Chapter 51: Chapter 51: Greed
This plan required precise timing, solid evidence, and the perfect scapegoat.
Most importantly, he needed a few "props" to stage this grand performance.
The next morning, Werner went to a scrap recycling station by the Spree River.
The place was piled high with all sorts of scrap metal, dilapidated furniture, and industrial waste, resembling a giant garbage dump. The air was thick with the mixed smell of rust, rotting wood, and chemicals, making one wrinkle their nose involuntarily.
The station’s owner, Friedrich, was a man with a story.
He was in his seventies with a full head of white hair, but he was still hale and hearty. Rumor had it that he’d been a chemical engineer in his youth, working at a large chemical plant. But during the political purges of the 1950s, he was demoted to watching over scrap heaps here because of "ideological problems."
However, this experience had become his advantage. The old man knew all sorts of chemical equipment and containers like the back of his hand, able to tell what was valuable and what should be thrown away.
"Mr. Friedrich, I’d like to buy a few chemical containers," Werner said, handing over a pack of cigarettes and a ten-Mark bill.
The old man took the cigarettes, skillfully tore open the pack, and pulled one out to light it. He took a deep drag and sighed with satisfaction. "How big? And what for?"
"Not too big. Something that can hold about ten kilograms. Preferably one with a label, to make it look more professional," Werner said, feigning a casual air.
Friedrich rummaged through the scrap heap for a while. His movements were slow but methodical. He clearly knew where everything was.
"How about these?" The old man pulled out a few plastic drums. "They’re all discards from a chemical plant. They still have the original labels, but some of the writing has faded."
Werner inspected them carefully and found that one of the drums still had the words "Hamburg Chemicals xxx" on it—the logo of a West German chemical company. The drum was a bit worn, but the logo was still reasonably clear.
"Why is this drum from West Germany?" Werner asked, feigning curiosity. This was exactly what he was looking for, but he had to act as if he’d discovered it by chance.
Friedrich coughed, squinting as he recalled, "Before the war, there were a lot of German company branches in this area. Hamburg Chemicals was one of them. After the war, even though the Soviets moved most of the equipment, some odds and ends were always left behind."
He paused for a moment before adding, "Besides, there’s still some trade between the two Germanys now, so it’s not strange to see packaging from the West once in a while. It’s just that these things aren’t very popular these days. Too politically sensitive."
"I’ll take these," Werner said with a satisfied nod. "Mr. Friedrich, do you have any other chemical supplies? Like reagent bottles, labels, that sort of thing?"
The old man rummaged around again and found some glass bottles and torn label sheets. "Will these be enough? All discards from old labs. Young people these days... they have no idea what this stuff is worth. Just toss it all over the place."
"More than enough." Werner paid and loaded the items into a cart. "By the way, Mr. Friedrich, where do you get all this stuff from?"
"All sorts of plants. Chemical plants, pharmaceutical factories, research institutes, you name it." Friedrich coughed a few more times, his voice a bit raspy. "Some are normal discards. Some... how should I put it... come from special channels."
He gave Werner a meaningful look. "Be careful buying this stuff, kid. They’re cracking down hard these days."
Werner nodded and pushed his cart away from the recycling station.
The old man’s warning confirmed his suspicions—chemical regulations were indeed strict. This only further cemented how dangerous Joseph’s situation was.
At four in the afternoon, Werner met Keller at a small printing press.
The press was located on an inconspicuous side street and specialized in printing brochures, slogans, and various official documents. The owner was a cautious man, but for the right price, he was also willing to take on some "private jobs."
"Boss, what do you need this stuff for?" Keller asked, his eyes full of confusion as he looked at the label design Werner had drawn. "I don’t even recognize these letters. They look so complicated."
What Werner had drawn on the paper was standard German Gothic script, an old and ornate font rarely used in modern times. But in the eyes of the older generation of Germans, it was a symbol of "authenticity."
"It’s German, just old-fashioned Gothic script," Werner said, pointing at the text on the paper. "Just print it exactly like this. Use waterproof paper. It needs to look professional."
Keller stared at the flamboyant letters as if they were hieroglyphics. "Why use this font? It looks so old, like something out of a museum."
"Because it’s authentic," Werner said with a faint smile, a shrewd glint in his eyes. "In the eyes of the older generation of Germans, this font is a symbol of legitimacy and quality. Many long-established companies used this style before World War II. Although some switched to modern fonts after the war, this style still evokes a sense of deep history. The Stasi will take one look and know it’s an ’import’."
The label read: "Sulfuric Acid 98% - Hamburg Chemical Company - Hazardous Material".
The press owner was a small, spectacled old man with thinning hair, but his craftsmanship was superb. He looked at the design draft and frowned. "What’s this? A chemical label?"
"Yes. A friend of mine works at a research institute and needs some standardized labels." Werner pulled out twenty Marks and dangled the bill in front of the owner. "Can you get it done by tonight?"
The owner took the money, counted it carefully, and then nodded. "No problem. But are you sure the German spelling is correct? I don’t know anything about chemistry, so don’t blame me if it’s printed wrong."
"Don’t worry, it’s all standard terminology," Werner said with confidence.
The owner began to prepare the equipment. The old printing press made a clattering sound, like an old man coughing. Werner and Keller waited outside, leaning against a wall and smoking.
"Boss, what exactly are you planning?" Keller finally couldn’t help but ask. "Getting all these chemicals and labels... you’re not planning to..."
"Planning to what?" Werner shot back.
"Make a bomb?" Keller lowered his voice, his eyes filled with fear.
Werner burst out laughing. "Keller, you’re overthinking it. I am going to blow up Joseph and his crew, but not with a bomb."
Keller was even more confused. "Then with what?"
Werner didn’t answer directly. Instead, he asked, "Keller, what do you think is Joseph and his crew’s greatest weakness?"
"Weakness?" Keller scratched his head. "Are they too high-profile? Or is their merchandise too dangerous?"
"Neither," Werner said, flicking the ash from his cigarette. "Their greatest weakness is their greed."
"Greed?"
"That’s right. They’ll do anything for money, sell anything for a profit." Werner’s gaze grew profound. "They think that in the Black Market, any demand can be met. They have no idea that some things, once discovered, are a one-way ticket to a dead end."
