The Blood Flag Page 7

  He nodded, considering. “What makes you think you can find the flag?”

  “We’ll have to do it as if I’m a private citizen. If anybody smells the FBI coming, everything will blow up. But I need to know what Germany believes happened to that flag. What’s the official German version?”

  Köhler looked at his watch, “I need to go get a few things done in my office. But I think I know the person who might be able to best answer your question. A good friend here at the BKA. Patrick Sonnenstrahl. He’s spent a long time studying German World War II history. He’ll be very interested in your question. His grandfather was an American GI.” He looked at his watch. “I propose the three of us go out to lunch.”

  I smiled. “Shall I wait in the lobby?”

  “I have your cell phone number—I assume it works here?”

  “Yes.”

  “I will call you.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  If I could produce that piece of Nazi history we were guaranteed to get to the meeting. I walked out of the BKA headquarters and strolled around a nearby park. I checked my BlackBerry. Nothing. It occurred to me that I might need some help. I texted Alex. “Want to help on my special project?”

  My phone rang. It was her. She was in her car. “Can’t text while I drive,” she said. “Might kill somebody, including me. What’s up?”

  “Want to help with my project?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Germany.”

  “What are you doing there?”

  “Meeting with our counterparts.”

  “About the project?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Very. Want to help?”

  “Don’t know,” she said, thinking. “I have this job and all. Working for the FBI. And covering your ass.”

  “Yeah. I heard.”

  “How could I help?”

  “On the side. Like I’m doing.”

  “This is on the side? Being in Germany?”

  “It’s pretty this time of year.”

  “You’re insane. Send me an email and I’ll read it when I get to work.” She hung up.

  I sat on a bench by a bus stop and typed her an email. I told her about the Blood Flag, and the Southern Volk. I asked her to put them both under a microscope. I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist. I finished then wandered around the park waiting for Florian’s call, wondering how to find a flag that disappeared sixty-five years ago.

  Finally Florian called. He told me the name of the restaurant and the street it was on. As I walked toward the restaurant, I thought of one of the other men I’d met in Paris at the ceremony. A tough old bird with the nose of a hawk. He stood erect in a brand new crisp khaki uniform with a Screaming Eagle patch on the shoulder. He stood at attention like a twenty-year-old, with a barrel chest and an invincible face. He wore a black beret just like he had on D-Day, when he was six foot two, two twenty-five. He had jumped into France the night before the landing and was captured. They took him to a POW camp. They forced him to fight in bare-knuckle boxing matches against bigger Russian opponents until one of them broke his jaw. The Germans refused to set it, and he couldn’t eat. By the end of the war, he was a hundred and twenty-five pounds. And yet, there he stood at eighty-nine, tall, strong, and victorious over the Nazis.

  I reached the restaurant before Florian. He walked in with another man, and introduced him to me. “Kyle, this is Patrick Sonnenstrahl.”

  He was huge. Maybe six feet four inches tall, two hundred fifty pounds. He had a warm smile on his face and extended his hand. “Nice to meet you. Florian has told me about you.”

  “Thanks for coming. I hope you don’t mind helping.”

  Florian spoke with the hostess and she escorted us through the restaurant, across hardwood floors and past red and white tablecloths. After we sat down, I scanned the menu. The waiter came just as we were ready to order.

  I drank from the bottled water on the table and Patrick asked me, “So your father was in the army?”

  “Yes. He came ashore after D-Day and fought all the way to the Elbe.” I paused, then said, “I’ve never actually discussed the war with anyone from Germany before.”

  Patrick nodded. “We have no problem talking about it. Some of us have family members who were in the German Army. But others of us had family members who were true Nazis. True believers. Some just pretend like they don’t know about it, others truly don’t know. Those who do know about this have the most difficult time. It is as hard for us to understand as it is for Americans.”

  “Florian tells me that your grandfather was American.”

  “Yes. He lives in Memphis. He was stationed in Germany after the war. During the occupation. He met my grandmother who was German and they were married. I go to Memphis every year to see them, which gives me no excuse that my English is not good.”

  “Your English is excellent.”

  “It’s not as good as Florian’s. I have some difficulty reading long English books.”

  “So do I.”

  Patrick was engaging and enthusiastic. He was the kind of person you’d want on your side in any project, particularly a fight.

  As our food arrived, Patrick couldn’t wait anymore. “So, I understand you are going to look for die Blutfahne.”

  I looked around to make sure we weren’t being overheard. “That wasn’t why I came, but that’s what has occurred to me now. Did Florian explain it all?”

  Patrick nodded. “He said you want to know what the German belief is about it.”

  “I don’t want to chase a myth. No wild goose chase. You know what a wild goose chase is?”

  Patrick laughed. “Of course.”

  “So what can you tell me?”

  Patrick swallowed his steak and said, “I’ve studied this era in Germany. I am fascinated by it, and like you have wondered how it could have happened. I know all about die Blutfahne, and wondered what happened to it. As you said, there are different theories. Most historians believe in the early part of 1945 when it was becoming clear that Germany would lose, the Nazis tried to hide certain things. Some were given to people Hitler trusted to keep them secure until Nazism could be restored.

  “One of the things was die Blutfahne. It was his number one symbol. It had to be preserved at all costs. He knew that millions who fought for him would survive. And from that group someone would rise up and reestablish what he had put in place. And they could use the flag to do it. So how did he do it? No one knows for sure. Some say it is in a basement somewhere in Berlin, or Munich. Some say it is in a Swiss bank. Some say it has left the country. Some say it is lost forever. Some say it was burned after Hitler committed suicide. So where is it?” He shrugged. “No one knows.”

  Most of the possibilities held that the flag still existed. I asked both of them, “Do most people think it still exists?”

  Patrick nodded vigorously. “Yes. The Nazis believed in their cause so strongly that they thought it would survive Hitler’s death. I don’t think the public thinks about it much, though. To them, this is just another relic of a time they want to forget.”

  “Who do they think probably has it?”

  “That’s where the trail becomes interesting,” Patrick replied. He drank deeply from his beer and took a deep breath. “It would have to be someone Hitler trusted. But not someone who would be arrested and executed. It would also have to be someone who could preserve something in secrecy, possibly for decades.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “Many possibilities. Many left the country, some to Switzerland, some are still here.”

  “How many Germans are still alive who fought in the German Army in World War II?”

  “The number is not exact, but there are still thousands,” he glanced at Florian for confirmation. “There were about eighte
en million who served in the war. There have to be a hundred thousand still alive. They’re all in their eighties and nineties now, but some are still in very good health and would love nothing more than the resurrection of Nazism.”

  I asked, “You ever heard them talk about the Blutfahne?”

  “No. Not a single time.”

  “What if they thought it existed?”

  “It would be, I don’t know the right word, maybe like an earthquake. But if it was kept private, if it was just known among the Nazis and they knew who had it, it would be a big tool for power. It would be the most sought-after thing in all of their wild imaginations.”

  I turned back to Patrick. “What do you think happened to it?”

  “I always thought it would be found with the family of the man responsible for the flag. Hessler. Hitler entrusted it to him. Every place it showed up, he is the one with the flag.”

  I was interested. “What do you know about him?”

  “A very a faithful member of the Nazi party. Part of the putsch. Commissioned into the Sturmabteilung, the SA, then the Schutzstaffel, the SS. He kept the flag in the Braunes Haus in Munich, the headquarters of the Nazi Party. That’s where it was taken after it was last seen publicly. I thought maybe he had hidden it there, or gave it to someone in his family. I just can’t imagine him letting it out of his sight. Maybe he hid it in the German Alps, or buried it in a secret cave. I don’t know.”

  “Are members of his family still alive?”

  “His children are alive.”

  “Where was this Braunes Haus? Does that mean Brown House?”

  “Yes, Brown House, which was not brown,” Patrick said smiling. “It was named after the SA men who were always there, in their brown shirts. It was at 45 Brienner Straße in Munich.”

  “Is it still there?”

  “No, it was damaged in the war, and then torn down.”

  I sat silently for a while as I finished my lunch. “We’ve got to find the Blood Flag and use it to trap Eidhalt. When he brings all of the leaders of these neo-Nazi movements together, I need to use it to get in, and then we have to stop them.”

  Florian and Patrick looked at each other, and then Florian said, “How do you plan on stopping them?”

  “By doing whatever it takes.”

  “Within the law,” Florian said with raised eyebrows.

  “Of course.”

  “Good.”

  “But I need to know if you’re willing to help. Florian?”

  “Yes, if I can.”

  “Patrick? Can you give any time to this?

  “I will make time. I will do it on my own time. I will do whatever I can.”

  “Can you use the agency’s tools—or access, to help?”

  “I will do whatever I am permitted to do and will tell you if there is something I would like to do but cannot. If that is the case, and it is critical, we may be able to get permission. But we will deal with these things as they come.”

  “Let me tell you about our confidential informant. I can’t tell you his name. But, he’s the key to this entire plan.”

  I told them what I knew about Jedediah. They were amazed, not only about him, but about the Southern Volk.

  Florian said, “We will help.” He glanced at Patrick who gave him a very subtle nod of agreement. “But we have something to tell you about. You told me of your experience in Recklinghausen. The thing that made you start thinking about these neo-Nazis.”

  I nodded.

  “The group you encountered. We know them. They call themselves die Eternals. The Eternals. They say they are already dead. That the government has already killed them. That the only people Germany cares about are foreigners, immigrants, Turks, Muslims. They are neo-Nazis and are becoming more dangerous. But they are sophisticated. Most of them are young; they arrange their marches by a private Twitter-like thing. Encrypted. They send out the location the day of the march and everyone goes there and knows what to do. It is like a flash mob, I think you call them. Unless you catch them in their masks, you have nothing.”

  “Not very surprising. Makes sense,” I said.

  Florian almost smiled. “Ah, but we have broken their encryption. Their next march is tonight. And we will be there.”

  “Truly?”

  “Yes, in Koblenz. Would you like to come?”

  * * *

  We met at 10:00 p.m. The march was to be at midnight, and Florian and the others wanted to be in place and out of sight long before then. There were many BKA involved, as well as other police. I gathered with a group of them who went over their plan before dispersing in numerous cars and vans to carry the arrested.

  I climbed into the back seat of Florian’s car. Another BKA agent was with him. He said over his shoulder as he started the car, “We have been waiting for this evening. We have been monitoring your friends for quite a while, but never knew where they were coming from or where they were going until it was already over. Then they would post another video on YouTube, which made things worse. Their movement continues to grow. Tonight, maybe it shrinks a little. They may think we have infiltrated them.” We drove away, got on the highway, and finally arrived in Koblenz.

  Florian drove slowly around the city, which was dark and still. There were few cars on the streets and no pedestrians. The large church was lighted. The few city lights reflected peacefully on the Rhine and Mosel rivers.

  “What’s the plan?” I asked.

  “We know where they will start, and we will close the street behind them—they won’t know. Then, as they march our men will be waiting for them; and as they approach the end, we will prepare a trap to round them up. They often wear swastikas, which is illegal; in addition, the march does not have permission. They are not large offenses, but we will put them in jail. We will then have their names . . . and they’ll know we will be watching them from now on.”

  “How many do you think will be here?”

  “The last one had almost four hundred. Maybe that number, or close.”

  “That’s a lot of people to arrest.”

  “Yes, we won’t get them all, but the leaders, the ones in the front carrying banners. Those we will get.”

  I couldn’t tell what was being said on the radios, but the preparation seemed unhurried and sure. After a half hour we pulled into a field where there were numerous BKA agents in marked and unmarked cars. Local police hurried around excitedly. They checked their watches.

  Coffee appeared, and Florian and others drank while we waited. “Won’t they see us all here?” I asked, looking at the assembly.

  Florian shook his head. The march begins on the other side of town. We will go to our places in a few minutes and prepare to greet them.”

  “How long do the marches last?”

  “Generally less than fifteen minutes. Sometimes thirty, but they want to be fairly quick so they can avoid arrest.”

  I nodded and waited. Finally midnight approached. Florian and I got into his car with his other partner and headed toward our position. We were to be at the end of the march with the others. There were at least fifty police and BKA waiting, most behind buildings or in alcoves. Twenty of them had assembled riot fences, which were to be pulled into the street to block it and prevent anyone passing. There were others on side streets with the same fences, ready to make the primary street into a large corral where the marchers would be trapped.

  Midnight came. I could hear the quiet crackle of radios as the marchers assembled right where they were supposed to, in the old part of town surrounded by shops and low buildings hundreds of years old. Just like Recklinghausen, I thought. They always started with Old Germany, the old traditions and history. The way things used to be.

  Florian looked at me. “They’re on their way. Masks, torches, the usual things.”

  I strained to see them as they approached
down the main street. I couldn’t yet see anyone around the curve, but I could hear singing. In Recklinghausen they had been silent. But tonight they were singing. They kept their voices very low, just above a whisper. But enough to be heard before they were seen.

  I could now see shadows dancing on the sides of the buildings as the marchers approached the curve. The light from the torches illuminated everything around as the singers came closer. Finally the leaders turned the curve and I could see them. My heart jumped at the sight of the line of masked people in black capes carrying a large banner in the front of hundreds of marchers, all singing their soft dirge, with a lone cameraman filming the entire procession.

  The march slowed as the leaders looked around. Florian watched them. They seemed to be on guard. The marchers stopped dead in the middle of the street a quarter mile away, close enough that I could hear their torches hissing; the same kind of torch that broke the window on my rental car in Recklinghausen.

  Suddenly they laid their banner down on the street. They all turned their backs toward us, facing the way they had come. Before I could figure out what they were doing, they turned back toward us and threw Molotov cocktails into the street toward us. Each of them had been carrying a gasoline-filled bottle inside their cape or coat. They crashed into the street, creating a wall of flames between them and us. They began running back the other way with their torches, as others tossed firebombs down the side streets.

  This wasn’t just a retreat; this had been planned. There was no panic, no screaming, no sound at all. Even the dirge had stopped. As they rounded the curve in a trot they began removing their capes and masks, leaving them in the street. The flames rose to six or eight feet, too much for anyone to run after them without the risk of setting himself on fire.

  Florian’s radio cracked as the police tried to decide what to do. All the side streets were blocked by fire as was the main street. The marchers now were unmasked, but couldn’t be seen. Their capes lay on the road behind the fire wall, with the white masks and the burning torches next to them. We could see the marchers running fast now, breaking away from the main body and heading for their escape routes—to their cars or bicycles or however they had planned to get out of Koblenz.