I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

Chapter 108: Chapter 18: Counter-Plot

Werner’s expression remained unchanged, but his gaze sharpened instantly. "My photograph?"

"That’s right. It was of you," Hagen said. "He didn’t say what he wanted done, exactly, but the moment I saw it was you, I knew something was wrong."

"What did you do?"

"I told him I couldn’t do it—that I only handle regular developing and retouching, not that kind of technical work," Hagen said, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Then I made up an excuse and sent him on his way. I’ve been in this business for years; I can tell when something’s not right. You’ve always been good to me. I couldn’t sell you out."

Werner was silent for a few moments, then nodded. "You did the right thing, Hagen. This isn’t a simple matter. Did he say anything else?"

"He asked if I knew anyone else who could do it. I told him I’m not that familiar with others in this circle, so I couldn’t help." Hagen pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. "He left a contact, said if I thought of anything, I could find him at the Golden Eagle pub in the Lichtenberg District."

Werner took the note. An address and a false name were written on it.

"Werner, are you in some kind of trouble?" Hagen asked, concerned.

"I know what I’m doing," Werner said, pocketing the note. "If anyone else comes around asking about this, keep telling them you don’t know anything. But memorize their face and any distinguishing features, then come tell me. And whatever you do, don’t take the job."

"Don’t worry, the last thing I want is trouble," Hagen nodded. "I should get going. I’ve still got things to do at the shop. You be careful."

After Hagen left, Werner placed the note on the table and stared at the address for a long time.

’What does Krupp want with my photograph?’

Werner had a pretty good idea of what Krupp was up to.

’That old fox. Just as I thought, he’s not to be underestimated.’

A cold smirk played at the corners of Werner’s mouth.

’So, Krupp is finally making his move.’

***************

Werner stood before a drab gray apartment building in the Mitte District, his gaze lifting to a third-floor window hung with faded curtains.

The hallway reeked of boiled sauerkraut and kerosene. On the wall, a corner of a propaganda poster that read, "Contribute to the building of socialism," was peeling away.

He rang the doorbell and waited a full half-minute before the door opened a crack.

"Who is it?" a wary voice asked from behind the door.

"Joshua sent me," Werner said in a low voice. "He said I could get photos developed here."

The door closed.

Werner heard the sound of something heavy being dragged inside, likely an object blocking the door.

Half a minute later, the door opened fully.

Fritz Schumann was a tall, thin man in his forties. He was half-bald and wore thick glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

He wore a work coat stained with chemicals, his fingernails caked with black. His eyes flickered when he saw Werner.

"Come in," he said, stepping aside. "But I need to be clear. I don’t do anything illegal."

Werner stepped into the room and closed the door.

The room was small, and the acrid smell of developing solution hit him immediately.

Shelves against the wall were lined with glass bottles of all sizes, filled with brown, clear, or pale yellow liquids.

Two enlargers were set up in a corner, their red safelights casting an eerie glow in the gloom.

"Don’t be nervous." Werner pulled a stack of Marks from his pocket and placed it on the table. "I just want to know... if someone wanted some... special photographs made, could you help?"

Fritz’s eyes were fixed on the stack of cash. His Adam’s apple bobbed. "What kind of ’special’ photographs?"

"For example," Werner said, leaning against the table, his tone nonchalant, "making two people who’ve never met look like they’re having a secret rendezvous. Or putting someone in a place they’ve never been."

Fritz’s eyes blinked rapidly behind his thick lenses. "You’re talking about photo composites?"

"Smart man," Werner smiled. "I hear you used to do work for people from ’the West’."

The color drained from Fritz’s face. "Who... Who told you that?"

"Don’t panic." Werner raised a hand, cutting him off. "I’m not with the Stasi. Quite the opposite, actually. I’m here to help you."

"Help me?" Fritz repeated, taking a wary step back.

Werner pulled a second stack of bills from another pocket and placed it on the table as well. "Someone will be coming to you soon, asking you to forge a photograph. The person in that photograph will be me."

Fritz froze.

"They want to frame me," Werner continued. "They want the Stasi to think I’m a Western spy. You don’t have to worry about that part. Just do what they tell you—but make sure it’s flawed."

"What do you mean?"

Werner walked over to an enlarger and tapped the machine with his finger.

"You’re the expert; you should know how. Make the photograph look seamless on the surface, but make it so that if the Stasi analyze it, they’ll find the forgery."

He paused, staring into Fritz’s eyes. "You know exactly what the Stasi’s forensics department is capable of. Your job is to leave flaws in the details—the kind of flaws invisible to the naked eye, but easily discovered with professional equipment."

Fritz was silent for a long moment.

He took off his glasses, wiped the lenses on his sleeve, and slowly put them back on. "You... you want the Stasi to discover the photo is a fake?"

"Exactly."

"And the people who are coming after you...?"

"They’ll get what’s coming to them," Werner said, patting the money on the table. "Is this enough?"

Fritz stared at the money for a long time.

Werner knew he was doing the math. ’That’s enough money to buy black bread for his family for half a year.’

After the Berlin Wall went up, life had become even harder for craftsmen like Fritz. Official rations were pitifully small, and he couldn’t afford the good stuff on the Black Market.

"It’s enough," Fritz finally said. "I’ll do it."

*******************

Three evenings later, Werner met Keller in a small pub near Alexanderplatz.

"Boss," Keller said in a low voice. "Just as you thought. Krupp’s men have been all over the Black Market, asking about underground photographers."

"Asking about what?" Werner asked, raising his glass and taking a sip of dark beer.

"Asking who can make ’special’ photos, and who’s the best," Keller said, pulling a crumpled cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. "They asked several people on the Black Market. I did what you said, passed the word through a few contacts that Fritz is the man for the job—a real expert."

Werner felt a sense of relief, but his expression remained impassive. "And then?"

"Schneider went to Fritz’s studio himself. They talked for a long time," Keller said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "I don’t know the specifics of their conversation, but Fritz took the job."

"Good work." Werner pulled a few Marks from his pocket and pressed them into Keller’s hand. "For the next few days, try to stay home. Keep a low profile on the Black Market."

Keller pocketed the money and lowered his voice. "Boss, is that old bastard Krupp really coming after you?"

"He already has," Werner said with a cold laugh. "He just doesn’t know whose heart the blade will end up in."