I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

Chapter 300: Chapter 83: Brooklyn’s Midnight Invitation

Werner turned and saw a man in a gray trench coat standing at the edge of the receiving line. He was in his forties, of medium build, wearing sunglasses, and had a typically Germanic face.

’Von Brown’s man.’

Werner gave a slight nod but didn’t approach him. He knew the Stasi’s New York station must have already made its preparations.

Attending the admission ceremony today weren’t just diplomats and politicians, but also intelligence officers, informants, and middlemen—all cogs in the Cold War machine.

The motorcade drove slowly toward Manhattan.

Werner sat in the last Mercedes-Benz, watching the Queens streetscape pass by his window.

Dilapidated apartment buildings, graffiti-covered subway stations, Black children kicking a soccer ball on a street corner.

"This is the showcase of capitalism?" the young translator in the passenger seat muttered.

"Showcase?" Werner laughed. "This is the back kitchen. The real display window is up ahead."

The motorcade turned onto the Manhattan Bridge, and the heart of the city suddenly unfolded before them.

Fifth Avenue, Central Park, Rockefeller Center. Glass curtain walls reflected the blinding sunlight, and the sidewalks teemed with fashionably dressed pedestrians.

The translator fell silent.

The East German delegation was staying at the Plaza Hotel—a historic hotel facing Central Park.

As Werner received his room key, he saw several men in sharp suits standing in the lobby, their piercing gazes scanning everyone who entered or left.

’The FBI.’

Werner walked into the elevator, his expression unchanged.

The room was on the twelfth floor, its window directly facing Central Park.

Werner put down his luggage, walked to the window, and lit a cigarette.

In the park below, people were jogging, old ladies were walking their dogs, and young mothers were pushing strollers. A peaceful scene.

"How ironic," Werner said, exhaling a puff of smoke.

Two hours later, the East German delegation set off for the United Nations Headquarters.

The motorcade drove along the East River. Werner sat in one of the middle cars, beside Steinhaus and several officials from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. No one spoke much; the atmosphere was tense.

"Comrade Betelich," Steinhaus suddenly said. "You’re in charge of the special trade department at Koko. You must deal with Westerners often, right?"

"Yes, Minister."

"Then what do you think—" Steinhaus paused. "We’ll run into the West German delegation at the venue today. How do you think we should handle it?"

Werner looked out the window at the East River. On the other side of the river was Roosevelt Island, and further in the distance were the smokestacks and water towers of Queens.

"Treat them like business partners," Werner said. "Shake hands when appropriate, smile when appropriate. Then we go our separate ways."

Steinhaus smiled. "Well said."

The United Nations Building was like a giant matchbox made of glass and steel, standing on the bank of the East River.

When Werner saw it in person for the first time, he was still struck by it—not by the building itself, but by what it symbolized.

’The stage of world power.’

’The arena of the Cold War.’

As the delegation walked into the building, Werner noticed that the West German delegation had also just arrived.

The two groups came face-to-face in the lobby, and the atmosphere was delicate.

The West German Foreign Minister, Schel, walked at the very front. He was in his fifties, with graying hair and a weary but dignified face.

His gaze swept over the East German delegation, lingering on Steinhaus’s face for a second before moving on.

No handshakes.

No pleasantries.

The two groups brushed past each other.

"Fucking hypocrites," a young official behind Werner cursed under his breath.

Werner said nothing.

He knew this hypocrisy would continue for many years. Until the Berlin Wall fell, until this country ceased to exist.

The admission ceremony was held in the General Assembly Hall.

The flags of East and West Germany were raised simultaneously, and representatives from both countries gave speeches.

Werner sat in the back row of the delegation, listening to Steinhaus read a prepared speech in German.

"...the admission of the German Democratic Republic marks another victory for the socialist camp on the international stage..."

Werner looked toward the West German delegation. Schel sat there, expressionless.

’What’s he thinking?’

Werner suddenly had a strange feeling—these people, from East Germany, from West Germany, all thought they were writing history.

But in reality, they were just playing the roles that history had already assigned to them.

Only he, Werner the Transmigrator, knew the end of the script.

After the ceremony, there was a reception.

United Nations Secretary-General Waldheim attended in person and shook hands with both the East and West German delegations.

The hall was filled with diplomats from various countries, with waiters weaving through the crowd carrying trays of champagne and appetizers.

Werner held a glass of champagne and stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the East River.

"Mr. Betelich?"

An unfamiliar voice sounded from behind him.

Werner turned and saw a Black man in his fifties, wearing a crisp suit, with a polite smile on his face.

"I am Kofi Ado, Ghana’s ambassador to the United Nations," the man said, extending his hand.

Werner shook his hand. "A pleasure, Mr. Ambassador."

"I’ve heard of you," Ado said, lowering his voice. "Werner Betelich of the Koko Group."

Werner maintained a courteous smile. "You’re well-informed, Mr. Ambassador."

"We have a mutual friend," Ado said. "The banker in Zurich mentioned you. He said you’re a very capable man."

"You flatter me."

"My country requires some... special goods." Ado glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention to them. "Military equipment. We want to procure it through a reliable channel, without too much publicity."

Werner took a sip of champagne.

He’d done this kind of business many times. In the past two years, Koko had sold a lot of weapons through him to Nigeria, Ethiopia, and Mozambique—small arms, rocket launchers, armored vehicles.

On paper, they were all "development aid" or "security cooperation," but in reality, they were cold, hard cash transactions.

"What does the ambassador have in mind?" Werner asked.

"Two thousand AK-47 rifles, one hundred RPG launchers, with matching ammunition," Ado said directly. "We need them fast. Preferably delivered within two months."

"Price?"

"Five million US Dollars," Ado said. "Settled through a Swiss Bank, your usual method."

Werner did a quick calculation in his head.

The cost of this shipment would be about three million US Dollars. The profit margin was good.

Besides, Ghana’s credit was decent. They had done several deals with other countries before without any problems.

"This isn’t the place to discuss details," Werner said. "If it’s convenient for you, Mr. Ambassador, we can find a quiet place to talk tomorrow afternoon."

"Of course." Ado took a business card from his pocket. "This is my private number."

Werner took the card and glanced at it. On the back was a handwritten phone number and an address.

"I’ll be in touch."

"I look forward to our cooperation." Ado raised his glass, touched it to Werner’s, and then turned to leave.

Werner remained at the window, watching the East River outside.

A freighter sailed past slowly, the words "Hamburg-Amerika Linie" on its hull—the West German Hamburg-America Shipping Company.

’Five million US Dollars. Another good deal.’

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

That evening, Werner did not attend the delegation’s dinner.

He lied, saying he had to handle some urgent Koko business, and returned to the hotel.

After returning to his room, he made a phone call to East Berlin.

Gunter answered the phone.

"Werner? How’s New York?"

"It’s good," Werner said. "The admission ceremony was a success. But I’m calling about something else."

"Go on."

"Ghana’s ambassador to the UN approached me. He wants to procure a batch of weapons." Werner briefly described the order. "Two thousand AKs, one hundred RPGs, with matching ammo. Five million US Dollars, delivery required within two months."

Gunter was silent for a few seconds. Werner could hear the sound of papers shuffling on the other end of the line.

"Ghana?" Gunter said. "Their relations with Nigeria have been tense lately. They might be planning to stir up some trouble on the border. If we send this shipment, it’s highly likely it will be used."

"I know," Werner said. "But that’s their internal affair."

"Of course it’s their internal affair," Gunter laughed. "We just sell the goods and collect the money. But this deal has to be clean. Don’t leave any loose ends. You know, a place like the United Nations is crawling with spies from every intelligence agency, like flies."

"I understand. What’s the route for the shipment?"

"Load it at Rostock Port, disguised as agricultural machinery and engineering equipment. First ship it to Antwerp for transit, then through Liberia to Accra," Gunter said. "I’ll have someone prepare the documents. You can take over directly when you get back."

"Transport time?"

"Six to eight weeks," Gunter said. "Tell them two months at the earliest, just to be safe."

"Understood."

"One more thing," Gunter paused. "This admission is a good opportunity. New York has buyers from all over the world. You should get out there, meet some people. Our foreign exchange quota for this year is 30% higher than last year. We need to open up new markets."

"I will."

"That’s all then. Do good work."

After hanging up, Werner walked to the window and lit a cigarette.

Outside the window, the Manhattan nightscape was dazzling. The top of the Empire State Building was lit up in red, white, and blue, and the neon lights of Times Square flickered endlessly.

’Five million US Dollars.’

’How much Western equipment could that money buy for East Germany? How many factories could it keep running?’

But Werner also knew that this money would eventually turn into bullets, destined to be shot into the body of some African soldier.

He exhaled a puff of smoke.

’Thinking about this is pointless. I’m just an executor, not a decision-maker.’

Halfway through his cigarette, the phone suddenly rang.

Werner walked over and picked it up.

"Mr. Betelich?" It was an unfamiliar male voice, speaking German with an accent.

"Who is this?"

"My name is Charlie," the man said. "A friend asked me to contact you."

"What friend?"

"One from West Berlin," the man said.

Werner’s heart skipped a beat.

"What do you want to talk about?" Werner asked.

"It’s better to talk in person," Charlie said. "Tomorrow night at nine, come out alone. Go to Brooklyn. I’ll send you the address."

"Why Brooklyn?"

"Because it’s quiet there," Charlie said. "Mr. Betelich, I know you’re cautious, and that’s good. But I assure you, this meeting will be to your benefit."

Werner was silent for a few seconds.

"I’ll think about it."

"Don’t think for too long," Charlie said. "Opportunity waits for no one."

The line went dead.

Werner stood there, staring at the receiver in his hand.

’A contact from West Berlin. A secret meeting in Brooklyn.’

’Putting these signals together, they all pointed to one possibility—’

’American intelligence.’

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