I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

Chapter 115: Chapter 25: The Accommodation List

"I’m giving myself a way out." Werner turned around. "Why was Krupp finished the moment the Berlin Wall went up? Because he put all his eggs in one basket. Once something went wrong, it was all over. I can’t make the same mistake."

He paused, his tone growing colder. "Also, starting tomorrow, all core members must report on their business activities once a week. I want to know how much merchandise they’ve taken, who they’ve sold it to, and how much money they’ve collected. Outer-circle members will report once every two weeks, and freelancers once a month."

"That strict?" Franz was a little surprised.

"It has to be." Werner’s voice left no room for negotiation. "Tell everyone that if anyone secretly contacts West German intelligence agencies, they will be immediately reported to the Stasi, and their security deposit will be confiscated. We’re in business, not politics."

"Understood."

Franz and Keller took their leave. Only Werner remained in the warehouse.

He returned to the desk, pulled a small notebook from his pocket, and flipped to the last page. On it were several names and numbers scrawled in pencil. This was his most important gain of the evening—by observing those who had come to pay their security deposits, he had gotten a rough idea of the power structure of the East Berlin black market.

But that wasn’t enough.

Werner closed the notebook and glanced at the wall clock. It was ten-thirty at night. Vonke should still be in his office.

He stood up, threw on his coat, locked the warehouse door, and vanished into the night.

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

The Stasi Headquarters was brightly lit, even late at night.

Werner showed the temporary pass Vonke had given him at the entrance and walked into the building under the suspicious gazes of two guards.

Vonke’s office was on the third floor.

The hallway was quiet, save for the distant sound of a typewriter.

Werner knocked on the door.

"Come in."

Vonke sat behind his desk, which was piled high with thick files.

He looked up and saw Werner, his brow furrowing slightly.

"Coming to see me this late. Has something happened?"

"Nothing’s happened." Werner closed the door and sat in the chair opposite Vonke. "I’ve come to deliver something."

He took the small notebook from his pocket, flipped to the middle pages, and pushed it across the desk to Vonke.

"What’s this?" Vonke picked up the notebook. After glancing at a few pages, his expression grew serious.

The notebook recorded the names of over a dozen people, each followed by detailed information: who was smuggling what goods, which routes they used, which border guards they had connections with, who had been particularly active on the black market recently...

"These are all Krupp’s old subordinates," Werner said, lighting a cigarette. "They’re nominally with me now, but they’re actually still waiting and watching. I thought... you might be interested in them."

Vonke put down the notebook, leaned back in his chair, and fixed Werner with a scrutinizing gaze. "What do you want?"

"I want a list."

"What list?"

"A list of people within your organization who can be ’persuaded.’" Werner exhaled a puff of smoke. "Comrade Vonke, we’re both smart men, so let’s not waste words. I’ve taken over Krupp’s territory now, and I have over forty people under me. Sooner or later, some of them will get into trouble. I’m not saying I’ll bail everyone out—that’s unrealistic. But if someone commits a minor offense, I plan to find a way to get them out. Doing this will, one, help me build prestige in the black market, and two, allow me to extract more intelligence from them for you."

Vonke was silent for a few seconds.

"Do you know what this list means?"

"I do," Werner replied, his tone calm. "But I also know that if I don’t get this list, I won’t be able to control those people. What they’re doing in secret, what valuable intelligence they might have for you—I’ll have no way of knowing, let alone telling you."

Vonke lit a cigarette and fell into thought. Smoke rose slowly in the dim yellow light, blurring his expression.

After a long while, he spoke. "Werner, you’re smarter than Krupp, but you’re also more dangerous."

Werner didn’t respond.

"But you’re right. We do need intelligence from the black market." Vonke fell silent for a moment, as if weighing his options.

He stood up, walked over to a file cabinet in the corner of the office, and used a key to open the bottom drawer. After rummaging for a while, he took out a few files and a notebook.

He returned to his desk, pulled a blank sheet of paper from a drawer, and began to write and scribble, consulting the files as he went.

Werner tactfully remained silent, simply continuing to smoke.

Vonke smoked as he wrote, occasionally pausing to think or to check something in the files he held.

Finally, he put the finished page into a manila envelope and handed it to Werner. "Here’s the list of ’accommodating internal personnel’ I’ve compiled. It records people from various departments who can ’handle things flexibly’ with minor cases. Remember, it only applies to minor cases."

He placed the envelope on the desk and tapped it with his finger. "But listen up. This list is only for the small fry. Smuggling a few packs of cigarettes, selling a few pieces of clothing—those things can be smoothed over. But if it involves a major case, like espionage, treason, or large-scale smuggling, then no one can be saved."

"I understand." Werner reached for the envelope, but Vonke held it down.

"Also, you must continue to provide me with black market intelligence. Not insignificant gossip, but things of real value. For example, who is contacting West German intelligence agencies, who is organizing large-scale escapes, who is spreading seditious talk."

"No problem."

"One last thing." Vonke released his hand and stared into Werner’s eyes. "Don’t you ever get involved in politics yourself. Business is fine, but the moment you touch politics, this list won’t save you, and neither will I."

Werner took the envelope, his face expressionless. "Comrade Vonke, I’m just a businessman. I’m not interested in politics."

"It’s best you keep it that way."

Werner stood up, tucked the envelope inside his coat, and left, pushing the door open.

The hallway was still quiet; the distant sound of the typewriter continued.

Werner walked down the stairs, exited the building, and stood on Normannen Street, taking a deep breath of the cold air.

He pressed the envelope in his coat, a slight smile touching his lips.

He knew the value of this list.

With it, he could establish real authority in the black market—not through violence, but through "protection."

As long as his men knew that the boss could get them out of trouble, they would follow him with unwavering loyalty.

But he also took Vonke’s warning to heart: don’t touch politics, and don’t touch major cases.

A slight smile played on Werner’s lips.

’Don’t touch politics? That depends on how you define "politics."’

’If I’m just helping a few ordinary people sneak out of East Germany for a small fee, does that count as politics?’

He patted the envelope in his coat and turned, walking into the night.

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

The next morning, Werner’s "office"—the converted small room in the textile factory—was already crowded with people.

Some were there to pick up goods, some to ask for information, and others to try and get on his good side.

Werner received them one by one, his attitude lukewarm—neither standoffish nor overly friendly.

"Brother Betelich, I hear you’ve got Swiss watches?" A portly, middle-aged man squeezed his way to the desk, his face a mess of smiling wrinkles. "I have a client who wants one. Price is negotiable."

"Don’t have any." Werner didn’t even look up, continuing to write in his ledger.

"Then... how about West German-made radios?"

"Don’t have those either."

The fat man paused, then gave an awkward laugh. "Then what do you have?"

Only then did Werner raise his head and size up the man before him. "Who sent you?"

"Old Baker sent me." The fat man quickly pulled out fifty Marks. "I brought the security deposit."

Werner took the money and wrote the fat man’s name in the ledger: Mark Herman.

"Right now, all I have is developer and fixer, and some industrial solvents," Werner said, closing the ledger. "Want any?"

"Well..." The fat man hesitated. "My client wants luxury goods."

"Then go look somewhere else." Werner’s tone was completely flat. "But let me give you a piece of advice: in times like these, you sell whatever you can get your hands on. Don’t be a picky eater."

The fat man retreated sheepishly.

Over the next few hours, Werner dealt with another dozen or so people.

Most of them wanted goods from West Germany, but Werner didn’t have much stock on hand at the moment and could only prioritize supplies for his core members.

By three in the afternoon, the crowd had finally dispersed.

Werner rubbed his temples and pulled the manila envelope he had gotten from Vonke last night from his coat.