I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

Chapter 204: Chapter 114: Collecting the Prisoner

Werner froze for a moment.

"What do you mean?"

"We sent someone to the prison to speak with him." Vogel took off his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief. "He refused to sign the document to ’voluntarily renounce his East German citizenship’."

"Why?"

"He says he’s not guilty." Vogel put his glasses back on. "He believes signing the document is an admission of guilt, so he refuses."

Werner took a drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling slowly upward in the dim light.

"Then don’t let him go."

"We can’t," Coleman said. "West Germany specifically asked for him. If he doesn’t go, the entire deal will be canceled."

"Why?"

"Because it’s a package deal." Coleman’s tone grew colder. "The West German Government won’t pay five hundred thousand for four people. They want these five, and not a single one less."

Werner stubbed out his cigarette, his eyes on the five files on the table.

"So you need me to convince him?"

"Correct," Hopter said. "Werner, this is the first deal. If we screw it up, our superiors will think we aren’t capable of handling this project. They might replace us, or even cancel it altogether."

He paused.

"If that happens, we’re all finished."

Werner picked up the priest’s file and looked it over carefully.

Father Hans Weber, sixty-two years old, organized an underground escape network, helping over twenty people cross the border.

Attached to the file was a supplement detailing his escape network—member lists, routes, and contact methods.

Werner’s eyes settled on the list.

Twenty-three people.

Workers, students, teachers, and a few artists.

Seventeen had successfully escaped to West Germany. The remaining six were still in East Germany, their identities compromised, and were now being hunted.

Werner closed the file and looked at Hopter.

"Give me three days."

"Are you confident?"

"I am." Werner stood up and grabbed his coat. "But I need to see him in person. Arrange it."

Hopter nodded.

"Tomorrow morning, Brandenburg Prison. I’ll inform the warden to cooperate with you."

"Good."

Werner turned and walked toward the door. When he reached it, he stopped and looked back.

"One more thing."

"Go on."

"When does the money arrive?"

Hopter smiled, a look of tacit understanding in his eyes.

"Once the men arrive safely in West Germany, the West German Government will wire the money to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ secret Swiss account. After it arrives, we’ll split it as agreed."

"How long?"

"A week at most."

Werner nodded, then pushed the door open and left.

The hallway was still dim, his footsteps echoing in the empty space. Werner walked to the top of the stairs, lit a cigarette, and took a deep drag.

’One hundred thousand per person.’

’Five people, five hundred thousand.’

’Subtract the two hundred thousand on the official books, and that leaves a three-hundred-thousand surplus. He and Hopter would split it fifty-fifty, which is one hundred fifty thousand Marks.’

’Add to that the various fees that could be collected during the "settlement period," and this first deal would net him at least two hundred thousand.’

’But that all depended on one thing—’

’That damned priest had to sign.’

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

「3:00 AM, Brandenburg Prison.」

Werner sat in the back of a black Volvo sedan. Outside the window was pitch darkness. The driver, borrowed from the Ministry of Justice by Vogel, hadn’t said a word the entire way, simply following the route.

The car stopped in front of a massive gray building.

Brandenburg Prison was built in the late nineteenth century, originally as a Prussian military prison. It was now used by the East German Government to hold high-security prisoners convicted of "endangering national security." Three-meter-high walls were topped with barbed wire and high-voltage electric fences. A watchtower stood at each of the four corners, with searchlights sweeping back and forth, illuminating the surroundings as if it were day.

"We’re here." The driver turned off the engine. "I’ll wait for you."

Werner pushed the car door open. A cold wind rushed in, carrying the scent of damp earth. He pulled his coat tighter and walked toward the main gate.

Vogel was already waiting at the gate, dressed in a dark overcoat and carrying a briefcase. He nodded when he saw Werner.

"Are you ready?"

"Ready."

"Remember, the warden has been notified, but we’re just here to pick up the men. Don’t say more than necessary." Vogel pushed up his glasses. "These prisoners have been locked up for a long time. They might not be in good shape."

"Understood."

The two men walked to the main gate. Vogel rang the bell, and a peephole on the iron gate slid open. A pair of eyes stared out at them.

"Ministry of Justice. We’re here for a transfer." Vogel held up a document.

The peephole slid shut. A few seconds later, the iron gate let out a heavy CLANK and slowly swung open.

A uniformed prison guard stood in the doorway, holding a submachine gun, his face expressionless.

"Follow me."

They passed through a long corridor. The walls were mottled concrete, lined with rows of black-and-white photographs—all of prisoners who had attempted to escape. Below each photo were a name and a date of death.

Werner counted at least thirty of them.

"Are all these—?" he asked Vogel in a low voice.

"Escape attempts." Vogel’s voice was just as low. "Here, escaping is a death sentence. If you’re caught, you’re shot on sight."

At the end of the corridor was another iron door. The guard took out a key and opened it, revealing the warden’s office.

The warden was a bald man in his fifties, his face covered in wrinkles, wearing a faded uniform. He sat behind his desk, drinking coffee—real coffee, not the substitute most people in East Germany drank. A rich aroma filled the room.

"Lawyer Vogel." He stood up, shook Vogel’s hand, and then looked at Werner. "And this is?"

"Werner Betelich, the coordinator," Vogel said.

"Coordinator?" The warden scoffed. "Another new term. It used to be ’humanitarian representative,’ now it’s ’coordinator.’ It all means the same thing—you’re here to buy people."

He sat back down and took a sip from his coffee cup.

"Five traitors, is it?"

"Five political prisoners," Vogel corrected him. "They are about to receive a humanitarian release."

"Humanitarian release." The warden repeated the words, a sarcastic curve to his lips. "You make it sound so noble. These men betrayed their country, and now they get to walk away alive, while loyal citizens toil away in factories."

He slammed his coffee cup down on the desk.

"Whatever, it’s not my business. Orders from above are orders from above." He picked up a document from his desk. "Hans Mueller and Peter Krause are in Zone C. Father Hans Weber is also in Zone C. Do you need me to take you there?"

"Yes," said Vogel. "What about the other two?"

"The journalist, Martin Weber, is at Hornstein Prison, and the underground publisher, Friedrich Beck, is at Bad Senneberg Prison." The warden stood up and took a ring of keys from the wall. "You can only take the three here today. For the other two, I’ve already notified their wardens to have them ready. You can pick them up yourselves tomorrow."

"That’s acceptable."

The warden walked to the door.

"Follow me. Don’t wander off, and don’t say anything out of line. The prisoners here are dangerous. Even though they’re locked in their cells, I won’t be responsible if you cause any trouble."

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

They walked through corridor after corridor. The deeper they went, the colder the air became, and the more mold stained the walls. The corridors were lined with iron doors, each with a small window.

Occasionally, sounds could be heard from within—coughs, groans, and murmurs of people talking in their sleep.

Zone C was in the deepest part of the prison.

The warden opened a heavy iron door, revealing a row of cells. Each cell door had a small window, allowing a view of the interior from the outside.

The corridor was quiet, save for the distant sound of dripping water.

"Hans Mueller, C-17." The warden walked to a door, glanced through the window, and then rapped on the door with his baton. "Get up! You have a visitor!"

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