I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

That evening, Werner returned from the Black Market at Alexanderplatz. Business had been good, and he’d made nearly four hundred Marks.

Just as he was about to turn into an alley, he ran into a familiar figure—Lorry Herman.

"Lorry?" Werner asked, a little surprised. "Long time no see."

The last time Inspector Vonke of the Stasi had come to investigate, he had interrogated Werner about the Western goods in his home.

Back then, Werner had used Lorry, who worked for the Soviet Army, as an alibi, claiming that Lorry was the one who had given him the Western goods.

In truth, ever since he’d transmigrated to East Germany, Werner had never met this friend of his body’s previous owner. He never thought he would actually run into him today.

Lorry still had the same bookish look—a slight build, thick glasses—and seemed even more timid and cautious than he had a few years prior. He looked a little nervous seeing Werner.

"Werner... what are you doing here?" Lorry’s voice was quiet, his eyes darting around nervously.

"Just passing by." Werner smiled. "What about you? Still working for the Soviet Army?"

"Yes, but I’ve changed departments," Lorry said. "Now I’m... I’m a translator in the Soviet Army’s logistics department. I mainly translate documents and things like that."

A thought sparked in Werner’s mind, but his expression remained casual. "Oh, that must be a stable job, then?"

"It is stable, it’s just... sometimes it gets pretty intense," Lorry said quietly. "Those Soviet officers have short fuses. They’ll chew you out for the smallest mistake."

The two chatted at the street corner for a while. Werner learned that Lorry now lived near the Soviet Army barracks, and his daily job was translating all sorts of logistics documents: inventory reports, supply allocation forms, procurement lists, and so on.

As they parted ways, Werner gave him his contact information. "If you’re ever free, come find me for a drink. We’re old friends."

Lorry gave a timid nod and hurried away.

Werner watched his retreating figure and thought to himself, ’This timid translator might be useful someday.’

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

「A few days later」

Werner was walking through the Alexanderplatz subway station as usual, carrying what looked like an ordinary canvas bag.

The bag contained goods he’d procured from West Berlin, enough to cover a month’s living expenses.

Just as he was walking past the checkpoint, a cold, mechanical voice suddenly echoed in his mind:

[Warning: Host has been targeted. Threat level increasing.] 𝓯𝓻𝒆𝙚𝒘𝓮𝙗𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝒍.𝙘𝓸𝙢

Werner didn’t break his stride, but inwardly, he was on high alert.

’Someone’s watching me.’

He feigned nonchalance and kept walking, using his peripheral vision to carefully scan his surroundings.

There were several military vehicles near the station, and a few Soviet soldiers were smoking and chatting, looking relaxed. But Werner noticed that one of the officers held his gaze on him for too long.

He was a tall Soviet officer with the high cheekbones characteristic of a Slav. The medals on his chest glinted in the sunlight.

When Werner’s gaze passed over him, the officer immediately looked away and started talking to the soldier next to him.

’Too obvious.’

Werner made a mental note of the man’s features before disappearing naturally into the crowd.

Werner had no intention of being a sitting duck. Since he sensed danger, he needed to make preparations.

Intelligence gathering was a basic skill for any successful Black Market merchant. Since a Soviet officer had him in his sights, he had to learn the man’s background first.

The first place he thought of was the Golden Eagle tavern.

The tavern’s location was unique. It was only two blocks from the Soviet Army barracks and moderately priced, so Soviet officers often came there to unwind. More importantly, the bartender, Fritz, was a well-informed man; nothing happened without him hearing about it.

"Fritz, a beer," Werner said as he walked into the familiar tavern.

The bartender, Fritz, was a stout man in his forties with a belly as round as a beer keg. But he had a sharp mind and knew a little something about everything.

"Hey, Werner. What brings you in so early?" Fritz asked, wiping a glass.

"Business is slow, so I came to relax a bit." Werner sat down at the bar and glanced around casually. "Anything new happening lately?"

"Nothing major," Fritz said, lowering his voice. "But I hear the Soviets have been cracking down lately. Seems a few officers got disciplined for selling military supplies on the side."

Werner’s interest was piqued. "Oh? What happened to them?"

"Most of them were transferred back to the Soviet Union. Only one major got off with just a warning because he’s got powerful connections," Fritz said conspiratorially. "I hear he’s more careful now, but he’s still in business."

"Interesting," Werner said, taking a sip of his beer. "What’s the major’s name?"

Fritz glanced around to make sure no one was listening, then said in a low voice, "Ivanov. He’s with the 79th Logistics Regiment. The guy is a cunning one."

Werner nodded. He was already forming a preliminary analysis in his mind.

’For a Soviet officer in logistics, the easiest way to make money on the side would be to abuse his position.’

’The logistics department controls the distribution of massive amounts of supplies. Medical equipment, food, daily necessities... all of it is hot stuff on the Black Market.’

’And since this Ivanov had already been warned for selling military supplies, it proves he’s definitely in that line of business.’

That evening, Werner went to a small restaurant near the Soviet Army camp.

Soviet officers often ate here, making it a good place to gather intelligence.

He ordered a bowl of potato and meat stew, picked a corner table, and sat down to covertly observe the officers coming and going.

At about nine o’clock, the tall officer walked in.

Werner recognized him instantly—it was the man who had been staring at him in the subway station the other day.

The officer walked straight to the counter, exchanging a few words in Russian with the proprietress.

Although Werner didn’t understand Russian, he could tell from the man’s gestures and expression that he was a regular customer.

"That’s Major Ivanov," an old German man at the next table whispered to his companion. "I hear he’s got a nasty reputation for targeting Black Market dealers."

"How so?" the other man asked curiously.

"First, he secretly gathers evidence, then he blackmails them," the old man said, lowering his voice. "I hear he’s already ruined several people."

’So it’s true, Ivanov specializes in this sort of thing. But if he’s bold enough to run a blackmailing business, it means he’s not clean himself. An upstanding officer wouldn’t be shaking down Black Market dealers.’

He took out a small notebook and began to jot down the details he had observed that night.

Ivanov ordered the most expensive dish on the menu and drank imported vodka. He wore custom-made leather boots and had a Western-made watch on his wrist.

’A Soviet officer’s normal salary could never cover such luxuries.’

’This just further confirmed Werner’s suspicion—Ivanov was definitely making money through illicit means.’