Chapter 209 - 119: The First Pot of Gold

Chapter 209: Chapter 119: The First Pot of Gold

Hans and Peter clutched each other’s hands, both of them trembling. The journalist, Martin, lit a cigarette, his fingers also shaking. The publisher, Friedrich, kept his head down, not saying a word. The priest stood at the back, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes closed.

A dozen or so soldiers stood around them, holding submachine guns.

Vogel walked up to the five men, opened his briefcase, and took out five documents.

"One last identity check," he said. "Hans Mueller."

"Here." Hans’s voice was quiet.

"Peter Krause."

"Here."

"Martin Weber."

"Here."

"Friedrich Beck."

"Here."

"Hans Weber."

The priest opened his eyes.

"Here."

Vogel put the documents back in his briefcase.

"Very good." He looked at the five men. "In a moment, you will cross that white line and walk to the West German side. Remember, don’t look back as you walk, don’t stop, and keep moving forward until someone receives you. Understand?"

The five men nodded.

Just then, a man appeared on the other side of the white line.

He was a middle-aged man in his forties, dressed in a dark suit and carrying a briefcase. He stood on the west side of the white line, glanced in their direction, then raised his hand, signaling that they could begin.

The border commander walked out of the checkpoint, a document in his hand.

"West Germany has confirmed," he said, his tone icy. "The money has arrived."

He handed the document to Vogel.

Vogel took the document, glanced at it, and nodded.

"You can release them."

The border commander turned and waved to his soldiers.

"Let them go."

The soldiers cleared a path, but the five men stood there, unmoving.

"Go!" the border commander shouted. "What are you standing around for?"

Hans was the first to take a step.

His legs were trembling, and each step looked as if he might fall. Peter supported him, and the two of them slowly walked toward the white line.

The journalist, Martin, took a deep breath, tossed his cigarette butt, and followed behind them.

The publisher, Friedrich, also started moving, his pace slow but steady.

The priest was the last to go.

He walked very slowly, each step heavy. Halfway there, he suddenly stopped and looked back.

"No looking back!" a soldier barked.

The priest paid him no mind. He looked at the watchtowers, the barbed wire, and the heavily armed soldiers on the East German side.

Then he looked at Werner.

Their gazes met in mid-air.

Werner saw sorrow, anger, and something indescribable in the priest’s eyes.

Then the priest turned back around and continued walking.

The five men crossed the white line.

In that moment, it was as if time stood still.

The East German soldiers stood in place, motionless, just watching coldly.

On the West German side, the middle-aged man stepped forward and extended his hand.

"Welcome to the free world," he said.

Hans took his hand, and tears suddenly streamed down his face. He fell to his knees, sobbing loudly.

Peter knelt down too. The two men embraced, crying their hearts out.

The journalist, Martin, stood there and lit another cigarette, his hand still shaking.

The publisher, Friedrich, turned around, looked toward the East German side, raised his hand, and waved.

The priest didn’t cry, nor did he smile. He just stood there, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes closed, his lips moving slightly.

He was praying.

On the West German side, applause suddenly broke out.

Werner saw several West German officials and family members standing outside the checkpoint, applauding in welcome. An old woman held up a sign that read: "Welcome Home."

A few other reporters were taking pictures.

Camera flashes flickered in the morning light.

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

The handover was complete.

The border commander turned to walk back, pausing as he passed by Werner.

"Satisfied?" he said, his voice laced with sarcasm. "Selling off five traitors. This is your business."

Werner didn’t answer.

The border commander sneered and walked away.

Vogel came over and patted Werner’s shoulder.

"We did it," he said, his voice filled with relieved ease. "The first deal is done."

Werner nodded.

He looked across the white line, where the five men were walking toward the checkpoint, accompanied by West German officials.

Hans and Peter were still crying, supporting each other as they walked.

The journalist, Martin, walked at the front, his pace quick, as if afraid East Germany would suddenly go back on the deal.

The publisher, Friedrich, took one last look back, then turned and walked away.

The priest walked at the very back.

He didn’t look back again, and step by step, he disappeared behind the doors of the West German checkpoint.

Werner turned and walked toward his car.

The sky was now completely bright.

Sunlight glinted off the barbed wire, casting a harsh glare.

The searchlights on the watchtowers went out, and the soldiers began their changing of the guard.

Everything returned to a state of calm, as if nothing had just happened.

’But I know everything has changed.’

The first deal was done.

Five men were free.

Five hundred thousand West German Marks were in the account.

’And I’ve become part of this massive machine.’

’A machine that buys and sells human lives for money.’

He reached his car, opened the door, and got in.

"Are we heading back?" the driver asked.

"Back."

The car started and slowly pulled away from the checkpoint.

Werner took one last look in the rearview mirror.

The white line was still there, a straight slash across the concrete.

On one side, East Germany. On the other, West Germany.

On one side, a cage. On the other, freedom.

’But I know this line won’t be here forever.’

’One day, this wall will fall.’

’This line will disappear.’

’And before that happens, I have to complete my own plan.’

The car drove into the morning mist, disappearing down the road to East Berlin.

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

「In mid-May, the weather in East Berlin was gradually warming up.」

Werner sat in his secret office in Prenzlauer Berg. On the desk in front of him was a black combination briefcase.

The office was on the top floor of an old apartment building. Nominally, it was an abandoned storage room, but Werner had paid to have it converted—the door lock was reinforced, thick curtains were installed, and a small safe was mounted in the corner.

Keller stood watch at the door, occasionally glancing down the hallway.

Werner opened the briefcase.

Inside were neat stacks of West German Mark banknotes—all one-hundred-Mark bills, brand new and still smelling of ink.

He picked up a stack and weighed it in his hand.

One hundred bills. Ten thousand Marks.

There were fifteen stacks in the briefcase.

One hundred and fifty thousand West German Marks.

This was what Hopter had given him last night—his cut from the first deal.

The West German Government had actually paid five hundred thousand Marks. The official book price was forty thousand per person, for a total of two hundred thousand for the five of them. The remaining three hundred thousand was the "premium."

As agreed, Werner, Hopter, and Vogel each received a cut of one hundred thousand.

In addition, while housing the five political prisoners, Werner had collected a total of fifty thousand Marks from their West German families under the guise of "care fees," "document fees," and "security guarantees."

All told, his total income from the first deal was one hundred and fifty thousand West German Marks.

At the Black Market exchange rate, that was equivalent to about seven hundred and fifty thousand East German Marks.

An ordinary East German worker earned six hundred Marks a month, or just over seven thousand a year.

One hundred and fifty thousand West German Marks was equal to more than twenty years’ salary for an ordinary person.

Keller peeked in from the doorway. His eyes went wide when he saw the banknotes on the desk.

"Boss... is all this..."

"Shut up," Werner said. "And count the money."