I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

Chapter 203: Chapter 113: The First Deal

That evening, Hopter arranged to meet Werner in a secluded tavern.

It was a working-class neighborhood on the outskirts of East Berlin. The tavern was small and sparsely decorated, its patrons all workers from nearby factories. No one would notice two men in plain coats conversing in low voices in a corner.

"It’s been decided," Hopter said, keeping his voice down. "The Ministry of Foreign Affairs has decided to initiate the ’humanitarian release’ program—trading political prisoners for West German foreign currency."

Werner lifted his beer mug and took a sip.

"Who’s in charge?"

"I am."

"And the middleman?"

"You," Hopter said, looking at Werner. "They discussed it for a long time and finally settled on you. I recommended you, told them you were the most suitable candidate."

Werner set down his mug, showing no surprise.

"What are the conditions?"

"Three conditions." Hopter held up three fingers. "First, absolute secrecy. The public can’t know about this project; all operations must be conducted underground. Second, all transactions must go through official channels, no more private dealings like before. Third, you’ll be under strict supervision. Every transaction must be reported."

Werner nodded.

"What does this mean for me?"

"It means the trade of political prisoners is now legalized. You no longer have to worry about being arrested, because this is an official project. But at the same time, you’ll have less freedom. You have to follow the rules, not act on a whim like you used to."

"How strict is the supervision?"

"Very strict," Hopter said. "Von Brown’s side demands that all your contacts be registered and filed. If you make contact with anyone you’re not supposed to, they have the right to suspend the cooperation at any time."

Werner was silent for a few seconds, then raised his mug and took another sip.

"What about payment?"

"The official payment isn’t much," Hopter said, his voice low. "For every political prisoner released, you get a two-hundred-Mark ’coordination fee’."

"Two hundred?" Werner raised an eyebrow.

"I know it’s not much." Hopter smiled, a look of tacit understanding in his eyes. "But, Werner, you should understand that the real profit isn’t on the books."

Werner put down his mug and looked at Hopter.

"Explain."

Hopter leaned in closer, his voice even lower.

"The official standard ’ransom’ for each political prisoner is forty thousand Marks. But that’s just the quote we give West Germany." He paused. "In practice, if you negotiate with West Germany and get fifty thousand, sixty thousand, or even a hundred thousand... that’s a measure of your skill. The surplus is yours."

A glint appeared in Werner’s eyes.

"The government doesn’t care?"

"As long as the books show forty thousand Marks, the higher-ups won’t ask questions," Hopter said. "Besides, the release procedures take time. During that period, ’placement fees,’ ’care fees,’ ’document fees’ for the prisoner—these are all gray-area income. You can set your own prices."

"What else?"

"Foreign currency exchange." Hopter’s smile deepened. "West Germany pays in Marks, but the government collects it at a fixed exchange rate. The Black Market rate is three to five times higher than the official rate. The difference in between—"

"I understand," Werner cut him off, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He did indeed understand.

On the surface, he would only make a two-hundred-Mark coordination fee per political prisoner.

But in reality—

Negotiation premium: If the official standard was forty thousand, and he negotiated eighty thousand, he would make forty thousand.

Placement fees: For guarding and caring for the prisoners before their release, he could charge at least five to ten thousand per person.

Currency exchange difference: By operating with the Black Market exchange rate, he could make tens of thousands more per transaction.

Document processing fees: Various approvals, certificates, and official stamps—every step was an opportunity to charge money.

If he could negotiate a price of one hundred thousand Marks for a single prisoner, after deducting the official forty thousand, he could make at least fifty to sixty thousand.

If he could handle ten transactions a month, that would be five to six hundred thousand Marks.

Over a year, that would be millions.

And it was all semi-legal.

With an official project as cover, the cooperation of Hopter and Vogel, and the Stasi turning a blind eye—as long as the numbers on the books added up, no one would investigate the details.

Werner raised his mug, gesturing to Hopter.

"To a successful partnership, then."

"To a successful partnership." Hopter also raised his glass, and the two men clinked them together.

’This was the right move.’

The public pressure campaign had succeeded, the official project was greenlit, and he had transformed from an underground smuggler to an official middleman.

His freedom was curtailed, but his security had increased immensely.

Moreover, the profit margins of this project were even larger than he had imagined.

More importantly, he had become one of the founders of this system.

Historically, the trade of political prisoners between East and West Germany began in the 1960s and continued until the late 1980s, with tens of thousands of prisoners exchanged for billions of Marks in foreign currency.

It was a massive system, a gray-area industry that would last for decades.

And he was now standing at the very beginning of this industrial chain.

And, more critically—

He now controlled a legal, officially sanctioned channel connecting East and West Germany.

This channel could be used not only to trade political prisoners, but also to transfer funds, pass intelligence, and even, in the future, serve as his own escape route from East Germany.

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

The spring air was sharp with a lingering chill.

Werner stood before the Ministry of Justice building, looking up at the gray structure.

A massive East German coat of arms hung on the wall—a hammer, a compass, and a wreath of rye, symbolizing the unity of workers, intellectuals, and farmers.

But now, under the gloomy sky, the symbol looked more like some kind of cold warning.

He stubbed out his cigarette, stepped into the mud by the entrance, and pushed the door open.

The doorman was an old man in his fifties with thick glasses, sitting behind a shabby desk. He didn’t even raise an eyelid when Werner entered.

"Who are you looking for?"

"Hopter."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"I do." Werner took out a slip of paper. On it was a short note: B2-17, 3 p.m.

The old man took the paper and glanced at it.

"Second basement level. Go to the end of the hall, turn left, room seventeen." He pointed toward the stairwell. "Don’t get lost."

Werner nodded and descended the dimly lit staircase.

The second basement level was colder than the ground floor. The hallway was lit by only a few dim, yellowed bulbs, and faded slogans were pasted on the walls: "Increase Vigilance, Defend the Fatherland."

The door to room seventeen was made of iron. It had no window, only a small peephole. Werner knocked.

"Come in."

He pushed the door open and went inside.

The room was small with a low ceiling, and file cabinets were stacked up on all sides. A long table took up most of the space. Several desk lamps on it cast flickering light on the faces of three men.

Hopter sat at one end of the table, his suit impeccable and his hair neatly combed.

Beside him was Lawyer Vogel, who wore gold-rimmed glasses and a dark three-piece suit. He was holding a fountain pen and reviewing a document.

Werner didn’t recognize the third man.

He was about thirty-five, wearing a gray coat, with a pale face and sharp eyes. He leaned against a chair by the wall, hands in his pockets, silently staring at Werner.

"Have a seat," Hopter said, gesturing to the chair opposite him.

Werner sat down, taking off his coat and draping it over the back of the chair. The room was stuffy, and the heating pipes made a hissing sound.

"This is Comrade Coleman from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ Western Europe Division," Hopter introduced. "He’s responsible for secret liaisons with West Germany. His presence is required for today’s matter."

Coleman nodded without speaking.

"Let’s get straight to the point." Hopter picked up a manila envelope from the table, pulled out five files, and spread them out one by one. "The West German Government has proposed, through a secret channel, to ransom five political prisoners. This is the list."

Werner leaned in for a closer look.

The first file: The photo showed a man in his thirties, wearing glasses, with a serious expression.

"Hans Mueller, thirty-four, an aeronautical engineer," Hopter said. "Attempted to escape to West Germany in 1960 with technical documents. Sentenced to fifteen years. Currently held in Brandenburg Prison."

The second: A younger man with short blond hair and a scar on his face.

"Peter Krause, twenty-eight, also an aeronautical engineer. Defected with Hans Mueller. Sentenced to twelve years. Same prison."

The third: A man in his forties, unshaven, with weary eyes.

"Martin Weber, forty-five, a reporter for West Germany’s *Frankfurt Allgemeine Zeitung*." Hopter’s tone grew colder. "Secretly entered East Berlin in August 1961 to photograph the construction of the Berlin Wall and was caught. Sentenced to eight years. Held in Hornstein Prison."

The fourth: A thin, middle-aged man with graying hair.

"Friedrich Beck, fifty-one, an underground publisher. Printed seditious pamphlets and organized underground reading groups. Sentenced to ten years. He’s in Bad Senneberg Prison."

The fifth: An old man in a priest’s cassock, his face full of wrinkles, but his eyes were resolute.

"Father Hans Weber, sixty-two." Hopter paused. "Organized an underground escape network, helped more than twenty people cross the border. Sentenced to twenty years. He’s also in Brandenburg Prison."

Werner looked over the five files, then raised his head.

"How much is West Germany offering?"

"One hundred thousand West German Marks per person," Coleman spoke up, his voice low. "A total of five hundred thousand."

Werner’s fingers tapped on the tabletop.

’One hundred thousand per person.’

That price was two and a half times the official standard.

"Why such a high price?" he asked.

"Because all five are high-priority targets," Coleman said. "The two engineers have knowledge of aeronautical technology that West Germany desperately wants. The reporter is one of their own; they have to get him back. The underground publisher has connections in West German cultural circles. As for the priest—"

He paused.

"The priest is the key. His escape network helped many people the West German Government wanted to save. They specifically requested him by name."

Werner nodded and looked at Hopter.

"What’s the official word?"

"It’s been approved," Hopter said. "The Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Ministry of Justice have both signed off. This is the first deal of the ’humanitarian release’ project, so it has to go well. If it succeeds, there will be many more deals to come."

"Are the documents ready?"

"They’re ready on my end." Vogel pushed up his glasses and slid a stack of documents in front of Werner. "The pardon from the Ministry of Justice, the exit permit from the Ministry of the Interior, and the humanitarian release authorization from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. All the paperwork is in order."

Werner flipped through the documents. They all bore official stamps and signatures.

"When do we pick up the prisoners?"

"As soon as possible," Hopter said. "West Germany is pressing us. The handover must be completed by next week at the latest."

"And the handover location?"

"The Helmstedt-Marienborn Checkpoint," Coleman said. "The West Germans will have people waiting there. You’re responsible for getting the men to the border, verifying their identities, confirming payment, and then letting them go."

Werner leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette.

"Sounds simple enough."

"In theory, it is," Hopter said. "But there’s a problem."

"What problem?"

Hopter and Vogel exchanged a glance.

"The priest," Vogel said. "He might not be willing to leave."

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