Chapter 192 - 102: Taking Photos for the West German Intelligence Agency

Chapter 192: Chapter 102: Taking Photos for the West German Intelligence Agency

That evening, Werner received a call from Von Brown in the warehouse.

"It’s done." Von Brown’s voice was triumphant, but he still maintained that condescending tone. "Director Schmidt has agreed to investigate Master."

"That’s good, Lieutenant Colonel," Werner said.

"Master will be tearing his hair out for a while, too busy to bother with us." Von Brown paused. "Betelich, you did well this time. Stay alert and report to me at any time."

"Yes, Lieutenant Colonel."

After hanging up, Werner walked to the window and gazed out at the pitch-black night sky.

’He’d won his gamble. The Stasi had started tearing each other apart, and the focus was off him. The matter with Lucas was over, for now.’

But Werner knew this was only temporary. Lucas’s book was still a bestseller in West Germany, and the official East German media was still denouncing it. The repercussions of this incident were far from over.

More importantly, he had sunk even deeper into the Stasi’s quagmire.

Not only did he have to provide intelligence for Von Brown, but he was also now embroiled in the Stasi’s internal power struggles.

Today he had thrown Master under the bus to shield himself, but tomorrow, someone else could do the same to him.

Werner lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

The smoke billowed in the darkness, its direction as unclear as the city’s future.

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

Werner pushed open the wooden door of the Song of the Workers restaurant, and the smell of tobacco and beer hit him.

Erich Boman sat in a corner, a half-full glass of light beer before him.

He wore a faded worker’s jacket, his face was unshaven, and his eyes were sunken.

Last year, this young man had been a high-spirited photojournalist for the *New German Newspaper*. Now, he had to buy cameras on the Black Market and take pictures for Werner just to get by.

"Mr. Betelich." Erich stood up, his voice hoarse.

Werner waved a hand, motioning for him to sit. "Don’t be so formal, Erich. What are you drinking?"

"The beer is enough."

"Waiter, two dark beers and an order of stew," Werner said as he sat down. He pulled a pack of West German cigarettes from his pocket. "Have a smoke?"

Erich’s eyes lit up for a moment, then dimmed. "I shouldn’t smoke those."

"Afraid someone will see?" Werner lit one and pushed it over. "There are no outsiders here."

Erich hesitated for a few seconds before taking the cigarette and inhaling deeply.

"I’ve taken the photos you wanted," Erich said, pulling a manila envelope from inside his jacket. "Fifty shots, all the angles you asked for."

Werner opened the envelope and pulled out a few black-and-white photos.

The photos showed the display windows of a foreign trade shop: West German chocolates, French perfumes, and Swiss watches, all glittering under the spotlights.

Another showed a state-run store: empty shelves, faded labels, and a pile of yellowing turnips in the corner. A clerk was dozing on the counter, flies buzzing overhead.

A few others were street scenes: long lines forming in front of a ration store, people clutching their ration tickets and waiting anxiously; an old woman staring with a vacant gaze at the last few sausages in a butcher’s shop window.

"Good composition," Werner nodded, his mind already calculating.

’These photos were exactly what Reynard’s side needed.’

Two weeks ago, Reynard had sent word that his "friends" in West Germany—Werner knew perfectly well they were from the Federal Intelligence Agency—were very interested in the living conditions in East Germany. They wanted real visual evidence, not official propaganda photos, but proof that reflected the hardships of ordinary people.

Werner knew this was his chance to create an escape route for himself.

’If one day he couldn’t survive in East Germany, or if the Stasi really decided to close the net, he would need protection from West Germany. Establishing contact with the Federal Intelligence Agency was the best insurance policy. Providing some photos in exchange for their goodwill and trust—it was a worthwhile trade.’

’Of course, he couldn’t tell Erich any of this.’

’Erich only needed to know that taking pictures earned him money, and that was all.’

Werner pulled out a few Marks and pushed them in front of Erich. "This is your payment."

Erich stared at the stack of bills, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "Mr. Betelich, can I ask you a question?"

"Go ahead."

"What are you going to do with these photos?" Erich lowered his voice. "If the Stasi sees this stuff..."

"Do you think I’m stupid enough to plaster these on the street?" Werner flicked the ash from his cigarette. "Don’t worry, I have a use for them."

Erich fell silent. He clutched the stack of bills, his knuckles turning white.

Werner knew what Erich was thinking.

This wasn’t the first time Erich had taken pictures for him.

Last time, when dealing with Lorentz and Walter, it was Erich who had secretly photographed Walter’s dealings with the Soviet Army officer, Sokolov.

Those photos became the key evidence Werner used to take down his rivals, and they also showed Erich the power of these "works."

But Erich, after all, had started out as a journalist and still had some professional conscience left.

He wouldn’t ask too many questions, but he couldn’t feel completely at ease either.

"You know, Erich," Werner said, leaning back in his chair and exhaling a cloud of smoke, "I think with your talent, moving boxes in a factory is a complete waste."

Erich gave a bitter smile. "A waste? Mr. Betelich, the newspaper marked my file as ’politically unreliable.’ What organization would dare hire me?"

"What if someone could get you back to the newspaper?"

Erich looked up, a flicker of hope in his eyes that was quickly extinguished. "Don’t joke around. The political vetting for a Party newspaper is stricter than for a prison. That article I wrote..."

"That article of yours was indeed a problem," Werner interrupted him. "You wrote about a ’decline in the people’s standard of living’ and ’material shortages affecting morale.’ Of course the editorial department was going to kick you out."

Erich’s face paled. "I was just reporting the truth..."

"The truth?" Werner laughed. "Erich, you’ve lived in this country for this long and you still haven’t learned what the ’correct truth’ is?"

The waiter brought the stew. Werner cut off a piece and chewed it slowly.

"However," he said after swallowing his food, "if you’re willing to correct your mistakes and prove that you’ve been reformed by the Party, then that’s another matter entirely."

Erich stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"The Stasi is pushing a project," Werner said, wiping his mouth. "Propaganda about family reunions in East Germany. You know, since the Berlin Wall went up, the Western media always says we break up families, that we’re inhumane. The higher-ups want to counter that with some photos and reports."

Erich frowned. "Family reunions? But..."

"But how many families has the wall separated?" Werner finished for him. "Exactly. That’s why this project requires skill. You need to photograph families ’living happily in the socialist motherland,’ and capture scenes of ’capitalist relatives visiting, shocked by the prosperity of East Germany.’ Do you understand?"

Erich was silent for a long time.

"That’s fabrication," he said in a low voice.

"It’s propaganda," Werner corrected him. "Erich, you’re a photographer. You should know that the camera never lies, but the angle can."

"And if I refuse?"

Werner shrugged. "Then you’ll keep moving boxes. Three Marks a day, enough for you and your mother to live on potato soup."

Erich’s hand tightened on the edge of the table.

Werner knew he had hit a nerve. Erich’s mother was sickly and needed proper nutrition—milk and meat, not just black bread every day.

"If I agree," Erich managed to say, "can I get back to the newspaper?"

"More than just the newspaper," Werner leaned forward. "The Stasi will give you a new identity: a model of reform by the Party. You’ll become a paragon of ’one who went astray but rediscovered socialism through labor and study.’ The newspaper will take you back, give you a darkroom and equipment, and maybe even restore your Party membership."

Erich’s breathing quickened. "Really?"

"Of course, there are conditions," Werner said, stubbing out his cigarette. "First, you have to publicly write a self-criticism, admitting your past mistakes. Second, you have to take the photos the Party needs, without any of your own ideas. And third..."

He paused, staring into Erich’s eyes. "You have to work for me."