I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

Chapter 147: Chapter 57: Black Market Undercurrents

"What do you mean? Then what are they here for?"

"Watch their movements," Werner said. "If they were really here to arrest someone, they would’ve stormed in already. Why waste time dawdling outside? They’re here to shake us down, waiting for us to come out and negotiate."

Carl froze for a moment. He looked closer and saw that although the officer, Werner, had a stern expression, he was slow to order a lockdown of the area.

"You mean..."

"He wants money," Werner said. "A new official always needs to skim a little off the top."

"Then what do we do? Give it to him?"

"No." Werner stood up. "Give it to him once, and it’ll never end. We’ll be extorted every single time. I’ll go talk to him."

"Are you crazy?" Carl grabbed him. "These guys are the most dangerous. He might just arrest you on the spot!"

"Trust me." Werner patted his shoulder, then pushed open the warehouse door and strode toward the pier.

Carl cursed under his breath behind him but didn’t follow.

Werner walked up to the officer, pulled out a pack of West German Camel cigarettes, and offered one. "Officer, Comrade. Long night. Have a smoke."

The officer glanced at him but didn’t take it. "Who are you?" he said coldly.

"I’m a buyer for the Berlin Foreign Trade Company. Our company ordered this shipment." Werner’s explanation was flawless. "Here are the approval documents."

He pulled the papers Klein had given him from his pocket—official approval documents from the Foreign Trade Department, stamped with a bright red seal. They looked completely legitimate.

The officer took the documents and examined them carefully, his brow furrowing even deeper. "A shipment for the Foreign Trade Company... why are you unloading it in the middle of the night?"

"Because the docks are too busy during the day, we had to schedule it for tonight," Werner said. "Officer, Comrade, you must be new here, right? At Rostock Port, it’s customary for Foreign Trade Company shipments to have priority and choose their own unloading times."

"I don’t care about customs." The officer threw the documents back. "I only care if the cargo is legal. This coffee and these cigarettes are hidden under the lumber. It’s clearly smuggling!"

"It’s not smuggling, it’s a packing method," Werner said unhurriedly. "In Denmark, they pack foodstuffs under lumber to protect them from moisture. It’s standard international shipping practice. If you don’t believe me, you can check our customs declaration. It clearly states ’One batch of Danish lumber and foodstuffs’."

The officer was taken aback, clearly not expecting him to be so well-prepared.

"I don’t care about your customs declaration!" he blustered, flustered and angry. "I suspect there’s a problem with this shipment. It must be confiscated for investigation!"

"Confiscated?" Werner smiled. "Officer, Comrade, do you know where this shipment is headed?"

"Where?"

"The Leipzig Industrial Fair," Werner said. "It’s a national priority project, stated plainly on the approval documents. If you confiscate this shipment, delay the exhibition, and damage the nation’s image, can you bear that responsibility?"

The officer’s expression changed.

"I... I’m just doing my duty..."

"Doing your duty is the right thing to do," Werner interrupted him. "But you also have to understand priorities. This shipment has official approval documents and a customs declaration; the paperwork is all in order. If you think there’s an issue, you’re free to contact the Foreign Trade Department tomorrow to verify it. But if you confiscate the goods now and it turns out to be a mistake, how do you think your superiors will see it?"

Werner’s tone wasn’t heavy, but every word landed like a hammer blow on the officer’s heart.

In East Germany, the scariest things weren’t breaking the law, but "damaging the national image" and "offending a superior."

The officer had just been transferred from Berlin. He was at a point where he needed to build his reputation. If he offended the Foreign Trade Department over a single shipment, his career as a police officer would be over.

"Give me the documents," the officer said through gritted teeth.

Werner handed over the approval documents.

The officer checked them again, his expression growing uglier by the second. The documents were indeed real—the official seal, the signature, the date, it all matched up.

"I will report this to my superiors," the officer finally said, waving his men to fall back.

The police squad left the pier and disappeared into the night.

Werner stood his ground, lit a cigarette, and took a deep drag.

Carl rushed out of the warehouse. "Werner! How did you do that?!"

"Because he’s new and afraid of taking responsibility," Werner said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "In East Germany, the most useful things aren’t money, but words like ’superiors,’ ’national project,’ and ’damaging the image.’ As long as you throw those words around, most people won’t dare to touch you."

Carl stared at him, his eyes filled with shock and admiration. "This is the first time I’ve ever seen someone play the Stasi and the police like a fiddle."

"In East Germany, you either learn the rules of the game, or you get eaten by them," Werner said nonchalantly, stubbing out his cigarette.

Carl was silent for a long time before finally extending his hand. "Werner, I take back what I said before. You’re not just some kid; you’re a real businessman. From now on, all my channels are open to you. Not just in Rostock—I have three ships under my command that can run routes to Denmark, Poland, and even Sweden. As long as you can secure the supply, I can handle the transport."

Werner shook his hand. "In that case, let’s change our partnership from a fifty-fifty split to forty-sixty. You get forty, I get sixty. After all, I’m providing the supply, the funds, the approval documents, and the Stasi connections. You’re handling transport and storage."

Carl thought for a moment, then nodded. "Deal."

Their hands clasped tightly.

In the distance, a freighter’s horn sounded in the night, echoing across the surface of the Baltic Sea.

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

The winter wind at Rostock Port blew the salty, fishy air into Werner’s face.

Werner stood in front of a warehouse on the pier, watching workers unload the last batch of Polish vodka.

This shipment came through Carl’s channel—on paper, it was "cultural exchange materials," but in reality, it was all Black Market hard currency.

"Werner," Carl said, walking out of the warehouse. "This shipment is good."

"Good work." Werner offered him a pack of cigarettes. "Can we double the amount for next month?"

Carl took a cigarette, his eyes flickering. "Doubling it isn’t a problem, but... they’ve been cracking down at the port recently."

Werner’s stomach tightened. "What do you mean?"

"It’s not aimed at us," Carl said in a low voice. "Word is, someone is moving military supplies, a huge amount. The higher-ups have taken notice, so every department is conducting self-inspections."

Werner nodded thoughtfully.

He pulled out a wad of Marks and stuffed it into Carl’s hand. "Buy yourself a drink. If you hear anything, any whispers at all, let me know immediately."

"Don’t worry." Carl pocketed the money.

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

The train pulled into Berlin before dawn.

When Werner got off at the East Station, the sky hadn’t fully brightened.

East Berlin in January was as cold as an icebox. The snow on the streets had been trampled into a black, greasy slush.

He wrapped his overcoat tighter and walked quickly toward the secret office.

Werner unlocked the door. The room inside was thick with smoke. Keller was sitting at the desk, smoking, the ashtray piled high with cigarette butts.

"Boss, you’re finally back." Keller stood up, his expression grim.

Werner took off his coat and threw it over the back of a chair. "What’s wrong?"

"Someone’s moving in on our territory," Keller said, pulling a stack of handwritten reports from a drawer. "A flood of cheap tobacco just showed up around Alexanderplatz. West German Camels, selling for only two Marks and eighty pfennigs a pack—twenty percent cheaper than us. Our distributors are all complaining that our wholesale price is too high and they can’t move the product."

Werner took the reports, his brow furrowed.

The reports were crammed with details, recording price changes at various Black Market spots: near Alexanderplatz, West German Camels had dropped from four Marks a pack to two Marks and eighty pfennigs; over by Potsdamer Platz, Marlboros were down from five Marks to three Marks and fifty pfennigs...

"Who’s undercutting us?" Werner looked up.

"A guy named Walter." Keller stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. "He’s been operating in the East District—Lichtenberg, Friedrichshain—for over twenty years, has a dozen or so men under him. We’ve always kept to our own territories—he had the East District, we had the city center. But recently, he’s suddenly started expanding into the center, and he’s slashing prices aggressively."

Werner placed the reports on the table and walked to the window. Outside was the gray, dreary Berlin streetscape; lines were already forming in front of the state-run stores. He stared at the queueing figures, his mind racing.

"Where is Walter getting his supply?"

"Not sure." Keller shook his head. "Some say it’s from Czechoslovak, others say through Soviet Army channels. But his volume is huge. We can’t compete."

"Find out," Werner said, turning around. "Find his source, his transport routes. And be quick."

Keller nodded, then hesitated. "There’s one more thing... Ivanov came looking for me last night, out of the blue."

A knot formed in Werner’s stomach. "What did he say?"

"He said things are tight right now, so he’s got to halt his business for a while." Keller handed him a slip of paper. "He left this note for me to give to you."

Werner unfolded the note. Scrawled on it were the words: "Someone is investigating my channels. Pausing cooperation. Be careful."

The office was so quiet the only sound was the hiss of the radiator.

Werner pocketed the note and walked back to the desk, sitting down.

He replayed Keller’s report in his mind: Walter, Ivanov, the Soviet Army channels...

"’Something’s not right,’" he muttered to himself.