I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

Chapter 151: Chapter 61: Minor Offenses and a Big Rat

The door opened, and Franz came in.

Werner spread a map of East Berlin on the table. A few spots were circled in red pen: an abandoned brewery in the Lichtenberg District, Walter’s stronghold at Alexanderplatz, and the Karlshorst District, where the Soviet Army’s supply depot was located.

"Sit." Werner pointed to a chair and pushed the map over. "This next job is important. And dangerous."

Franz sat down, waiting in silence.

"Keller is watching the brewery. You’re responsible for the other two things." Werner took a stack of Marks from a drawer and tossed them on the table. "One thousand Marks. Go to the Black Market and buy off Walter’s small fry—don’t touch his core people, just find the errand boys, the ones who move goods. Throw money at them. Find out what’s in his warehouse, how much, and how often he restocks."

Franz frowned. "Walter’s men are tight-lipped..."

"That’s why you have to throw money at them," Werner cut him off. "If it’s not enough, come get more from me. But remember, take your time. Don’t let Walter notice."

"And?"

Werner looked up and stared into Franz’s eyes. "Find a way to learn who Walter’s Soviet Army contact is. Name, rank, specific duties—the more detailed, the better."

Franz sucked in a sharp breath. "Boss, that... isn’t that too difficult?"

"Ivanov," Werner said, speaking a single name. "He’s under investigation, but he hasn’t been arrested yet. Find a way to contact him. I need to meet with him."

Franz was silent for a moment, then tucked the money into his coat. "Boss, I’ll do my best. But these two tasks... it’ll take at least a week to get any results."

"That’s fine." Werner stood up and walked to the window. "I have two weeks."

Outside the window, the East Berlin sky hung low and heavy.

Franz watched Werner’s back and suddenly thought, ’These two weeks aren’t just a contest between Werner and Walter—they’re more like a gamble. And the stakes are everyone’s lives.’

He stood up, turned, and left.

After Franz left, Werner stood alone at the window.

On the street below, a group of workers were cleaning the sewers, their shovels striking the ice with dull THUDS. From a distant loudspeaker came the sound of a news broadcast, the announcer’s strident voice reporting on the "great achievements of socialist construction."

Werner lit a cigarette, the smoke leaving a thin film of condensation on the glass.

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

Three nights later, Werner received a message from Ivanov.

The message was brought by an old man who sold secondhand goods on the Black Market. The note said: "The usual place. Eight o’clock tonight."

The usual place was a small tavern on the outskirts of East Berlin, tucked away in a narrow alley that rarely saw any customers. The owner was a Pole who, for enough money, wouldn’t ask any questions.

Werner arrived at eight o’clock sharp.

The tavern was hazy with smoke. A few old workers sat in a corner, drinking cheap beer.

Ivanov was sitting in the rearmost booth, a bottle of vodka in front of him, already more than half empty.

"Werner," Ivanov said when he saw him, giving a wave.

Werner sat down and poured himself a drink. "How are things?"

"Awful," Ivanov said, picking up his glass and downing it in one gulp. "The political department is investigating me. An anonymous tip. Said I was smuggling military supplies during my time in Berlin, causing ’serious losses.’"

"Did they find anything?"

"Not yet." Ivanov wiped his face, his eyes bloodshot. "But they’re going through the ledgers, checking transfer records. Werner, I was just fucking taking scraps—expired cans, extra blankets—a few hundred Marks a month! They call that ’serious losses’?"

Werner refilled his glass. "What did the tip say?"

"It said there was a large-scale loss of supplies from the warehouse I’m in charge of." Ivanov took a harsh swig of his drink. "Large-scale! I only took a handful of things. How large-scale can that be? The real rats are hauling stuff out by the ton, and they don’t investigate them!"

Werner’s hand paused. "What do you mean?"

"The Quartermaster’s Department is the real problem!" Ivanov lowered his voice, but the alcohol laced his words with anger. "That bastard Sokolov, who knows how much he moves out every month! Tobacco, tires, fuel, canvas... truckload after truckload! And no one investigates him!"

"Sokolov?" Werner’s tone was calm. "Who’s that?"

"Head of the Third Army’s Quartermaster’s Department. A major." Ivanov took another drink. "He’s been in Berlin for less than a year, but he’s got connections everywhere. He has his channels, his protectors. Us little shrimp get into trouble, and nothing happens to him."

Werner slowly swirled the glass in his hand. "How do you know?"

"Everyone knows!" Ivanov’s voice grew louder, and a few of the old workers glanced over.

Werner shot him a glare. Ivanov lowered his voice and continued, "The warehouse managers have all seen it. Late at night, Sokolov personally oversees the loading of trucks, which are then driven into the city. Some say the goods are sold to the East German Government, others say they go to the Black Market."

"Where are they taken?"

"I don’t know." Ivanov shook his head. "But it’s definitely not through official channels. Official channels require documents, signatures, stamps—a whole mess of paperwork. With Sokolov, there are no documents. They just load up the trucks and go."

Werner connected the pieces of information in his head: ’Sokolov is the head of the Quartermaster’s Department, controlling the allocation of supplies. He smuggles the goods out and forges documents to cover the losses. To divert attention, he found a scapegoat—Ivanov.’

"What are you going to do now?" Werner asked.

"Get transferred." Ivanov gave a bitter smile. "My superiors gave me a choice: either undergo an investigation and face a court-martial, or admit to ’poor management’ and get transferred to Poland as soon as possible. I chose the latter. I was supposed to go to Poland anyway, this just speeds things up. I’ve had enough of this place."

"When do you leave?"

"Next week." Ivanov downed the last of his drink and stood up. "Werner, I have to go. You... take care."

Werner also stood and clapped Ivanov on the shoulder. "Take care."

After seeing Ivanov off, Werner didn’t leave right away.

He sat for a while longer, finishing the rest of the vodka in the bottle. The alcohol burned its way down his throat and exploded in his stomach, bringing a brief numbness.

Sokolov. Head of the Third Army’s Quartermaster’s Department. Major.

Werner repeated the name silently in his mind, then stood up and walked out of the tavern.

By the time he got back to his office, it was almost ten o’clock.

Werner turned on the light, sat down in his chair, and closed his eyes. An invisible web of connections began to form in his mind:

Walter was connected to Sokolov—a major and the head of the Third Army’s Quartermaster’s Department.

The goods were tobacco, tires, fuel, and canvas, measured in tons. The method was simple and crude: load the trucks late at night, drive them away directly, and leave no paper trail.

And Ivanov was just a scapegoat, pushed out to divert the Soviet Army’s internal attention.

Werner opened his eyes. His gaze was ice-cold.

’Sokolov is smuggling supplies meant for the soldiers, selling them to Walter, and then forging documents to cover the deficit. Within the Soviet Army, this is a capital offense—embezzling military supplies is tantamount to treason.’

’If I can get proof...’

His plan began to take shape:

First, the license plate numbers of the Soviet Army vehicles and the times they appear. Franz is on it, so there should be results soon.

Second, the type and quantity of the goods. That has to be pried from the mouths of Walter’s grunts. A thousand Marks should be enough.

Third, and most critical: the direct link between Sokolov and Walter. Without this piece, the first two are just circumstantial evidence, not enough for a killing blow.

Werner mentally rehearsed every subsequent step.

Pacing was key. He couldn’t move too fast, or Lainer would become suspicious. He couldn’t be too slow, or he’d give Lorentz time to react. He had to be like someone tightening a clockwork spring, turn by turn, steady and deliberate, until the final moment—CLICK. The mechanism triggers.

Werner pulled open a drawer, took out an address book, and flipped to the page for the port. Carl’s contact information was written there.

He picked up the phone and dialed the number.

"Hello?" Carl’s voice sounded on the other end of the line.