I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

Chapter 146: Chapter 56: An Accident at Customs

"What’s the problem?"

"More goods mean more risk," Carl said. "That customs guy, Mueller, can only let small shipments slide. Large quantities have to go through proper customs declaration, or they’ll arouse suspicion."

"Then what do we do?"

"I have an idea." Carl lowered his voice. "There’s a foreign trade company at Rostock Port that handles trade between East Germany and Northern Europe. If we can get our hands on their permits, we can declare the goods under the guise of a ’legitimate import.’ Once customs sees it’s cargo from the foreign trade company, they generally won’t inspect it too closely."

Werner’s eyes lit up. "I can handle that."

"You?" Carl was skeptical.

"I have connections in Berlin," Werner said.

Carl stared at him, a flash of admiration in his eyes. "Werner, who exactly are you? You have connections to the Stasi, connections for foreign trade permits, and you even managed to become a Black Market boss in Berlin."

"Just a man trying to survive," Werner said flatly. "In East Germany, if you don’t have several layers of connections, you’ll get eaten alive sooner or later."

Carl burst out laughing, clapping Werner on the shoulder. "Well said! In this godforsaken country, it’s either eat or be eaten. I like you, kid. You’ve got guts, you’ve got brains, and you’re ruthless enough."

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

Over the next two weeks, Werner and Carl’s operation got on track.

The first shipment was quickly distributed—port workers, cadres from nearby factories, and even Black Market dealers from a few small cities all became their customers.

West German coffee and cigarettes were hard currency in East Germany; there was no problem selling them. French perfume was an even hotter commodity. The wives of officials were willing to pay several times the usual price for a single bottle of Chanel.

As soon as Werner got his share of the profits, he immediately returned to Berlin to get the permits from Klein.

When Klein heard it was a port operation, his eyes lit up. The pickings at the port were much richer than on land, so of course he wanted a piece of the action.

"Werner, you’re a real talent." Klein poured him a cup of coffee in his office. "After the Berlin Wall went up, everyone thought business was dead. You’re the only one who could find a new way."

"You flatter me, Section Chief Klein," Werner said. "I just happened to meet a friend in Rostock."

"Happened to?" Klein laughed. "I don’t think anything ’just happens’ with you. Everything you do is meticulously planned."

Werner didn’t argue. He just said, "Section Chief, about the permits..."

"Don’t worry, I have them ready for you." Klein took five blank permits from his drawer. "These are official documents from the Ministry of Foreign Trade, stamped with the official seal. Just fill in the cargo name and quantity, and they’re good to go. But remember, you give me a cut each time you use one."

"How much?"

"Ten percent," Klein said. "Not much, but not a penny less. You know the risk I’m taking. If this gets found out, my career as a section chief is over."

"Deal." Werner took the permits. "But I won’t be filling in fake cargo."

"What do you mean?"

"The cargo listed on these permits will match the actual goods," Werner said. "I don’t want to rely on a completely fake declaration. The risk is too high. I’ll actually import a shipment of lumber or coal and hide the contraband inside. That way, even if we’re inspected, we have a plausible story."

Klein nodded. "Smart. With you operating like this, I can rest easy."

After getting the permits, Werner immediately returned to Rostock and gave the documents to Carl.

Carl gave him a thumbs-up after reading them. "Werner, you’re a genius! With these permits, we can move large shipments openly."

The second shipment was quickly prepared—one hundred cases of coffee, fifty cases of cigarettes, thirty cases of canned goods, plus a truckload of real Danish lumber as cover.

On the night the shipment arrived at the port, Carl invited Werner to the warehouse for a celebratory drink.

"Here’s to our partnership! Cheers!" Carl raised his glass.

Werner clinked his glass against Carl’s and took a swig of strong vodka, the burn searing his throat.

"Captain, I have an idea," he said, setting down his glass.

"What’s on your mind?"

"This port business can’t be limited to just Rostock," Werner said. "There are several other ports along the Baltic Sea coast, like Szczebrzeszyn and Stralsund. If we can open up channels in those ports too, we can establish a complete smuggling network."

Carl mulled it over for a moment. "You’re right, but I’m not familiar with those ports. I don’t have any reliable men there."

"No rush. We’ll take it slow," Werner said. "Let’s stabilize our operation in Rostock first. Once we have a reputation, people from other ports will naturally come looking for us."

"Makes sense." Carl poured Werner another drink. "By the way, I heard things are a bit chaotic in Berlin lately. The Stasi are cracking down on the Black Market. Are you having any trouble on your end?"

"Not for now," Werner said. "I provide intelligence to my Stasi contacts, so they leave me alone. But in the long run, who knows? That’s why I need to develop the port channels. Another route is another layer of insurance."

Carl nodded, his expression growing complex. "You know, Werner, I’ve been kicking around this port for thirty years. I’ve met all sorts of people. Some have money, some have guts, some have connections. But you’re the first person I’ve met who has it all."

"I’ve just been lucky," Werner said dismissively.

"No, it’s not luck." Carl shook his head. "It’s foresight, brains, and..." He paused. "And ruthlessness. I can tell you’re the kind of person who would do anything to survive."

Werner didn’t answer. He just raised his glass and drained it in one go.

Outside the window, the waves of the Baltic Sea crashed against the shore, a relentless roar.

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

Just when Werner thought everything was going smoothly, the unexpected happened.

On the night the second shipment arrived, a squad of port police suddenly appeared on the docks.

Werner and Carl hid in the warehouse, peering through a crack in the door at the scene outside.

The man in the lead was a police officer in his thirties, tall and built, with a pistol at his hip and a fierce look in his eyes. He and his four subordinates were inspecting the docked "Andersen."

"What’s going on?" Werner asked in a hushed voice.

"Damn it, it’s Werner," Carl cursed through gritted teeth. "That bastard just transferred from Berlin last month. He’s trying to make a name for himself. He’s been inspecting everything with a fine-toothed comb and has already busted several smugglers."

"Is he on the list?"

"No." Carl shook his head. "The guy’s too new; we haven’t gotten a read on him yet. And he’s a transfer from Berlin. Word is he has powerful backing. Not someone you can afford to mess with."

Werner watched the scene on the docks through the crack. The officer, Werner, was directing his men to inspect the cargo. Cases of lumber were being pried open, revealing the coffee and cigarettes inside under the lights.

"It’s over." The color drained from Carl’s face. "They’ve found the goods."

But Werner noticed a detail—although the officer was inspecting the cargo, his men were moving very slowly, and they kept glancing over toward the warehouse, as if they were waiting for something.

"Something’s wrong," Werner said. "They’re not here to seize the cargo."