I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

Chapter 184: Chapter 94: The Underground Printing Factory

Werner turned back.

"I will be watching you," Vonke said, enunciating each word. "At all times."

Werner just smiled, said nothing, and walked out of the office.

Outside the Stasi Building, Werner lit a cigarette, taking a deep drag to let the nicotine temporarily calm his tense nerves.

Vonke had no evidence, which was good. More importantly, the Stasi’s internal factional struggles gave him some breathing room—Vonke wouldn’t dare go to Von Brown for confirmation, as that would be tantamount to admitting his surveillance had failed. As for Von Brown, Werner had long been providing regular reports on Lucas’s situation. That insignificant intelligence was enough to prove he was "working diligently."

He had covered his bases with both sides; no one could get a hold on him.

But he also knew that from this day forward, the Stasi’s surveillance on him would be even tighter. He had to be careful—more careful than ever.

Werner walked to his car and slid inside. As he started the engine, a black Warsaw sedan appeared in his rearview mirror, falling in slowly behind him.

He smiled and stepped on the gas.

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

On the fifth day of Lucas’s disappearance, Von Brown asked to meet Werner at the Song of the Workers restaurant.

When Werner arrived, Von Brown was already seated in a private booth against the wall, a bottle of vodka and two glasses on the table. Seeing Werner enter, a rare smile appeared on his face.

"Betelich, sit." Von Brown poured Werner a glass. "The Marcus Wolf case was handled beautifully. Director Schmidt personally praised me, saying we’ve been remarkably effective in cleaning out dissidents."

"As it should be, Major," Werner said, raising his glass and clinking it against Von Brown’s.

"However," Von Brown said, taking a sip of vodka, his expression turning serious, "the higher-ups have even greater expectations for us now. You have a list with several people on it. What’s the progress?"

Werner had expected Von Brown to ask about this.

He took a notebook from his briefcase and opened it to a page. "There’s no progress on Peter Weber. He’s very cautious. His book club only discusses literary works, no real subversive talk. Hans Zimmerman is an underground publisher, but he’s been laying low recently. I’m still observing him."

"What about Monica Stein?" Von Brown’s eyes narrowed. "The woman with connections to a West German journalist."

"She’s still active," Werner said, closing his notebook. "But she’s very cunning. It’s hard to get concrete evidence."

"Then find a way to get it." Von Brown refilled both their glasses. "Betelich, I admire your abilities, but you need to understand that the situation at the department is delicate right now. Director Schmidt needs more results to solidify his position, and I need to prove my worth to him. Do you understand what I mean?"

Of course, Werner understood.

The factional struggles within the Stasi never stopped. Von Brown needed more cases to score points, and Werner was his trump card.

"I understand, Major." Werner drained his glass. "Just give me some time. I’ll get you results."

"Good." Von Brown clapped him on the shoulder. "I believe in you. But remember, time is short. The higher-ups gave me a one-month deadline to clean up this batch of dissidents."

One month.

Werner’s heart sank, but he showed no emotion on his face. He had a few more drinks with Von Brown, chatted about some Black Market business, and then took his leave.

Stepping out of the restaurant, the cold winter night wind hit him in the face. Werner lit a cigarette and stood by the street, thinking for a long time.

There were still four people on the list: Peter Weber, Hans Zimmerman, Monica Stein, and Father Marcus, who was already inside. He had to give Von Brown an answer within a month, but he couldn’t actually send all of them to prison.

He had to find a way.

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

「The next afternoon」

Werner first went to the warehouse to find Franz.

"Boss, what can I do for you?" Franz was organizing a newly arrived shipment of goods.

"Do you remember someone who came to buy ink and solvent last month?" Werner lit a cigarette. "A large quantity. Twenty kilograms in one go."

Franz thought for a moment. "I remember. A skinny guy with glasses. Said it was for a photo studio. But he didn’t look the part. What kind of photo studio needs that many chemicals?"

"What was his name?"

"He didn’t give a real name." Franz pulled a notebook out of a drawer. "But I wrote down his description and contact info. See here—early thirties, about 175 centimeters tall, black-rimmed glasses, ink stains on his fingers, like he handles ink a lot. This is the address he left."

Werner took the notebook and looked at the address. "Good. I need to meet this man."

"Boss, is there a problem with him?"

"It’s not that there’s a problem with him, it’s that he might be in trouble." Werner closed the notebook. "I’m going to check it out. I’ll help him if I can."

At three in the afternoon, Werner arrived at the address in the Mitte District.

The factory looked ordinary from the outside, with a sign that read "People’s Printing House No. 7 Branch." The yard was piled with bales of paper and old printing press parts. Werner didn’t use the main entrance, instead circling around to the side to find a small loading door.

He knocked on the door. After a moment, a young man in greasy overalls opened it.

"Who are you looking for?" the young man asked, watching him warily.

"I’m looking for Hans Zimmerman." Werner offered him a cigarette. "Tell him the person who sold him chemicals last month wants to see him."

The young man hesitated for a second, then took the cigarette and went back inside. A few minutes later, he returned and gestured for Werner to follow him.

The two of them walked through a workshop cluttered with paper and ink barrels and arrived at a small office.

Sitting in the office was a man in his early thirties with thick, black-rimmed glasses and black ink stains on his fingers—exactly the person Franz had described.

"You’re the one who sells the chemicals?" Zimmerman sized Werner up, his eyes full of suspicion.

"To be precise, one of my men sold them to you." Werner sat down in a chair without waiting for an invitation. "My name is Werner Betelich."

Zimmerman’s expression shifted slightly; he had clearly heard the name before. "Betelich... the new boss of the East Berlin Black Market. What do you want with me?"

"I’ve come to save your life," Werner said bluntly.

"What do you mean?"

"The Stasi are watching you." Werner took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to Zimmerman. Zimmerman hesitated before taking it and lighting it. "You didn’t buy all that ink and solvent last month for a photo studio, did you?"

Zimmerman’s hand trembled, and ash fell onto the table. "I... I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Stop pretending." Werner exhaled a puff of smoke. "Ink and solvent are essential for printing, especially for underground publications. With the amount you bought, you’re either printing banned books or an underground newspaper."

Zimmerman fell silent, staring intently at Werner.

"Are you here to arrest me?" His voice was a little hoarse.

"If I were here to arrest you, the street outside would be swarming with Stasi cars right now." Werner flicked his ash. "I’m here to warn you. The Stasi has a list of dissidents, and you’re on it. They’ve ordered me to watch you and gather evidence."

"Why are you telling me this?" Zimmerman’s eyes were filled with suspicion. "Aren’t you a Stasi informant? Isn’t it your job to help them arrest people?"

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