The Blood Flag

by James W. Huston

  Jedediah looked at her. “What makes you say that?”

  “Because he’s gone and now you’re in charge. Where is he if he’s not dead?”

  “No idea. He just vanished. Guess he had something to run from.”

  “Like your brother?” she asked.

  Uh oh, I thought. Jedediah turned to face her. “What the hell do you know about my brother?”

  “Did Brunnig kill him? Make him disappear? You returning the favor?”

  He breathed heavily. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I intervened. “I’ve seen how these meetings go. It’s a lions’ den.”

  “It’ll be fine. I’ll be running it.”

  “Yeah, but some of your people are crazy.”

  “Most of them.”

  “So I’m supposed to walk in there and be the great financier and you’ll introduce me and all will be well?”

  “You want to come to Germany? We need to really nail your background. You need to be part of us.”

  “I don’t know.” The mental images I had of the meeting I’d watched were vivid.

  Jedediah continued to stare at Alex. After an awkward interval he said to me, “Wednesday. Be there. The Traveller. And let’s make sure your story on the Internet is even better. Fully developed, so anyone who reads it will believe it.”

  I held up my hand. “So before now you wouldn’t even return my calls, and now you want to introduce me to the Volk.”

  “Brunnig and his suspicion are gone. It’s my organization now. They’ll do what I say.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  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 the
y 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.”