The Blood Flag

by James W. Huston

  I opened the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper. “Welcome to Buenos Aires! We have met someone who will be of interest. Be in the lobby at 8:00 p.m.” It was signed by Florian. It was already seven thirty. I quickly unpacked, shaved, and put on my sport coat. I checked outside again to see if it was raining. I went down to the lobby and spotted Florian and Patrick as I stepped out of the elevator. They saw me at the same time and crossed the lobby. I shook their hands and evaluated their beaming faces.

  “Welcome!” Florian said, echoing his note. “We must go to dinner. You must meet someone.”

  I nodded and shook Patrick’s hand. “Good. Who?”

  Florian smiled, “You will see. Come on.”

  We went outside to the curb and the bellman hailed a cab for us. We squeezed in and Florian gave him the name of a restaurant.

  I asked, “It’s not Blick, or Schullman is it?”

  Patrick said, “No, no. Absolutely not. But this is someone who knows of both of them.”

  “How did you find somebody who knows them both?”

  Patrick said, “The German community here is close. And closed. That is good and bad for them. They know each other, but anybody who knows the community either knows the ones you’re looking for or can find out about them quite easily. Some try to stay out of sight and out of touch. But all those that came here right after the war know each other and talk. Some hate the Nazis who came here; they say the Nazis ruined Germany. Others sympathize with the Nazis. All the tension that was there in 1945 is still here.”

  “Should be interesting. Does this person speak English?”

  “Everybody speaks English. German is a dying language. I’m surprised we still speak German!” Patrick laughed. “Spanish is not dying, but even they all speak English.”

  The cab pulled over and we climbed out. Florian paid him and we turned and walked into the restaurant, La Cabrera. The décor was rich and engaging. Florian checked in with the woman at the maître d’s desk.

  As we waited, Patrick brightened as he looked over my shoulder. I turned and saw a beautiful woman walk through the door from the street. He walked around me to approach her. I followed. She smiled. She held out her hand and they kissed on both cheeks. Patrick turned to me and said, “This is Kyle Morrissey, the American I told you about.” She faced me directly and extended her hand. I shook it. As I shook it, Patrick said to me, “This is Manuela Gabrielli.”

  I’m not sure who I expected to meet us at the restaurant, but Manuela was not on the list. She was in her mid thirties, and had beautiful long black hair. She had deep brown eyes and olive skin. She couldn’t have been more than five three or five four, but was wearing three-or four-inch heals. She wore a navy blue skirt and pink silk blouse with a French scarf around her neck.

  Our table was ready. We followed the hostess who took us to a corner table in the crowded main room. As I placed my napkin in my lap, I said to Manuela, “You said your name was Manuela Gabrielli?”

  “Yes.”

  “I take it that’s Italian.”

  “Very good,” she said with a faint smile. “Most Americans think it’s Spanish, but of course it is Italian.”

  “How did an Italian family end up in Argentina?”

  “There are more Italian people in Argentina than Spanish. By a good measure. Probably sixty percent Italian.”

  We all ordered steak based on Manuela’s recommendation of Argentinean beef as the best in the world, and she ordered a local wine to go with our steaks. As we ate our appetizers, Florian said, “Manuela is with the Argentine Federal Police. She is very familiar with the German ex-pat community as well as the Italians.”

  I looked at her and decided to ask. “Did the Italians who came here come when the Germans did?”

  She nodded as if she had heard the questions a hundred times. “It is a mix. Some fled when Mussolini took over, and others came after he fell. Some were for him, some against him. It has made for an interesting community. But Germans are the same, though it seems there is a larger percentage of Germans who were Nazis than Italians who were fascists, but it’s difficult to say with certainty.”

  “What about your family?”

  “They came much earlier. In the twenties. From Roma.”

  Our steaks came and we started eating. A minute passed in silence. I occasionally glanced at Manuela who looked back at me. She was intriguing. Beautiful and intriguing. She ate thin slivers of steak that she cut off, European style; she had no intention of eating the whole thing. After a few minutes of silence, Florian said, “We’ve talked to Manuela about die Blutfahne. She had never heard of it. The thought that it could be here is very interesting to her. And she has current addresses for both of the men we’re looking for. And one of them, Blick, is living under a different name.”

  I looked at her and frowned. “How do you happen to know that?”

  “Israelis.”

  “Meaning?”

  She leaned forward. “The Israelis have been chasing war criminals ever since the end of World War II. They track down every evil Nazi in the world that they can, and put them on trial. Remember when they came down here and got Eichmann? There he was, living in the German community in Argentina. San Fernando. About twenty kilometers from here. We hadn’t really thought much about Nazi war criminals hiding out in Argentina. We knew that there were a lot of Germans, and many came after World War II, but we didn’t think people who had been in charge of exterminating Jews were hiding in Argentina. We were horrified.

  “The Israelis, though, didn’t go through official channels. They just came down here and kidnapped him. Pretended they had a flat tire and nabbed him when he got off a bus returning from a Mercedes factory. Maybe they thought that we would not extradite him to Israel. But they kidnapped him, put him on an airplane, and took him back to Israel. Then he was hanged.” She paused. “Ever since then we have quietly cooperated with the Israelis in knowing which German immigrants could be from World War II. They’re not looking for people who fought as soldiers in the Abwehr; they’re looking for war criminals. These two men were ‘cataloged.’ They share the list with us, and we help them by tracking whoever is on it.”

  “You know where the two men are that we are focused on?”

  “Yes. We have known where they live for a long time. What I did not know was about this Blood Flag.”

  “Do you suspect these men of anything in particular? Have they done anything illegal that you are aware of?”

  She took a small bite and shook her head. “No, they are quiet. The people who know them think they’re just quiet old men.”

  “I assume they are retired?”

  “Actually no. Most of the German war veterans are in their late eighties or nineties. A very few are still working. The two you are interested in are both self-employed. One is a watch repairman who has his own little store and the other translates German novels into Spanish and Spanish novels into German.”

  I asked to no one in particular, “So which one has the Blood Flag?”

  Florian shrugged. “One of them. We will talk to both of them. Pick one. And is your man here?”

  I nodded.

  Manuela looked at me. “What man?”

  I wondered how much I should really tell her, “We had to have someone who is authentic. A true neo-Nazi. But working with us.”

  She frowned. “And what will he be doing?”

  “Lending an air of authenticity to our search. He’ll explain why we’re looking for the Blood Flag, which will in fact be true.”

  “Then what will you do with him, the one who has the flag?”

  “Florian and Patrick will be the connection with the neo-Nazis in Germany and I am the American financier. We originally thought about buying it. But the more we thought about it, the less we liked it. So we’re going to play to his ego and tell him this is wha
t he’s always waited for. This is the reason he’s saved the flag. He can bring out the most important symbol in all of Nazi history to reunite world organizations under the banner. If he has any lingering Nazi beliefs, we think he’ll jump at the chance.”

  She nodded, thinking. Florian got the waiter’s attention and asked him to pour us more wine. After he left, Manuela said, “Then you don’t need us. You know where they are, and you can go talk to them.”

  I replied, “Yes. Tomorrow.”

  Florian raised his eyebrows in surprise. “He is here?”

  I nodded. “He’s here. We’re going to meet tonight.”

  “Shall we come?”

  “Yes. I think it’s time you met him.”

  * * *

  The meeting did not go well. Jedediah was in Argentina all right. He’d been there for some unspecified period before we arrived. He seemed to know his way about Buenos Aires like he’d been there before; but he said he hadn’t. We met him in a dark bar at a hotel where none of us were staying. Jedediah wore a white V-neck T-shirt. Just enough to see the major tattoos, and in particular, the iron cross on his throat. Florian and Patrick were stunned. They weren’t accustomed to seeing anything like it in Germany. When we told Jedediah how we saw it playing out with these two Nazis, he balked. He said, “Makes me sound like a prop. I don’t think that’s how this would really play out. If this was real, I’d be the one in the lead; I’d have my German contacts, and my American financier. I’d do most of the talking. I don’t think your way will work at all. You need to let me run it.”

  The idea of Jedediah running anything was scary enough, but at this critical moment when we might actually have the chance to get the flag in our hands, to let him be in charge could result in one or both of these Nazis denying any knowledge of the flag at all. It could be sitting in the other room. But unless they wanted to give it to us, or sell it to us, or go to Germany and play the role that we had in mind for them, they might just let it pass and not even hint that they had it. To get this close and go home without it was unacceptable.

  I could tell Patrick and Florian were considering backing out. The assurances that they had to give the BKA were endless, and caused them extreme anxiety. Their bosses talked about the impact of “releasing” the Blutfahne like it was a virus. Jedediah scared them, but we had no other choice. We decided to visit the two men the next night. We’d visit the first one right after he was likely to have had a drink, or a glass of wine, just before he was ready to go to bed. When he was tired and dull.

  Jedediah left the bar first, and the rest of us stayed. I ordered another scotch.

  Florian asked me, “How do you know you can trust him?”

  “He’s here, obviously to do what we have in mind to do.”

  “How well do you know him?”

  “I’ve only been working with him for the past couple of months. Before that, he was working with another special agent. He was very reliable.”

  Patrick shook his head slightly, and said, “Those tattoos. They are just shocking. Someone must feel something very deeply to get those tattoos.”

  I nodded. “No doubt.”

  Patrick pressed, “So how do you feel so strongly about Nazism that you get an iron cross tattooed on your throat, and then turn on your friends? How does that happen?”

  I understood his concern. “I asked the same question. He was converted. He became a Christian, and rejected his old ways.”

  “He became a Christian?” Florian asked doubtfully.

  “Yeah. Probably more common in the U.S. than in Germany.”

  Florian peered at me through his small glasses. “You believe him?”

  “Why would somebody make something like that up? It’s not something that most people just say in ordinary conversation, let alone brag about. Why would he lie about it?”

  “So you believe what he’s telling you.”

  “You think he’s making this up?”

  “I don’t know. I’m simply evaluating.”

  “Well, I don’t know why he’d be turning his fellow neo-Nazis in, giving us their banking and meeting information, bugging their headquarters, and telling us about this international meeting if he’s not who he appears to be.”

  Florian and Patrick glanced at each other. They looked like they were still skeptical. Florian said, “I hope you’re right.”

  * * *

  The next evening I met Florian and Patrick in the lobby. We picked up Jedediah in front of a bookstore several blocks away. He had walked there from his hotel to make sure no one was following him. He wore a navy blue turtleneck and a cap. He squeezed into the front seat of the Fiat. It was for a man half his size, but he didn’t complain. Patrick pulled away from the curb. I was in the back with Jedediah.

  “How are you doing?” I asked him.

  He nodded.

  “You ready?”

  “Which guy is first?”

  Florian responded, “Blick.”

  “Why him?”

  Patrick said, “I reviewed the documents again, and he lived closest to the house in Berlin where Kessler lived with the flag. Right next door, in fact. And I was able to find his date of departure. It was earlier.”

  “You think these guys know each other? You think they both know about the flag?”

  I replied, “Almost certainly. Two guys left Berlin about the same time. Might have even gotten here on the same ship. We don’t know. We just know they got here, and have been quiet ever since. No trouble. No rallies, no secret Nazi blogs, nothing. Just going about their business. Hiding.”

  Jedediah asked quietly, “What are they hiding from?”

  I replied, “Their past. Or others who would want to dig into their past.”

  “Like us.”

  “Here we are.”

  We pulled over to the curb and turned off the engine. Florian turned around and looked at Jedediah. “His apartment is around the corner. It’s on the second floor.”

  Jedediah began getting out of the car and said, “I know.”

  I looked at him quizzically. “How do you know?”

  “You mentioned the address last night.”

  “And?”

  He stood on the sidewalk as he peeled off his turtleneck. All he was wearing underneath was a white sleeveless T-shirt, what these days is called a ‘wife-beater.’ It was stretched tight across his massive chest and his tattoos were ominous even in the dark. He threw the turtleneck into the backseat of the car and closed the door. He answered, “I never go anywhere to do something if I haven’t been there before. I took a look around this neighborhood this morning. I know exactly where his apartment is. I can also tell you exactly how many other apartments are here. Where the exits are, where the service doors are, and where his car is parked. It’s the same shit you ought’a know. You guys are lazy.”

  I felt stupid. I knew I should have done that myself. We closed the other doors to the car, locked them, and looked at each other wondering whether Jedediah had something in mind other than what we were planning. As we walked down the sidewalk toward the apartment, I walked next to Jedediah. “You ready to take the lead?”

  “Yes.”

  “You got anything in mind other than what we’ve planned?”

  He glanced at me with that look I first saw in the café in Virginia. The look that told me he was just tolerating me and that at any moment he might not talk to me, or worse. “Like what?”

  “Like anything. I get the impression you’ve got an agenda other than what we’ve agreed to. If you do, I want to know about it.”

  The black, high paratrooper boots he was wearing were imposing enough, but they had leather heals. Every step he took was like a rifle shot on the sidewalk. It echoed against the stone façade of the building we walked in front of. I looked around to see if there were any other pedestrians who had not
iced his walk, or him. But there was no one else on the street. It still made me feel uneasy. I felt exposed. He answered, “My agenda is simple. Get the flag.”

  We stopped in front of the apartment building and looked up. The lights were on in the second-floor apartment. It was a four-story building, with two apartments on each floor. One to the left and one to the right. They all had windows facing the street and were accessed by a single stairway up the middle of the building. A set of concrete steps led up from the sidewalk to the lowest floor. I looked up and down the street then at the other buildings to see if anyone was watching.

  Jedediah was tired of waiting. He said to Florian and Patrick, “You ready?”

  They nodded. Jedediah marched up the steps to the door and swung it open. The stairs were marble and his boots echoed as he walked up. The four of us stopped in front of Blick’s door. We looked at each other, nodded, and Patrick knocked on the door. His knock was not intimidating, but not gentle. We could hear Spanish-language television from behind the door and heard someone call out in a muffled voice. His wife had died years before, so we thought it was unlikely that he was calling out to anyone other than whoever was at the door. But we couldn’t make out the words. I could smell food being prepared somewhere else in the apartment building, and listened for unusual activity. I could hear voices in the apartment above speaking loudly in Spanish. Suddenly, the door opened and an old man with a stooped posture looked at us, blinking his eyes.

  “Si?” he said.

  Much of the conversation after that was in German, but Florian told me every word. He said to the old man in German, “There is something that we would like to talk about.”

  The old man looked surprised to hear German. “What is it about? Who are you?”

  “May we come in?”

  “I don’t think so.” He stood there with one hand on the door handle inside and the other on the door jam. Jedediah pushed the door hard enough that the old man either had to let go or fall over. Jedediah walked in, followed by Florian, Patrick, and me. Jedediah closed the door behind him and stood in front of it. The old man was suddenly aware of Jedediah’s presence and his tattooed muscular frame. He breathed with his mouth open and looked around the room nervously.