Free Web NovelChapter 87: Chapter 4: Krupp’s Predicament
August 16, 1961, 10:00 PM.
Werner stood at his office window, watching the beams of the searchlights sweep back and forth across the distant concrete wall.
It had been three days. The wall was still being raised and reinforced, and the smell of rebar and cement drifted through the window, mingling with the scent of gunpowder on the night wind.
"Boss!"
The door flew open and Keller rushed in, panting. His forehead was beaded with sweat, and his eyes shone with unconcealed excitement.
"The Black Market is in chaos!" Keller said, closing the door and walking to the desk. "Some guys on the Black Market got into another fight today, this time over the last few cases of cigarettes."
"Was anyone hurt?" Werner asked, turning around, his tone calm.
"No, but it was an ugly scene. Two guys were wrestling in an alley and smashed the cases open. Cigarettes spilled all over the ground." Keller rubbed his hands, still buzzing with excitement. "Everyone else just stood by and watched; no one dared to intervene. Boss, everyone on the Black Market is saying you’re the only one left with any real stock. Several groups of people came looking for you yesterday."
"Let them wait." Werner sat back down at his desk and tapped the ash from his cigarette.
Keller hesitated. "But... the prices have already tripled. Coffee beans went from one Mark per hundred grams to three Marks, and cigarettes went from five Marks a pack to—"
"They’ll go up ten-fold," Werner interrupted. "The wall has only been up for three days. The panic hasn’t peaked yet."
He drew a curve in his notebook. "Look, we’re here." He pointed to the beginning of the curve’s upward climb. "Most people are still watching and waiting, hoping the wall is just temporary and will be torn down in a few days. They still have a little bit of stock left, and they’re clinging to that sliver of hope."
Werner’s finger traced its way further up the curve. "Wait until a week from now, when the hoarders have sold all their stock, when ordinary people realize they can no longer buy Western goods, when true despair finally sets in—"
He paused and looked up at Keller, a cool smile playing on his lips. "That’s when it will be a true seller’s market."
Keller stared at the curve. He’d been with Werner for a few months now and had seen him make uncannily accurate predictions many times, but he was still floored by his boss’s way of thinking. Others saw the threefold profit in front of them, but Werner saw a five- or ten-fold profit in the future.
"Right," Werner said, closing his notebook and looking up. "Any news from Matthias?"
"Yes!" Keller immediately pulled a neatly folded slip of paper from his pocket. "He told me to relay a message: Friedrichstrasse border checkpoint, two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. He said he has something important to tell you in person."
Werner took the note, unfolded it, and glanced at it. It contained only a few words: All good. Need to meet.
He struck a match, watching as the note curled, blackened, and turned to ash in the flame.
"Any other news?"
"Pastor Weber sent word that the Church has seen a surge in ’donation’ requests in the last couple of days." Keller flipped through his little notebook. "And Eva said a few new customers showed up at the foreign trade shop today. They looked like family members of high-ranking officials, all asking about the price of Western goods."
Werner nodded. "Got it. Go get some rest. We have a lot to do tomorrow."
After watching Keller leave, Werner sat back down at his desk. He opened a drawer, pulled out another notebook, and flipped to a page labeled "Outstanding Problems."
The first line read: Krupp.
Werner stared at the name, his fingers tapping lightly on the desk.
******************
At that same moment, in an old apartment in the East Berlin Mitte District.
Krupp sat in a leather armchair in his study, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He hadn’t turned on any lights; the room was lit only by the faint glow of the streetlamps filtering in through the window.
He was in his early sixties, his silver-white hair combed immaculately. Even when alone late at night, he wore a finely tailored dark suit. The years had carved deep wrinkles into his face, but his eyes remained deep and sharp, like an old wolf that stays alert even at the most dangerous of times.
He sipped his whiskey, each mouthful small and slow.
This was his way of staying calm—the more intense the storm, the more you had to slow your rhythm, control your breathing.
A stack of reports lay on his desk, all summarizing the situation over the past three days. He had already read them five times and had every single number committed to memory.
The numbers on the inventory lists were dwindling by the day.
One by one, names were crossed off the client list.
Under the supplier column, more than half were marked "contact lost" or "refusing cooperation."
Krupp took another sip of whiskey, feeling the liquid burn as it slid down his throat. He needed the sensation to remind himself that things weren’t so bad they couldn’t be salvaged.
’Not yet.’
A soft knock came at the door.
"Come in." Krupp’s voice was placid, without a single ripple of emotion. freeweɓnøvel.com
His second-in-command, Koch, pushed the door open, another report in hand. He looked exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes and a wrinkled collar.
"Two more suppliers have cut contact." Koch walked to the desk and put down the report. "Our guys at the train station say security is too tight right now; they don’t dare make a move. Our connection at the docks is dead, too. The dispatcher was transferred, and we don’t know the new guy at all."
Krupp said nothing, merely nodding for Koch to continue.
"The situation with the border guards is even worse." Koch opened the report. "Of the six men we were working with, four have been transferred, one is under investigation, and only one is left at his original post—but he sent word that his superiors are watching too closely, so he doesn’t dare make a move."
Krupp raised his glass and took another small sip. His hand was perfectly steady, without the slightest tremor.
"Also," Koch hesitated, lowering his voice even further, "Werner’s men were on the Black Market again today. They’re buying up foreign exchange coupons, offering twenty percent more than we are."
Krupp’s fingers gently traced the rim of his glass, the only outward sign of his inner turmoil.
"There’s one more thing." Koch watched Krupp’s face and spoke carefully. "This afternoon, our men got into a fight with some others over the last few cases of cigarettes. There were a lot of people on the Black Market at the time. Everyone saw it."
Krupp finally lifted his eyes to look at Koch. There was no anger in their depths, only a cold, assessing gaze.
"Was anyone hurt?"
"No, but the cases were smashed and the cigarettes spilled all over the ground." Koch paused. "Everyone else just stood there watching. Boss, this is bad for our reputation."
Krupp was silent for a long time. He slowly swirled the glass in his hand, watching the amber liquid catch the faint light.
"Koch," he finally said, his voice low and steady, "how many years have you been with me?"
"Twelve years, Boss."
"Twelve years," Krupp repeated. "Then you should know me quite well."
"Yes, Boss."
"Then what do you think I should be doing right now?" Krupp set down his glass, leaning forward slightly. "Panic? Lose my temper? Yell at people? Smash this glass against the wall?"
Koch didn’t dare to speak.
"I’ve been in this position for fifteen years," Krupp’s voice remained calm, but every word landed like a hammer on stone. "I’ve weathered all sorts of storms. The 1953 uprising, the great purge of 1958—wasn’t each one of those more dangerous than this? But I’m still here, doing just fine. Do you know why?"
"Because... you remain calm?"
"Because I know when to be patient." Krupp leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "Koch, panic solves nothing. Anger only clouds one’s judgment. The more critical the situation, the calmer you must be, and the more you must see the bigger picture."
He paused, his eyes growing more profound. "The situation right now is indeed bad. The wall went up too fast, and we didn’t have time to react. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t any opportunities."
"So what you’re saying is, Boss..."
"I’m observing." Krupp picked up his glass and took another small sip. "Observing the new layout, observing what others are doing, observing the cracks that might appear."
"Then what about Werner...?"
At the mention of that name, a complex emotion flickered in Krupp’s eyes. But he quickly suppressed it, his expression remaining placid.
"Tell me about this young man," he said. "What do you know?"
Koch opened another report. "Werner Betelich, twenty-two years old. Six months ago, he was just a small-time peddler. He started his rise at the beginning of the year, first smuggling on the Black Market, then he took over the Mole’s chemical business. After that, he established a relationship with the Church and even has dealings with the Stasi."
"The most crucial part," Koch’s tone grew heavy, "is that before the wall went up, he was frantically hoarding stock. Coffee, cigarettes, Western goods—he hoarded everything. Everyone on the Black Market laughed at him, called him crazy, said he’d be stuck with a worthless pile. But now—"
"Now he’s the only one left with a stable supply," Krupp finished, his tone unnervingly flat.
"Correct." Koch nodded. "And according to our investigation, it looks like he’s in the process of developing new channels."
Krupp fell silent.
He recalled his meeting with Werner at the church a few months ago.
At the time, Krupp had paid him no mind, dismissing Werner as nothing more than a reasonably presentable, slick, and ambitious newcomer on the Black Market—and nothing more.
’Who could have imagined that in just a few short months, this insignificant young man would have grown to such a threat?’
"Boss," Koch asked tentatively, "should we... try to make contact?"
