The Blood Flag (3 page)

He handed Karl a flash drive. “You want to see him? Here he is. We record everything.”

As Karl and I drove back to D.C. my mind turned in a thousand directions. As we crossed the river I said, “You going to help Jedediah come up with something?”

He thought for a minute, perturbed. “First we have to figure out who this Eidhalt guy is. I have to talk to our friends over at the BKA.” The Bundeskriminalamt.

I asked, “Think anything will come of it?”

“If this German guy is serious, could be a big problem.”

“You haven't heard of him before?”

Karl got the implication. He pretended to watch the traffic before responding. “We've got the number two guy in the whole Southern Volk, the second largest neo-Nazi group in the country, so I guess we're making some progress. But if you mean do we have a plan on how to take advantage of this, not yet. I just heard about it when you did, so give me some time.”

“I've got some extra time. My counterterrorism stuff takes up most of my day, but I could dedicate a few hours to this, after hours.”

“You don't know anything about it. It'd be like me coming to work for you—you'd spend all your time telling me what was what. I wouldn't contribute.”

“That a no?”

“I don't need your help.”

“What if I get permission?”

“From your boss? I don't care what he says. We've got enough people. What we don't have is a plan. And that's my job. If you come up with something brilliant though, let me know.”

I thought for a minute. “Can I contact Jedediah directly?”

“Hell no. Stay out of it. Just keep on protecting us from the terrorists.”

I almost said lots of things but held my tongue. “Interesting guy, Jedediah.”

Karl relaxed. “One of a kind.”

We pulled into the parking garage and got out of the car. “He's the key to the whole Germany thing,” I said.

Karl started walking, then turned. “You want to help? Here. Check out the German guy.” He tossed me the flash drive and walked away.

When I got back to my office I put the flash drive in my USB port. There were several video files, not just one. They were in chronological order.

I clicked on the first file and it opened in a video window. It was from a camera attached to someone, like a GoPro on a helmet or a chest strap. The video was crystal clear even though it had been shot at night. The only light was from the rear of a store where a single glass door opened onto a parking lot in the back of a strip mall. There were several men behind the camera talking in low, bored tones, as if waiting for something.

One asked, “What the hell is halal anyway?”

“It's like kosher, but for ragheads.”

The others snickered. “Figures,” one said. “You got this guy's picture?”

“Yeah, but don't need it. He's the only one left in the store.”

Another added, “Anyone in there is fair game.”

“Shit yeah,” one replied laughing. “You sure he won't have a gun?”

“Let him pull a damned gun. He'll yell and scream and then I'll just shoot him in the face. You think he's ever shot anyone? He'll wet his pants. He won't have the balls to shoot first.”

The lights of the store went out. “Here he comes!” one whispered.

The camera moved, and I could see several men. At least six, probably eight, all dressed in black, with gloves and cotton masks made of Confederate flags. They moved toward the lone car behind the store. The young man headed toward the car had his head down and was unaware of the approaching men.

The camera was pointed directly at him. He put the store keys in his pocket and searched for his car keys. He found them and took them out. Just as he reached to open the door one of the men to the left of the camera spoke. “Hey, raghead!” he said.

The man turned and his face blanched. He said nothing.

“What the hell are you doing out here?”

“Nothing. Going home,” he said, his voice quavering. He spoke with a slight accent.

“You're not American. Where are you from?”

“I am a citizen. I got citizenship last year.”

They laughed. “I don't care what our corrupt multicultural shithead government says. You're not from here! I asked you a
question
! Where are you from?”

“Iraq. I was born in Iraq.”

“Well you should go back there, raghead,” he said closing the distance. “Take all your Muslim shit and go back there. We don't need your bullshit Arab kosher grocery stores. We're going to burn it down.”

His back was to his old Honda Civic. The men formed a semi-circle in front of him. The camera was in the middle. They moved slowly toward him. “No! Please. It is my business. It supports my family!” he begged, near panic.

“That's the whole point, asshole! We don't
want
your family to be supported. We want you to die of starvation! We want you to leave and go home!”

“Please,” he pleaded, “let me go home. I don't want any trouble.”

“Well you've already got it.” One of the men punched him in the mouth with surprising force. His head jerked back as his front teeth broke and his lips split. He put his hand up to block further punches but it was of no use. Another struck him in the nose, breaking it. Blood gushed over his mouth and onto his shirt. Another blow, then another, as the men closed in on him, swinging madly, waiting their turns, reaching over others to hit him. “No! Stop!” he cried, covering his face with his arms, trying to think of any way to make it stop.

A hand flashed in from off screen and went by his head. A blackjack. He slumped against the door of the car and slid to the ground, nearly unconscious. The men started kicking him with their boots. Some kicked him in the head, but most kicked him in his ribs and his back. One was intent on stomping on his feet and ankles, then kicking the end of his shoes, trying to break his toes. The man made no protests as he was kicked again and again. Blood ran down his face onto the pavement and he went still.

“Enough! Get the bottles!”

Two of them ran to the bushes and retrieved Molotov cocktails. They inverted them to moisten the rag stoppers, then lit them with a Zippo lighter that had a skull and crossbones on it. They ran over to the glass door of the halal grocery, and threw two bottles through the glass. The alarm went off as the bottles smashed onto the floor spilling their gasoline and setting the small grocery store on fire.

“Let's get out of here!” the primary voice yelled. They all ran, and the video went dead.

I sat back. My heart was pounding. Holy shit. Sometimes I'd see a security footage that had recorded a crime, but never a high-quality video by the perpetrator. I took a deep breath. Multiple felonies right on the video. Jedediah gave us enough to convict all of the men on the video. All he needed to do was identify who was there.

I clicked on the rest of the videos in sequence. One was a nighttime attack on an Islamic charity office, also in a strip mall. I couldn't tell where it was. Numerous men broke through the glass door, and while the alarm howled, they took all the computers and all the papers from the office. They were out and gone in less than three minutes. Long before any law enforcement could possibly get there. In another they sprayed graffiti on a mosque and removed the doors by force. They took the doors with them and left the building open. Then another halal grocer, and the last was an immigrant camp. They ran through the tents and small buildings in the middle of the night, dropping road flairs and pulling everything down as they terrorized the people by firing handguns into the air.

Finally, I opened the file with Eidhalt. It contained their entire meeting. I studied him, his posture, his voice, his presence, everything. He wore a black sport coat with a white dress shirt and dark pants. His hair was combed perfectly, and he gave the impression of someone who was in complete control and got what he wanted. He spoke excellent English, and told Jedediah and Brunnig, the president of the Southern Volk, about the meeting in Germany. He made very clear that their invitation to the meeting was conditional. They had to distinguish themselves from the other neo-Nazi groups to make it to Germany. They declared their understanding and enthusiasm. Eidhalt had their undivided attention. He was clearly accustomed to this reaction. Jedediah and Brunnig were not accustomed to yielding. But yielding they were. And then Eidhalt described his plan for Germany.

The next Monday I went to see Karl again. “Let's go see your boss,” I said. “I've decided to work with Jedediah.”

“Just like that?” He took off his reading glasses. Did you not hear what I said last time you were here? I don't need your help.”

“I understand that. I'll stay out of your way. I want to do something on my own.”

“Like what?” he asked sharply.

“Not sure. I want to work with him and see where it goes.”

“You can't have two agents handling the same CI. He'll get confused.”

“No confusion,” I promised. “I'll check everything with you.”

“Not interested.”

“It could take some of the burden off you. If I come up with a plan to get them ‘authenticated' with Eidhalt, you could direct your attention to other things.” That got his attention.

“You'd have to run everything by me.”

“Guaranteed.”

“What was on that drive?”

“Multiple felonies, assaults, robbery, arson, you name it. And the meeting with Eidhalt. Just like he said.” I stood. “Can we go see your boss now?”

He got up reluctantly and followed me. On the way he muttered that Murphy wasn't a confrontation kind of guy, that I should have submitted an EC, an electronic communication, that I should have made an appointment, that this put Karl in an awkward position, and that he didn't even know what my plan was. I said nothing.

We got out of the elevator and walked down the dingy hallway to Ralph Murphy's office. I looked up to see the familiar water stains on the ceiling. I should have gone to my boss first, but at this point I just wanted to get this done. We turned into Murphy's office and spoke with his secretary.

Karl said, “Is he available?”

She looked up at him with puzzlement. “Is he expecting you?”

“No. A proposal. Short fuse.”

“He's meeting with Debra Turner right now. They'll be done in a minute though, and then he's heading off to lunch. Maybe you can catch him right before he leaves.”

Karl nodded and put his hands in his pockets. “We'll just wait here.”

Karl and I stood awkwardly by the secretary's desk as we waited for the door to open. I looked at my watch. It was already twelve thirty. After ten more minutes, the door opened.

Turner walked out, and Murphy looked at Karl with some surprise. “What's this?”

“Sorry, Special Agent Morrissey here wanted to talk to you about something. About joining our group temporarily.”

Murphy looked at me with surprise. “What? A transfer? Where are you now?”

“Counterterrorism.”

“Why would you want to transfer?”

“It's a bit of a long story. And it's not really a transfer.”

“I don't have time for a long story. Have you talked to your boss about it?”

“No, I came straight to you.”

“That's not the proper chain of command.”

“I know, I wanted to see if you thought it might work, then if so, I'd go ask her. I didn't want to raise it if there was no chance of actually doing it.”

“That's bass-ackwards.”

“Probably right. I'd like a temporary transfer. There's going to be a meeting in Germany of all the neo-Nazi groups around the world.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

Karl intervened. “We met with our CI last week. There's a lot that's starting to happen. This could be a show.”

“How could he help?” he asked indicating me.

“He thinks he has an idea. The Southern Volk have to show this rich German guy that they're the real players, the ones that need to be dealt with in the United States.”

“I'm not following this.” He looked at me. “You go talk to your boss. See if she's willing to let you go for a couple months. If she says yes, we'll talk.” Being done with me, he said to his secretary, “I'll be at lunch.”

He walked out and left us standing in his entry area.

Karl still had his hands in his pockets. “Hope that's what you wanted. Wasn't a no.”

“Let's go see Young.”

Karl rolled his eyes. “You're just determined, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

“Let me know how it goes. I sure don't need to see her.”

“Nope. You come with me. I need you to endorse it.” He sighed and fell in behind me.

One of the reasons I didn't want to put this in front of our “bosses” was because I didn't like Carol Young, my boss. A classic bureaucrat. She had never served in the field, had never been a special agent, and was from the world of intelligence. I don't have anything against intelligence. A lot more of us would be dead or in trouble if it weren't for intelligence. But there are different kinds of people who deal with intelligence. There are the active ones, the ones who really wish they were spies and had joined the CIA, there are those who are brilliant and can see connections and see things that I would never get, and then there are those who are born bureaucrats who have simply settled into the intelligence field as their power base. She was one of those. A supervisory intelligence analyst, or SIA. A lifetime bureaucrat who had repeatedly been promoted through the Peter Principle.

Her office was less impressive than Murphy's. Her door was open. I knocked on the open door and she looked up. She was perturbed. “What?”

“You got a second?” I asked.

She glanced at Karl over my shoulder, wondering what he was doing there. “Not really.”