I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

Chapter 167: Chapter 77: Asset Investigation

"Hm?"

"I’ve been thinking these past few days..." Anna looked up at him. "If you hadn’t helped me back then, where would I be right now?"

Werner didn’t say anything, just looked at her.

"Maybe in some interrogation room, maybe exiled to the border, or maybe..." Anna took a deep breath. "In any case, I wouldn’t be standing here talking to you like this."

"What’s past is past," Werner said.

"I know." Anna bit her lip. "But I still want to say... thank you."

Her gaze was serious, tinged with an unreadable emotion.

Werner suddenly realized that when Anna said "thank you," it wasn’t just for helping her that one time.

It was because... he was one of the few people in this city she could trust.

"Don’t say that." Werner turned to leave. "You’ve given me valuable intelligence, too. We’re even."

"Werner," Anna called out to him.

Werner stopped and turned back.

"Be careful," Anna said. "The Stasi has increased its surveillance on the Black Market recently, and not just for cigarettes. Your name... might already be on someone’s list."

Werner’s heart sank. "Whose list?"

"I’m not sure yet." Anna shook her head. "But I’ll keep looking into it. If I hear anything, I’ll tell you right away."

"Thanks."

"You’re welcome," Anna said softly. "Werner, we... we both need to be careful."

Werner nodded, turned, and walked into the night.

Behind him, he heard the sound of Anna crouching to pick up her oil-paper bag, followed by the sound of her departing footsteps.

Two people, two different directions.

Both vanished into the darkness of the city.

Werner walked down the empty street, his hands in his pockets, clutching the envelope.

Anna’s words echoed in his mind—’Your name might already be on someone’s list.’

He knew what that meant.

The Stasi was watching him. That wasn’t surprising.

Anyone in the Black Market business got targeted sooner or later.

But the key question was, who was watching him?

’Vonke? Klaus? Or someone higher up?’

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

Snowflakes landed on the black sedan, instantly melting into droplets of water.

Werner stood by the window, watching the car that had been parked downstairs for twenty minutes. The person inside didn’t get out, just sat in the driver’s seat, occasionally raising a hand to wipe the fog from the window.

"It’s the Stasi again." Franz walked up beside him and lowered his voice. "Since last week, this is the third car."

Werner didn’t speak, just lit a cigarette. The smoke spread across the windowpane, blurring the scene outside.

The car door below finally opened. A man in a dark gray overcoat got out, adjusted his hat, and walked straight toward the apartment building.

"It’s Vonke," Werner said, exhaling a puff of smoke. "He came in person."

The color drained from Franz’s face. "Boss, should I—"

"Don’t do anything." Werner crushed out his cigarette. "Make a pot of coffee. Use the stuff from West Germany."

Three minutes later, the doorbell rang.

Werner opened the door. Vonke stood outside, taking off his hat to reveal salt-and-pepper hair. His eyes were still sharp.

"Comrade Vonke, what a rare visit." Werner stepped aside to let him pass. "It’s cold outside. Come in, quick."

"Sorry for the intrusion, Comrade Betelich." Vonke walked in, his eyes sweeping across the office—the West German radio on the modular cabinet, the Swiss watch on the desk, the Italian lamp in the corner. His gaze lingered on each item as if he were appraising its value.

"Coffee?" Werner asked.

"Thank you." Vonke sat on the sofa, placing his briefcase on his lap.

Franz brought in two cups of coffee, then tactfully excused himself from the room.

"Jacobs Kaffee?" Vonke lifted the cup and sniffed. "West German goods?"

"A friend brought it back from a foreign trade shop," Werner said with a smile. "If you like it, Comrade Vonke, I can have a couple of tins sent to you."

"No need." Vonke took a sip and set the cup down. "I came today to discuss some official business."

"Go on."

Vonke opened his briefcase, pulled out a manila envelope, and placed it on the coffee table.

"What’s this?" Werner asked.

"Your financial records," Vonke said. "For the past year."

Werner’s stomach tightened, but his expression remained unchanged. "The Stasi even investigates this?"

"Standard procedure." Vonke opened the envelope and took out a stack of documents. "Your savings in the state bank went from eight hundred Marks last February to twenty-three thousand Marks this January. That’s an increase of twenty-eight times."

"Business is good," Werner shrugged.

"How good?" Vonke turned to another page. "Your official salary as a purchasing employee for the Ministry of Foreign Trade is one hundred and twenty Marks a month. At that rate, you’d have to not eat or drink for sixteen years to save up twenty-three thousand."

Werner lit another cigarette. "Comrade Vonke, you know as well as I do that I don’t just live on my salary."

"Of course." Vonke leaned back on the sofa. "Black Market dealings, arbitraging at the foreign trade shops—I know all about it. Major von Braun knows, too. The question is, can that kind of business really make this much money?"

The room fell silent.

Werner took a long drag from his cigarette and slowly exhaled. "Comrade Vonke, what is it you want to know?"

"Where your money came from," Vonke’s voice was calm. "The exact figures."

Werner flicked the ash from his cigarette, stood up, and walked to his desk. He opened a drawer and took out a ledger.

"You should have just said you wanted to see the books." He placed the ledger in front of Vonke. "I’ve been keeping them all along."

Vonke opened the ledger. The first page was filled with densely packed numbers and dates:

February 3: Tobacco, 800 Marks

February 17: Foreign trade shop forex arbitrage, 1200 Marks

March 8: Port (medical equipment), 2100 Marks

March 22: Black Market resale (West German radio), 950 Marks

Every transaction was recorded with perfect clarity: goods, channels, profits.

Vonke slowly turned the pages, his brow furrowing deeper and deeper.

"And this." Werner handed over another notebook. "This is my expense ledger. Payments to informants, warehouse rent—it’s all in here."

Vonke took the notebook and leafed through it page by page. Werner sat back down on the sofa and picked up his coffee cup, his fingers steady.

Five minutes later, Vonke closed the ledgers.

"These books are too clean," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"So clean they don’t look real." Vonke stared at Werner. "Who in the Black Market keeps such detailed accounts?"

Werner smiled. "Comrade Vonke, do you take me for a fool?"

"No, you’re very smart," Vonke said. "Smart enough to prepare a set of fake books specifically for an inspection."

"Then where do you think the real books are?"

"I don’t know." Vonke pushed the ledgers back. "But I know you’re involved in bigger business."

He paused, his gaze growing sharper. "You’re sending money to people in the Ministry of Justice, aren’t you?"

Werner’s fingers paused on the rim of the cup.

"You must be joking, Comrade Vonke." He put down the cup. "The Ministry of Justice? I’m just a Black Market peddler. What connection could I have with the Ministry of Justice?"

"Hopter," Vonke said the name. "Hopter from the Ministry of Justice. How many times have you met with him?"

"He’s a client. He’s bought some Western goods," Werner’s voice was steady.

"But the problem is, the things you gave him were worth far more than the money he paid you. An Italian coffee machine is worth three thousand West German Marks, but you only charged him six hundred East German Marks. Is that business, or bribery?"

Werner was silent for a few seconds. "He’s a regular. Discounts are normal."

"Discounts?" Vonke sneered. "And what about the cosmetics, the French perfume? You didn’t charge a single cent for those, you just gave them to his wife. You call that a discount too?"

"That’s just a friendly gesture."

"A friendly gesture?" Vonke pulled another document from his briefcase. "Then let me ask you, what kind of friendly gesture were those approval documents Hopter issued for you?"

Werner’s heart sank.

"What approval documents?"

"Release permits." Vonke placed the document on the table. "Hopter used his position to issue release permits for thirteen political prisoners, all after you had delivered things to him."

"That’s a coincidence," Werner said.

"A coincidence?" Vonke stood up and walked to the window. "Comrade Betelich, do you have any idea what sentence you’d get for all these crimes combined? Contacting West German powers, bribing state officials, assisting the families of political prisoners with illegal emigration?"

Werner stood up as well. "Comrade Vonke, do you have any proof?"

"I have records of Hopter’s approval documents, I have your gift lists, and I have photos of you meeting." Vonke turned around. "Is that not enough?"

"It’s not enough," Werner met his gaze. "Because you have no proof that those permits have anything to do with me. I give gifts to a client, and that client uses his authority to do his job. Those are two separate things."

Vonke stared at him, not speaking for a long moment.

"Besides," Werner continued, "Hopter is in charge of approving humanitarian cases at the Ministry of Justice. Him approving the release of some political prisoners is completely within his authority. If you think he abused his power, you should be investigating him, not me."

"Oh, I’ll investigate him," Vonke said. "But right now, I want to know who else you’ve given money to."

"No one else."

"What about Klein?" Vonke said. "Section Chief Klein of the Ministry of Foreign Trade’s quota department. You two have a pretty good relationship, don’t you?"

"He’s a client too."

"A client?" Vonke sneered. "He approved thirty-seven import quotas for you, and the ’benefits’ you gave him total over five thousand Marks. You call that a client relationship?"

Werner didn’t answer.

Vonke stared at him for a few seconds, then suddenly changed the subject. "Are you familiar with Lawyer Vogel?"

Werner’s heart sank, but his face remained calm. "I’ve heard of him. He specializes in cases for emigration applications."

"He’s been very active recently," Vonke said. "Making the rounds at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Ministry of Justice, saying he wants to promote humanitarian releases. Have you been in contact with him?"

"No."

"No?" Vonke pulled a photograph from his briefcase and pushed it in front of Werner.

In the photo, Werner and Vogel were walking side-by-side on a street outside a church. The angle was discreet; it must have been taken from a building across the street.

"This photo is from last month," Vonke said. "What did you two talk about?"

Werner looked at the photograph, his mind racing. ’Denial is useless, the photo is right here. But admitting it will just lead to more questions.’