southern Volk welcome to Jack Bradley.”
They clapped, studying me. One man directly in front of me wasn’t buying it. He took off his shirt to reveal a tattoo across his chest in English script that said, “Dirty White Boy.” He was cut, and looked like an MMA fighter. And his eyes bore holes in me. I returned his look, but he wasn’t the kind of man who would be intimidated by anyone’s look. He either fought for a living or should.
Jedediah interrupted my thoughts. “Why don’t you say a few words, Jack?”
I looked at him and hesitated. I moved toward the microphone, and said, “Thank you for having me here tonight. Jedediah was right. I’ve been watching all the groups in the U.S. for years. Yours is the only one that’s creative, that has the greatest potential. What are your roles now, Jedediah? Twelve hundred?”
“Officially fifteen hundred.”
“Fifteen hundred. There you go. Others claim more, but most of them are in prison. We need people on the outside, people who can move out tomorrow, or the next day, and do what needs to be done. If Germany is what I think it’s going to be, we’re going to need to be able to move fast and effectively. You’re the ones to do it, and I have the funds to make it work. And we have the flag! I can get us arms, transportation, airplanes, whatever we need, let’s do it together!” I tried to finish with enthusiasm I didn’t feel. They screamed and clapped, except for Dirty White Boy who saw right through me. I then noticed he was wearing a watch on his right wrist. I suddenly wondered if he was one of the men in the conference room in Atlanta. Jedediah looked at him and knew he needed to get me out of there before something happened. He yelled into the microphone, “Let’s take five for a drink, and break into our operational groups!”
He shook my hand and led me backstage. When we were alone I asked, “Was that guy in Atlanta? He’s left handed. He may have recognized me.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it covered.”
“Meaning what? This could blow us up!”
“He’s one of my boys. He does what I tell him. And he knows if he doesn’t he’ll end up in a landfill. He won’t cross me. Just don’t worry about it.”
“I’m going to worry about it. Keep your eye on him. I don’t trust him.”
If you dig up a skeleton buried ninety years ago, can you get DNA out of his bones? And if not, can you get DNA from his family? If I found a grandson, would his DNA help me identify a likely match on the flag? I had no idea. I knew the manager of our DNA lab arrived at seven so I got there when he opened. I pushed open the glass door and was immediately assaulted by the smell of formaldehyde and other unidentifiable chemicals. The FBI forensic lab is massive and the best in the world. It’s a chemistry major’s dream. It was always updated with the newest technology and equipment. It was where they learned to identify bomb traces and triggering devices and chemical contents of explosives. It’s where they first came up with the ability to identify a murder weapon by the unique marks left on a bullet by a specific gun—the gun’s fingerprint. Their reputation was well earned, and they went to great lengths to maintain it.
I went to Dr. Ray Wilson’s office in the back of the lab. I knocked on the door gently and he looked around from the Excel spreadsheet he was studying on his computer screen. He said, “Enter.”
“Hi, I’m Kyle Morrissey. I wondered if you could give me some help.” He looked at his watch and frowned. He had a tan face and closely cropped white hair. He was probably sixty-two or sixty-three and appeared to be in very good shape. He wasn’t wearing glasses, which surprised me. I’d only encountered him a few times, yet he appeared to remember me. “What brings you in so early?”
“I need to pick your brain.”
He glanced at the clock over my shoulder. “I’ve got fifteen minutes or so, what’s up?”
He was not the typical bureaucrat with a lab. He wasn’t the kind of guy who had turf, and protected it; he was more like the smart kid in science class who knew everyone wanted his study notes. Everything was a mystery to him; everything was a puzzle to be solved. And he was given the biggest and best lab in the world to do it. He loved what he did, and he was the best.
“DNA.”
“What about it?”
I didn’t know whether to tell him the whole story or just part of it. “I’m trying to take down neo-Nazis worldwide.”
He was surprised. “Curious role for the FBI . . . ”
“I have a flag. A Nazi flag from 1923. The very first Nazi flag. Used by Hitler and his henchmen in their march in Munich.”
“I’ve heard of it. And you have it?”
“Yes. We went to Argentina to track down an old Nazi hiding there who had the flag. He tried to give us a fake, but—well, we think we got the real one. But we need to authenticate it.”
“Okay.”
“It’s called the Blood Flag; die Blutfahne in German. The blood is from the Nazi martyrs killed during the beer hall putsch. They died and bled on the flag. I need to know if I can pull their DNA and prove this is actually the flag from 1923.”
“You need blood cells. It’s unlikely there’s any biological material left. May be able to find some mitochondrial DNA.”
“Could you tell by looking at it? Could you examine it and know whether there was enough of—whatever—to do a test? Without disturbing it?”
“We can throw it under a microscope, see if there’s enough to do a test.”
Well that was something. “Let’s say there is enough left on the flag to authenticate it. What do we compare it to? How can we prove it was the blood of one of the men killed in 1923?”
“Do you know where they are?”
“Who?”
“The men who were killed. The ones who bled on the flag.”
“Well, obviously, they are dead.”
He rolled his eyes. “Obviously. I mean, do you know where they are buried?”
“My recollection is that they were buried under or near a monument during Hitler’s reign, but after the fall of Germany, the families were told that they were either going to destroy the bodies or that they would give them back to the families but they had to bury them in unmarked graves. So, I think they are still around, at least the skeletons—and they’re in some unmarked graves.”
“How many of them bled on the flag?”
“Sixteen were killed, probably three or four bled on the flag. The main guy who died on the flag is well known.”
“You have to find the one who left blood that’s testable. We have to match it to that guy.”
“Let’s assume we can find the grave of the right guy. Will there be DNA in somebody’s skeleton after having died ninety years ago?”
“Sometimes we can identify really old skeletal remains. We’ll have to see. How well-preserved is the flag?”
“I think in its early years it was probably kept in a chest, folded. Then in the thirties it was brought out as the magic flag of the Nazi regime. It was probably kept on a flag staff in a protected room when it wasn’t being used. And it was used sparingly. After that, it was flown to Argentina and kept in sealed container—probably never displayed at all—or rarely.”
“There’s a chance. I can’t tell you how good a chance without seeing it. But if we find something on the flag, maybe we can dig up the bones of the ones who died and get some DNA out of the skull. If that fails we can try and use mitochondrial DNA, probably from the teeth if they’re still there.
When can I get my hands on this thing?”
“I don’t actually have it. Our informant has it. . . . I don’t think he’s going to let go of it.”
“So, what’s your plan?”
“Do you think other labs would be able to do the testing?”
“What lab do you have in mind?”
“The Bundeskriminalamt.”
“The Germans? Of course. No problem at all. But you’re going to take the most important Nazi flag in history to Germany to have it tested by the Germans?”
“Maybe. We’ve got a couple of guys there who are helping me.”
“You do know the history of the BKA, right?”
“That it was started by Nazis?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah. I saw they finally admitted that a couple of years ago. They said it was because no one else in Germany had the investigative skills.”
Wilson chuckled. “Yeah, that’s it. They had to use elements of the SS and the Gestapo. That’s the only choice they had.”
“Right.”
“I’m just saying that an outfit that started that way may have some roots, some sympathies. Be careful who you trust in the BKA.”
“I hadn’t really thought that through.”
“Talk to your guys in Germany and see what they think. I would just have some real hesitation. But yeah, they could do it. They’re competent. There are also probably several commercial labs in Germany that could do it.” Wilson sat forward suddenly. “You hear about that testing of what they thought was Hitler’s skull?”
“No. I thought he was burned outside the bunker after he shot himself.”
“He was. But the Russians were there the next day. Or in a couple of days. I don’t remember. They said they destroyed the ashes, but secretly they took the skull back to Russia.”
“What happened?”
“Discovery Channel, or somebody, got ahold of the couch Hitler shot himself on, and pulled DNA off the blood on the couch. So that was in 1945, and they got good samples. Then they went to Russia—got them to let them take samples from the skull, amazingly—and compared it against the couch blood.
“The skull had a bullet hole in it and everything. Great show. Of course, the Russians only gave them thirty minutes access when they got there. Why would they do that? Anyway, you should check it out. It was on TV last month.”
“So what happened?”
“They used some forensic scientists from Connecticut. I watched it over and over. I checked all their procedures—what they told us about anyway—and it looked correct. They knew what they were doing. So they compared the blood, and it wasn’t a match.”
“How did I never hear about this?”
“Probably because it wasn’t a match. If it had been Hitler’s, it would have been front-page headlines.”
“So whose was it?”
“Well, the scientists said the skull was more likely to be a woman, and I think they’re right. So what woman had a bullet hole in her head that was close to Hitler?”
“Eva Braun.”
“Well supposedly she just took the poison. But who knows.”
“How do they know they got Hitler’s blood off the couch?”
“Never authenticated it. All they did was try to match it against the skull.”
“Why didn’t they get more blood from the couch?”
“Not sure. But for your problem, I can recommend some labs in Germany where you can get it tested. But what are you going to do once you get it tested?”
“We have to get it done quickly. In a couple of weeks. Our guy has to meet with this new Nazi who is trying to put together the leaders of all the Nazi movements around the world. One uniform, one leader, one structure, worldwide Nazism.”
He frowned. “That’s gotta be stopped.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do.”
I went to my office and called Florian.
“Ah,” he said. “Good to hear from you. Have you found your missing friend?”
I wasn’t sure Florian would still work with me after Buenos Aires. “Yeah. He’s back on board. He says he was never not on board. I’m still skeptical. And the leader of the Southern Volk—the former leader—has now gone missing. I think there’s an even chance that our friend did away with him.”
“Well, he has the flag. If we want to do anything with it, we need him.”
“Exactly. But I’m going to need your help.”
“Sure, anything.”
“How do we prove to Eidhalt that this is the actual Blood Flag? We have to authenticate it.”
“We could do some kind of carbon dating. Although, I don’t know if that works for something this young.”
“No, anybody could get ninety-year-old cloth. All that would do is date the flag. That doesn’t get us there. We have to prove it’s the flag. I think we have to get the blood sample off the flag and test the DNA of the men who were shot. How can we find them?”
“The ones who fell on the flag?”
“Right. Where are they buried?”
There was a period of silence. “I think Patrick may know. I know that there was something that happened with them. I don’t recall what it was. How much time do we have now?”
“Ten days. Then we have to be ready to go to the meeting.”
“Has your friend told them what he has?”
“Not yet. He’s supposed to meet Eidhalt in Germany. Then we’ll have to find someplace—a commercial lab—that can do this kind of testing that we can sell to Eidhalt.”
“I’m sure we can find such a lab. How do we go about this?”
I looked at the clock. “Assume we can get a blood sample from the flag. We’ve got to find either the remains of one of the men who bled on it, or one of their descendants. I think we’ve got to find where these guys were buried.”
Florian hesitated. “You can do DNA testing from someone who’s been dead for ninety years?”
“Depends. I know you can do testing on skeletons that have been around for hundreds of years. I’m trying to figure it all out. But for now, see if you can find the guys who were killed. Concentrate on the ones that would be the most likely. One guy apparently fell directly on the flag and bled to death there. Most of the blood’s probably his.”
“Let me talk to a guy who has suddenly become interested in what we’re doing.”
My antenna went up. “What guy?”
“The Verfassungsschutz. You know who they are?”
“Yeah, sort of closer to the CIA,” I responded, not liking what I was hearing.
“We got a visit yesterday from one of them. About this.”
“About what?”
“He heard we were asking around. Involving neo-Nazis.”
“Why was he interested?”
“Said he was working on a similar project. Wanted to make sure we didn’t bang into each other.”
I wasn’t sure whether to say what I was thinking or not. “Did you know him before yesterday?”
“No. We had never heard of him.”
“Did you tell him about the Blutfahne?”
“Yes, we mentioned it.”
“How did he react?”
“I’m not sure how to describe it. I’m not sure of the best English word. Enthusiastic.”
“Eager?”
“Perfect. Yes. Eager and enthusiastic about our project.”
“Did you say much else?”
“No. He said he wanted to meet soon.”
“I wish you’d talked to me first. I don’t like it. I’m coming over there. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I picked up the phone and told Alex we were going to Germany that night.
On my way to the airport, I texted Florian and asked him to meet us in Munich. Alex and I checked in at the Sofitel, a beautiful old building that had been completely modernized. We dropped off our bags and went to the restaurant in the lobby for a late breakfast. Florian and Patrick arrived as we were finishing. I waved. Florian looked a little disheveled with his hair in something of a mess. He was wearing a high-collared zip sweater. Patrick was wearing a sport coat and a blue shirt open at the collar. They ordered coffee and we got refills.
I said to both of them, “I checked the notes you gave me. The guy who seems to be the one who bled right on the flag the most is Jens Friedl. Any idea how to track where he was buried?”
Patrick looked around. He pulled some papers out of his coat pocket and laid them in front of him. “The men who died were buried in graves here in Munich. All marked. After Hitler went to prison, most people thought the movement was dead. Well, after Hitler got out of prison—after writing Mein Kampf—he rebuilt Nazism with new energy. The same people who were in the putsch were right there with him. Luddendorff, Hess, Röhm, Göring, all of them. They picked up right where they left off. The conditions in Germany were terrible and getting worse. After Hitler maneuvered himself into the position of chancellor, he then made it so that he could never be removed. This was all well known. He dug up the bodies, how do you say it?”
“Exhumed.”
“Yes. He had the bodies of the men who died in the beer hall putsch exhumed, and re-buried them under a monument to honor them. In 1934. I have found a picture of it.” He handed me a Xeroxed copy of a photograph that showed an ornate marble monument in honor of the martyrs of National Socialism. I couldn’t read the inscription, but the message being conveyed was clear. I handed the picture back to him.
“Then what?”
“Then the Blood Flag became the centerpiece of Nazism. The one magical thing. It, of course, was nothing of the sort, but Hitler made it into that. And the men who died—and bled on it—were the first martyrs of Nazism. So the monument was almost worshipped.”
“What happened to them?”
Patrick nodded. “At the end of the war the Russians were going to tear down the monument and destroy the remains of the ‘martyrs.’ They were going to dig them up and burn their bones.”
Patrick continued. “But the families heard about it. They begged for the remains so they could re-bury them. The Russians agreed, but only if they were buried in unmarked graves and never identified.”
Alex frowned. “We have to find unmarked graves?”
Patrick nodded. “Yes.”
“That will be impossible.”
Patrick shook his head, “No it won’t. We Germans keep track of everything. The families will know, or someone else will know. We’ll find out.”
I nodded as I drank my last bit of cool coffee. “If we find Friedl’s, which is the one we have to look for first, you do understand we’re going to have to dig it up?”
“Of course!” Patrick said enthusiastically, like it would be the most fun he’d had in years.
“And we have to do this in a way that our buddy, Jedediah Thom, can persuade Eidhalt. I need to get him on the phone, but let’s locate that grave first.”
Patrick and Florian prepared to leave. Then I added, “And then I want to hear about your contact with the Verfassungsschutz. But don’t talk to them directly. Not yet.”
Florian nodded.
I paid the bill then said to Florian and Patrick. “You guys find that grave this afternoon. Think you can do that?”
“We can try.”
“After you do, let’s get together tonight and go look at it. Then you can tell me about this visit that you had. I had an idea on how we might use that to our benefit.”
As the sun set, Alex and I walked out of the hotel and down the street to see the center of Munich. We had spent the entire afternoon researching the flag. I needed fresh air. I sent an email, high priority, to Jedediah’s account, telling him we needed to talk.
“Where are we going?” Alex asked as we walked briskly in the cold evening air.
“I want to retrace the route.”
“What route?”
“From the beer hall to the City Hall. The putsch.”
“Is the beer hall still there?”
“No. It was called the Bürgerbräukeller, but that building was torn down in the seventies. The Hilton sits on that property now. Tonight we’ll go eat in another huge beer hall, Hofbräuhaus, but before we do that we’re going to walk the same route Hitler led his Nazis on when the Blood Flag was created.”
We walked along the pristine sidewalk and looked at the old buildings. I looked at the map where I had outlined the course and turned to go down toward where the old Bürgerbräukeller was. “To think of Hitler walking in there—do you know how he did it?”
“Did what?”
“Started this whole march. This putsch.”
“No, no idea.”
“They met in that massive beer hall often, giving speeches, inciting people, getting his brown shirts to intimidate people. All the stuff we’ve heard about. It wasn’t a huge deal, but it was noted. So on November 8th, 1923, he decided to make his play. He had his brown shirts bar or chain the doors closed. Three thousand people in the Bürgerbräukeller. He had it ringed inside by six hundred of his storm troopers. He fired a pistol into the air and jumped onto a table to announce the time for the revolution had come. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen any of his speeches, but he was mesmerizing. Almost didn’t matter what he was saying. He got people worked up. He got worked up. He told them it was time to stop putting up with what had happened to them! They had been stabbed in the back! The German people had been betrayed by the immigrants, and Jews, Bolsheviks, and traitors! The conditions were because of them! And the weak government surrendered their honor in the war! He told them it was time to take action. To take things into their own hands. And within that group of three thousand people, each had something against somebody that they wrote into his speech in their own minds.
“They weren’t sure what to do. They had the energy, the anger, but nowhere to go. So Ludendorff, this old timer from WWI yells, ‘We march!’ And they headed for the Bavarian Defense Ministry. Two thousand men, some armed, some in Nazi uniforms, the about-to-be famous Blood Flag, and off they went.”
“Okay, here we are.” I stopped and pointed at the buildings around. “Bürgerbräukeller would have been behind us. They came down this street, two thousand strong, many armed, yelling, screaming for the overthrow of the corrupt government of Bavaria, and the beginning of a German-wide revolt.
“But one man wasn’t going to have it—a German state police officer, senior lieutenant Baron Michael von Godin. He blocked the Odeonsplatz—the city square—with a hundred soldiers. The Nazis kept coming, threatening. Finally someone opened fire.”
We stopped. “Right about here.”
We surveyed the beautiful Odeonsplatz, imagining the confusion and anger that filled it ninety years ago.
“Then?” she asked, imagining the whole story. I pulled up pictures of the people involved on my iPad.
“Four state police and sixteen Nazis were killed. And several Nazis fell on the flag. Right here,” I said pointing down. “The one who bled the most on the flag was Jens Friedl. Hitler and Göring were both injured. Göring was shot in the groin. Most fled after people started falling. Pandemonium.”
We walked on another eight hundred yards and stopped. “Check this out,” I said, studying a map I’d called up on my iPad. After Hitler came to power, he made the walk from the Bürgerbräukeller to the Odeonsplatz, a holy walk. To ‘honor’ the Nazi martyrs and the putsch. He even posted guards here, like honor guards, for years, to honor the walk where they were shot. Check this out.”
I pointed to the Feldherrenhalle, the ornate, Italian-style building at the end of the Odeonsplatz. “That building was the background for the fight. It was where Hitler put up the monument to the dead Nazi martyrs of the putsch. Right there at the base of the building. And posted SS guards in front of it, who had to be saluted by everyone who passed.
“But not all Germans were so deferential. Thousands walked around to the back of the building, through a small street, rather than pass in front and do the Nazi salute. Come over here. There’s supposed to be a bronzed brick path.”
We turned the corner and found Viscardigasse. We stopped and looked at the stones of the narrow street. “Here,” she pointed. There was an eighteen-inch path of bronzed stones in the middle of the street representing the path people took to avoid honoring the memorial.
“They called this Drückeberger Gaßl. Shirker’s Alley. Like they were shirking their duty to the Nazis.”
Alex looked around and studied it all. “This is amazing. It seems so long ago. Munich looks so normal, so beautiful.” She knelt down and felt the bronzed stones and contemplated. “But why not more? Why not most? If most had refused, resisted, walked around the Nazis, Hitler never would have succeeded.”
I nodded. “One of the great questions of history. I think we’re wrong though if we assume it couldn’t happen anywhere else.”
My phone buzzed. It was a text from Patrick.
“What is it?” she asked, standing.
“They found the grave.”
We agreed to meet Patrick and Florian at the graveyard at 10:00 p.m. The streets were quiet. It was a cool evening and the stars were hidden by a thin overcast. They were waiting for us when we got there. Both were wearing dark clothing; an intuitive decision by amateur grave robbers.
Florian spoke quietly, “This way.” He headed down a sidewalk then turned down an alley. The buildings came right up to the streets and some overhung the pavement. We walked in silence. I resisted the temptation to look behind us.
We went a quarter of a mile and Florian stopped when there was an area to our right with no buildings. There was no light. Florian said, “This is it. Very old graveyard.”
From the edge of the cemetery I could make out some large gravestones with crosses, casting ominous shadows from the minimal moonlight penetrating the wispy clouds. I turned on my small LED flashlight. I was ready to go look. “It’s unmarked?”
Florian indicated for me to come closer and put my flashlight on a piece of paper he unfolded. It was a map of the cemetery. “Patrick thinks he knows where it is.”
Patrick leaned in and touched the paper. “There are several unmarked graves in this graveyard. They are numbered though, of course!” he said smiling.
“And you have the list?”
“Of course. We have access.”
“Let’s go.”
Florian folded the paper and turned toward the graveyard. There was an iron fence with a sidewalk passing through an opening in the fence, but no gate. The fence was black iron, probably eight feet high with freshly painted ornate curved tops. The sidewalk was well maintained. As we followed Florian, I said quietly, “Is there a caretaker, a night guard?”
“No. They have weekly maintenance, mostly gardeners, but this cemetery is full. There are no open spaces. Nothing happens here; no need for security.” Alex touched my arm and pointed. There was one large gravestone that had a top that was shaped like a World War I helmet with a spike on it. I nodded and looked for other distinctive markings. There was no pattern, but there was a notable lack of religious symbols. There were a few crosses, but not many, and no Stars of David. The trees were old and thick and contributed to the darkness and the spookiness. It was probably five acres that got deeper and wider the farther in we went. I had assumed another street would be on the other side in a hundred feet or so, but that was not the case. There were no buildings at the far end of the cemetery, but rather a field or meadow.
Florian and Patrick walked on, glancing at headstones for orientation. It was hard to see in the dark, but Florian used his own flashlight to compare what he was finding to the diagram he’d brought. There were actually two cemeteries with the same name. One old, one new. Friedl’s grave was supposed to be in the “new” one; new meaning less than two hundred years old. We crossed other sidewalks that led to different areas of the cemetery, which were divided into numbered sections.
Florian looked around, and shined his flashlight onto the large headstone in front of us, just on the other side of a fork in the sidewalk. We approached slowly. The headstone appeared even larger as we got closer. I put my flashlight beam on it and walked directly up to it. Patrick and I started rubbing dust and dirt off the stone, to see if there was anything readable. It was very readable. You could see four-inch tall letters that had been chiseled into the mahogany colored marble. FRIEDL. There were four names, including Jens. I stared at the lettering. I said to Patrick quietly, “I thought you said it was supposed to be unmarked.”
“It was. Looks like the family had a different idea.” He studied the stone. “They’re all buried here,” he said. “The father, the mother, Friedl himself, and it looks like his . . . probably his sister.”
Alex came up behind me. “How will we know which skeleton is Jens’s?”
Florian heard her question. “Maybe we can tell from the caskets. If not,” he said staring at the names on the marble, “we’ll have to take all of them.”
“That sure complicates things,” I added.
I examined the surroundings. It was as remote as you could be in a city cemetery. There were no buildings or apartments that overlooked this area of the cemetery. We could work here at night without being seen. Whether we’d be heard was a different question. I looked at Patrick. “Any chance a police officer might walk through here at night?”
“Not likely,” he replied.
I walked around behind the large stone, then to the sides. I knelt down and felt the dirt. Not too hard. I stood. “Let’s go find somewhere to talk about how we’re going to get this done.”
We started walking out of the cemetery. Alex walked beside me and said quietly, “I still don’t understand what exactly you have in mind.”
“You’ll see.”
The four of us sat at a table in a busy restaurant with red-checkered tablecloths. Patrick ordered a pitcher of beer and some French fries. The restaurant was full and loud with people laughing and drinking all around us. No one was paying any attention to us.
Alex asked, “Okay. Let’s hear it. How do we do this?”
I drank my beer deeply. “If we can get blood off the flag, and dig up Friedl, we can compare the DNA. But the trick is to make this all look like Jedediah’s idea. Because the person we’re trying to persuade is Eidhalt. If we bring Jedediah over here with the flag, we can get the testing done. But how do we get Jedediah to dig up Friedl so Eidhalt knows what is happening? If he just gives him DNA samples, Eidhalt will think the whole thing is fake. Anybody can phony up DNA test results. Anybody can make it look real, but it has to be real. The funny thing is, we’re not even trying to fake it. We have the real stuff.”
I looked up at Florian. A thought had just occurred to me. “You said that somebody from the Verfassungsschutz was asking around.” I said softly, “Any chance we can make him believe we’re on the other side? His side?”
Alex said, “That would mean that Jedediah would have to tell this guy what he has right now.”
I nodded. “We’re there already. Jedediah has to dig up this grave. It’s time to make our play. We just have to make sure our plan is thought through. We have more moving parts than I had expected.” I looked at the others. “I think we have Jedediah tell Eidhalt he has the flag, and he’s going to authenticate it. And he wants Eidhalt involved in the entire thing, so he knows. So he sees.”
Alex got it. “We can get Jedediah to say whatever we want him to say. Give him a good backstory. I’m still adding background to your new existence, and by now I don’t think anyone could find any flaws.”
“Good.”
Alex said, “You’ll have to get an iron cross tattooed on your throat though.”
“Very funny. I don’t think so. I just don’t know if we’ll be able to sell it.” I said to Florian, “What do you think? If your Verfassungsschutz guy is with them, can you make him believe you’re sympathetic? That you’re ready to help the neos penetrate the BKA?”
Florian looked at Patrick and frowned. “I doubt it. I don’t have any history like that. He wouldn’t believe me. I’ve done my own checking on him. It will be quite a game of what I think you call cat and mouse. He will wonder where my sympathies are, and I will try to feel him out. I don’t know if he’s actually involved with them. I just know some in his organization are. He may be where we are, trying to root them out. And if he thinks we’re sympathetic, he may do what he can to have us arrested. I’m not sure how to go about this.”
“Refer him to me,” I said. “He can’t have me arrested. I’ll tell him what I’m thinking, and feel him out.”
Patrick, who had been mostly quiet, looked at Florian and then said, “Not too sure about that. I think we should leave him out of it.”
I could feel his hesitancy. I said, “What if we assume he is with them, but that he’s interested in us from an official position? We pretend like his interest is appropriate and we then proceed to tell him what we want him to know.”
“Which is what? What do we tell him about you? What about Jedediah?” Florian asked.
I said, “You tell him that you’ve been following Jedediah, that you’ve heard about this meeting with Eidhalt, and that Jedediah not only has the Blood Flag but has money. That he’s being funded by a reclusive American rancher who has picked the Southern Volk as the neo-Nazi group to back. That he’s giving them millions of dollars and is building their following all over the country. That he’s thinking big, and they now have the Blood Flag. That he’s ready to pay to have the best DNA testing in the world done to prove this flag is authentic, and is ready to unite their energy with other groups from around the world, and Germany is their first public step.”
Florian smiled, “And you are the rancher?”
I nodded and smiled back. “That’s me.”
Patrick put up his hand. “Wait, if we don’t know you, if you’re his financier, how do we know what we know. What is our role?”
“You know of me. You know Karl. And he doesn’t tell you his sources, but he tells you about me, and what the Southern Volk is up to: that we have the flag, that we got it in Argentina, and that we’re coming over here to show it to Eidhalt. And we’re going to get it authenticated.”
Patrick understood, but he had another question, “I understand all this, but what is the point of all this? Why do we care about him?”
“Because he may give that final bit of authenticity to Eidhalt we need for Eidhalt to take the bait.”
Patrick nodded, understanding. “So if we get Jedediah into this meeting, then what?”
I said, “We take advantage of the German laws against Nazism and arrest them all. Put them in prison for the maximum punishment available.”
Florian interjected, “Yes, we could do that, but that assumes they’ll display Nazi—”
“They’ll have to show the Blood Flag. That’s good enough, right?”
He nodded, “Yes, but it’s not a huge crime. After minimal jail time they’ll be out doing it again, calling themselves something else.”
“That’s it?” I pondered that for a moment. “Well then I don’t know.” I sat back. “Shit. That’s it? A few months of jail time?”
“What would you have us do? Execute them? We don’t even lock away mass murderers for life.”
“So that’s all we have? A few months of jail time?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“That’s not how this is going to end. I’m telling you that right now,” I said.