I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

Chapter 152: Chapter 62: The Setup

"It’s me, Werner," said Werner. "I need you to get me a shipment. Danish tobacco. The more, the better."

"Danish tobacco?" Carl paused. "That’s tough to move right now. I told you last time, they’re cracking down."

"I know," Werner cut him off. "But I need to stockpile. Get me at least five thousand cartons within a month. Price is no object."

The other end of the line went silent for a few seconds. "Alright. But five thousand cartons... I’ll have to figure something out. It’ll take two weeks, minimum."

"Fine," said Werner. "As soon as possible."

After hanging up, Werner paced back and forth in his office.

’The framework of the plan is in place. All that’s left is execution.’

’But he knew the hardest part was yet to come—how to get direct evidence on Sokolov and Walter.’

A sudden knock came at the door. Werner stopped pacing and went to open it.

Franz was standing outside, a look of excitement on his face.

"Boss, I’ve got something." Franz lowered his voice as he stepped inside. "I bribed one of Walter’s movers. The kid was short on cash. Two hundred Marks and he started talking."

"Talk," Werner said, closing the door.

"Walter’s warehouse currently holds about three thousand cartons of West German cigarettes, over a hundred tires, twenty barrels of fuel, and a shipment of canvas and medical supplies." Franz pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. "This is the list. The kid moved it all himself, so there’s no mistake."

Werner took the list and examined it. ’Tires, fuel, canvas... These are all military supplies. You can’t buy them on the open market.’

"What else?" Werner asked.

"The kid said Walter gets a big shipment once a month," Franz continued. "The exact time varies, but it’s always late at night. When the goods come in, Walter clears everyone out except for a few of his most trusted men."

"When’s the next one?"

"Don’t know." Franz shook his head. "But according to the kid, based on the usual pattern, it should be within the next few days."

Werner folded the list and stuffed it into his pocket. "What about the abandoned brewery? Any word from Keller?"

"Keller’s been keeping an eye on it," Franz said. "He asked me to tell you that the night before last, a Soviet Army truck went there. License plate БЧ-4721. It stayed for about an hour, then left empty."

"Are you sure it was empty?"

"Positive. He found a high vantage point and watched with binoculars." Franz nodded. "The truck was riding low when it was unloading. When it left, the suspension had risen. It was definitely empty."

Werner mentally noted the license plate number.

’Soviet Army vehicle plates are all registered. If I can find the right person, I can find out which unit that truck belongs to and which officer is in charge of it.’

"Keep watching it," Werner said. "Notify me immediately if there’s any movement. And that mover—give him another two hundred Marks. Tell him to keep a close eye on when Walter’s next shipment comes in."

"Understood." Franz turned to leave.

After Franz left, the office fell silent again. Werner stood at the window, staring down at the empty street below.

’Two weeks.’

’Three days have already passed. Eleven days left.’

’I have to get enough evidence to convince Lainer to make a move within these eleven days.’

’And at the same time, I have to watch out for Lorentz, for Walter, and for any other surprises.’

Werner took a deep breath and turned toward his desk.

He pulled open a drawer, took out an address book, and flipped to a new page. On it was the phone number for Lainer’s office.

He stared at the numbers, his finger hovering over the rotary dial for a moment before he finally pulled his hand away.

’No, not yet.’

’The evidence isn’t solid enough. Calling now would just tip them off.’

Werner closed the address book and locked it in the drawer. He switched off the light and left the office.

***************8

A week later, Keller pushed open the office door. He looked exhausted, but his eyes were bright.

"Boss, I got it." He tossed a manila envelope onto the desk and collapsed into a chair. "The last few days nearly killed me."

Werner opened the envelope. Inside were several handwritten logs and three photographs.

The photos were a little blurry, but the details were clear enough: a Soviet Army truck was parked at the entrance to the abandoned brewery while several men in uniform unloaded cargo. The cardboard boxes were stamped with Cyrillic letters, and the tires were stacked in a small mountain.

"Did Erich take these?" Werner asked, holding up a photo to examine it more closely.

"Yeah." Keller lit a cigarette. "I had to ask him three times before he’d agree. His work’s decent. He took them from the rooftop across the street with a telephoto lens. Didn’t get spotted."

Werner set the photos on the desk and picked up the logs. They were filled with densely packed notes recording times, license plate numbers, and the number of personnel:

January 28, 2:17 AM, license plate БЧ-4721, 4 men, unloading time 47 minutes.

February 1, 3:05 AM, license plate БЧ-4721, 5 men, unloading time 52 minutes.

February 4, 2:38 AM, license plate БЧ-4721, 4 men, unloading time 39 minutes.

"It’s the same truck every time." Werner stared at the license plate number. "БЧ is the code for the Third Army."

"That’s right." Keller exhaled a cloud of smoke. "I had someone look into it. The truck is registered to the quartermaster’s office. The officer in charge is Major Sokolov."

Werner put down the logs and leaned back in his chair. "And the cargo? Did you get a clear look?"

"Crystal clear." Keller flicked the ash from his cigarette. "They were unloading cases upon cases of tobacco alone—at least twenty each time. Plus, bundles of tires, a dozen or so per delivery, and barrels of fuel, seven or eight at a time. All military-spec. The kind you can’t buy on the open market."

"That’s no small amount," Werner said, lost in thought.

"There’s something even better." Keller lowered his voice, his eyes glinting with excitement. "Walter has a warehouse manager named Kurt. The man loves his drink. I bought him a few rounds at a tavern the night before last, and his tongue got loose."

"What did he say?"

"He said the tobacco was supposed to be issued to Soviet Army soldiers," Keller leaned in. "But Sokolov declared it all ’damaged goods.’ Substandard quality, damp and moldy... basically, he just finds any excuse to write off perfectly good supplies and then funnels them to Walter."

Werner’s eyes lit up. "How does he know all this in such detail?"

"Because Walter had him inspect it." Keller grinned. "Kurt said the tobacco was perfect, nothing wrong with it at all. He was even complaining that Walter paid him too little for the inspection—only fifty Marks."

Werner stood up and began to pace around the office.

’Sokolov falsifies records to declare military supplies as ’damaged,’ then sells them to Walter. The whole scheme is clear now. I just need to package this evidence and get it into Lainer’s hands.’

"Excellent." Werner returned to his desk and locked the photos and logs in the drawer. "There’s one more thing."

"What is it?"

"I’m going to meet with Walter," Werner said.

Keller was stunned. "Boss, are you crazy? If you meet with him now, you’ll tip him off!"

"No." Werner shook his head. "Meeting with him now is the only way to see what cards he’s holding. Besides..." He let out a cold laugh. "I want to make him think he’s already won."

Two nights later, Werner met Walter in a small tavern.

The tavern was on the edge of the Prenzlauer Berg District, a neutral zone for the Black Market.

The tavern was mostly empty, save for two old men drinking in a corner.

Walter was sitting at a table by the window with a glass of beer in front of him.

He wore a heavy tweed overcoat. When he saw Werner enter, he didn’t stand, merely lifting his chin and giving him a condescending once-over.

"Betelich," Walter said languidly. "Have a seat."

Werner sat down across from him, poured himself a beer, and said nothing.

"I have to admit," Walter said, raising his glass in a half-hearted compliment, "you work fast. You’ve taken control of more than half the Black Market in less than a year. You’ve got guts and you’re clever."

He paused, took a drink, and then his tone shifted.

"But, Betelich, you’re not the only one in this game. Other people need to make a living too, wouldn’t you agree?"

Werner didn’t respond, just kept his eyes on him.

Walter set down his glass, leaned back in his chair, and lit a cigar. "I know you’re on good terms with the Stasi. But to be honest, my own connections are just as strong."

Werner picked up his glass, still silent.

"So here’s what I’m proposing," Walter said, tapping the table. "You get out of the tobacco business. Focus on your port smuggling and your other Black Market ventures. Leave tobacco to me. Do that, and I guarantee we’ll stay out of each other’s way. I won’t touch your turf, you don’t touch mine. We can both eat our fill without getting in each other’s way."

Werner lowered his head, his fingers tapping gently on the table as if he were hesitating.

Walter watched his reaction, a smug smile playing on his lips. "So, what do you say, Betelich? It’s not a bad deal for you. You must have realized by now that you can’t beat me when it comes to tobacco. It’s better to make a graceful exit. It’ll be easier on everyone."