I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

Werner was taking inventory in the basement of the abandoned textile factory—Joseph the Mole’s old hideout.

The Stasi raid from a few days prior had left the place in shambles—scattered chemical drums, shredded packing paper, and a few puddles of an unknown liquid that filled the air with a pungent odor.

"Boss, someone’s looking for you." Keller poked his head down from the top of the stairs, his voice laced with tension.

Werner looked up, a bottle of industrial alcohol still in his hand. "The Stasi?"

"No." Keller swallowed. "It’s Hank Braun, from the munitions factory. The Mole’s inside man."

Werner narrowed his eyes.

Hank Braun, a chemical administrator at the munitions factory in his early forties, was the inside man who had supplied the Mole’s gang with hazardous chemicals.

’Logically, after Joseph’s capture, this guy should have tucked his tail between his legs and laid low.’

"Let him in." Werner set down the alcohol bottle and brushed off his dust-covered work coat.

Footsteps sounded from the stairs.

Hank Braun descended the stairs cautiously. He was a gaunt, middle-aged man with thick-lensed glasses and a balding crown.

His work uniform still bore the logo of the People’s Chemical Plant—the standard emblem of an East German state-owned enterprise.

"Mr. Betelich." Hank stopped three meters away from Werner, wringing the brim of his cap with both hands. "I know you’re the one who took down Joseph."

Werner watched him, his expression unreadable. "What do you want?"

"I want to live." Hank’s voice trembled. "I want to pledge my loyalty to someone who’s actually smart."

Keller grinned from the side. "Boss, looks like your reputation is spreading."

Werner waved a hand for Keller to shut up and walked up to Hank.

"What makes you think I’d want you? Isn’t the trouble you brought on Joseph enough?"

"I have my uses." Hank hurriedly pulled a neatly folded piece of paper from his pocket. "This is a complete list of our plant’s chemicals, along with monthly production figures. Please, take a look."

Werner took the paper and unfolded it, his eyebrows raising slightly.

The list was far more detailed than he’d anticipated. It didn’t just list the names and quantities of the various chemicals, but also their hazard ratings, storage locations, and even the names of the shift supervisors, all written out with perfect clarity.

"Trichloroethylene, 150 drums a month. Nitric acid, 200 liters a month." Werner read from the list. ’The Black Market price for this stuff...’ He did a quick calculation in his head. ’That’s a monthly turnover of at least thirty thousand Marks.’

Hank’s eyes lit up. "Exactly! That idiot Joseph just crudely flipped everything; he had no idea what these chemicals were really worth. But I’m different. I’ve been at the plant for fifteen years. I know the applications and the demand for every single product."

"For example?"

"Developer." Hank pushed up his glasses. "There are over twenty underground photo studios in East Berlin right now, plus those small workshops that print leaflets. Their demand for silver salt developer is inelastic; they have to buy it even if the price doubles."

Werner nodded. ’This really is a good business.’

In goods-starved East Germany, photographic equipment was a luxury item, but demand for it remained high. From families wanting to document their children growing up to underground organizations producing forged documents, everyone needed chemical developers.

"What else?"

"Industrial solvents." Hank grew more and more excited. "Leather workshops, furniture factories, even cobblers, they all need high-purity solvents. The trichloroethylene our plant produces has a purity of 99.5%, far better than that low-quality stuff."

Werner ran the numbers in his head.

The chemical business was indeed highly profitable, but the risks were also extremely high.

The Mole’s downfall was the perfect warning—he got too greedy, willing to touch any dangerous substance, and in the end, handed the Stasi all the evidence they needed.

"I don’t want military-grade hazardous materials." Werner looked Hank straight in the eye. "Nitric acid, sulfuric acid, high-concentration hydrogen peroxide—we don’t touch any of it."

Hank was taken aback. "Why? Those are the most profitable ones..."

"And the most dangerous," Werner scoffed. "That’s what brought Joseph down. The Stasi are extra sensitive right now to any chemical that could be used as an ingredient for explosives. We’re building a long-term business, not pulling a quick score and running."

Hank nodded thoughtfully. "You’re right. So we’ll specialize in civilian-use products?"

"Correct. Developer, fixer—photo studios can’t function without them. Industrial solvents are essential for artisan workshops. And items like medical-grade alcohol and iodine can be legitimized through the Church’s charitable channels." Werner’s voice was calm and rational. "The risk is low, demand is stable, and there are plausible reasons for their use."

Keller, who was listening on the side, was completely confused. "Boss, what do you mean, ’legitimized’?"

"It means giving illegal goods a cloak of legitimacy," Werner explained. "Take the medical alcohol, for instance. We can claim it was procured for the Church’s free clinics. Who’s going to question that?"

A look of admiration flashed in Hank’s eyes. "Mr. Betelich, you’re truly a genius. I worked under Joseph for two years, and he never had this kind of long-term vision."

"Which is why he’s in a Stasi interrogation room," Werner said flatly, "while we’re here, talking business."

Just as he spoke, hurried footsteps were heard from upstairs.

Werner tensed, signaling with his eyes for Keller to check the door.

"Werner!" A familiar voice came from the top of the stairs. It was Priest Weber.

"Let him come down," Werner said to Keller.

Weber rushed down the stairs, his expression grave. The priest, a man in his fifties who was normally gentle and kind, now looked consumed by anxiety.

"I’ve been looking for you in several places," Weber said as he took off his overcoat. "In the end, it was Old Franz who told me you’d taken over Joseph’s business and might be here."

Werner nodded.

Old Franz was a peddler who dealt in old books and church supplies, often procuring items like candles and icons for various churches. In these times of scarcity, even the Church sometimes had to use these gray channels to maintain its normal operations.

"Werner, there’s something you might want to know." Weber got straight to the point. "This morning, Marta von Kerk came to see me."

Werner’s brow furrowed slightly. "Inspector Vonke’s wife? What was she doing at the Church?"

"She came to pray." Weber sat on the sofa, lowering his voice. "As you know, Vonke’s been working overtime these past few days on Joseph’s case. He comes home looking deeply troubled. Marta’s worried about his well-being, so she tried to gently probe him about his work."

Weber paused, looked around to make sure it was safe, then continued: "Although Vonke didn’t give many details, Marta could tell—the Stasi may have arrested Joseph, but Vonke suspects there’s a larger network behind him. He’s privately investigating the true source of the anonymous tip, feeling that the informant’s knowledge of the Mole’s gang was too detailed to be a chance discovery."

"And..." Weber paused. "It seems Vonke suspects you."