Lord Of War Page #2

But I wasn't the only local kid

making good.

When the United States leaves a war zone...

they generally don't take

their munitions.

It costs more to bring it back

than to buy new stock.

So, we sell by the kilo.

They're secondhand weapons,

but they're still okay.

How many kilos would you like?

Five thousand.

I had a flair for languages...

...but I soon discovered that what

talks best is dollars, dinars...

...drachmas, rubles, rupees, and

pounds-f***ing-sterling.

Of course, the U.S. Army got a

piece of the action.

Army salaries were no better then

than they are today.

And some of the brass,

like Lieutenant Colonel Southern...

needed to raise money for their

own private wars.

Good to make your acquaintance.

This is bullshit money,

This is small-f***ing-potatoes.

What do you want to do, go more legit?

No, more illegal.

What I would give right now

for cabbage and potatoes.

It's not our fight.

Vit, come on!

Let's go. Come on.

Selling guns is like selling

vacuum cleaners.

You make calls,

pound the pavement,

take orders.

I was an equal opportunity

merchant of death.

I supplied every army but the

Salvation Army.

I sold Israeli-made Uzis to Muslims.

I sold communist-made bullets

to fascists.

I hope you're not thinking of

selling these, Mr. Orlov.

Personal use.

Personal use.

There's a hundred thousand

bullets here.

I'm kind of trigger happy.

Trigger happy?

I even shipped cargo to Afghanistan

when they were still fighting my

fellow Soviets.

I never sold to Osama Bin Laden.

Not on any moral grounds.

Back then, he was always

bouncing checks.

By the mid-'80s...

my weapons were represented in eight...

...of the world's top ten war zones.

There's no problem leading a double life.

It's the triple and quadruple lives

that get you in the end.

Back then, I carried a... French,

British, Israeli,

and Ukrainian passport...

...and a student visa for the U.S.,

but... that's another story.

I also packed six different briefcases...

...depending on who I was that day

and the region of the world I was visiting.

North of Cartagena, Colombia - 1989

Without operations like mine,

would be impossible for certain

countries

to conduct a respectable war.

I was able to navigate around those

inconvenient little arms embargoes.

There are three basic types

of arms deal.

White, being legal.

Black, being illegal,

and my personal favorite color, gray.

Sometimes I made the deal

so convoluted...

it was hard for me to work out

if they were on the level.

To keep authorities in the dark

I often spoke in code.

Rocket launchers were "mothers."

The rockets, "children."

The AK-47 assault rifle was

the "Angel King."

It's Yuri... Yeah. Well, Raoul...

Raoul, the Angel King will arrive tomorrow.

Hallelujah to you, too.

The point is, if I've done my job right

an arms embargo should be

practically impossible to enforce.

What?

Okay, just slow the f*** down.

I can't understand you.

Wha-What do you mean, tipped off?

They know where we are?

Well, where are they?

Well, how long have I got?

Not long?

What does that mean? Sh*t!

Do we try to lose them?

On this?

Yuri, we have to get off this thing.

No. No one's going anywhere.

Slow, dead slow. Buy me time.

Yeah, it's Yuri.

Get that f***ing rag down!

I need another handle for this tub.

Something in our weight class.

You! Over the side.

We're changing the name. Now!

Yes, it's got to check out.

The way I look at it,

what's in a name?

Have you got a shorter name?

I'd often changed the registration

of a ship or a plane...

...but never on such short notice.

Damn! They're hauling.

What? Kono? How do you spell

that?

K-O-N-O, okay, well, that's good.

Kono, K-O-N-O.

What are we flying? Dutch? Got it.

Vit, get me a Dutch flag, will you?

Faster! Or I'll send your ass in!

Yuri, I don't have Dutch!

What?

I've got Belgian.

What the f*** use is that?

He's painting a name registered

in the f***ing Netherlands.

I've got a French flag.

So?

Turn it sideways...

...it's Dutch.

That's why you're my brother.

All right, good!

Everybody look innocent now.

They say every man has his price.

But not every man gets it.

Interpol Agent Jack Valentine

couldn't be bought.

At least, not with money.

For Jack, glory was the prize.

Yeah, it's the Kono;

it's not the Kristol.

Kono, K-O-N-O.

It's clean, sir.

It's clean?

It sure doesn't look clean.

I'm going to go aboard.

Phone in a sighting of the

Kristol south of Aruba.

Even when I was up against an

overzealous agent...

...I had a number of methods for

discouraging a search.

I routinely mislabeled my arms shipments

"Farm Machinery."

And I have yet to meet the lowly

paid customs official...

...who will open a container...

...marked "Radioactive Waste"

to verify its contents.

But my personal favorite is

the unique combination...

of week-old potatoes and tropical heat.

Smells.

Sir, Sighting of the Kristol, due north.

Most importantly, I kept a number

of intelligence people

on the payroll to supply their colleagues

with counterintelligence.

Let's go.

The second rule of gunrunning is:

Always ensure you have a

foolproof way to get paid.

Preferably in advance...

ideally to an off-shore account.

That's why I chose my customers

so carefully.

Say what you like about warlords

and dictators...

they tend to have a highly

developed sense of order.

They always pay their bills on time.

What is this?

Six kilos of pure.

I can't hand this to my f***ing bank

teller at Chase Manhattan.

Listen, a**hole, you should be

thanking me.

Have you checked the street price today?

With the seizures at the border last week,

it's jumped thirty percent.

Whoa... whoa-whoa!

I sell guns. I don't sell drugs.

Diversify.

I've got standards.

You don't pay, you don't play.

F*** you!

What are you doing?

F*** you!

F*** you!

No, you don't f*** him.

We can work something out.

No, Vit!

We have a deal!

The first and most important

rule of gunrunning...

is never get shot with your own

merchandise.

Are you okay?

I think so.

So what do we do now?

Let's celebrate.

That narco guerilla had his facts right.

After shipping it stateside,

the return on that blow

netted me a healthy profit.

It would have been even better,

except one kilo never made it back.

Vitaly?

Vit!

To this day I don't know what Vitaly...

...was running away from.

Maybe just from Vitaly.

I found him twelve days,

two thousand miles,

and one hundred and fifty grams later

in a Bolivian boarding house.

Of course, my dream girl

had gone there before me.

Vit!

Come on!

F***, Yuri's back.

It's my brother, Yuri.

He's my big brother.

What the f*** is that?

Ukraine.

I was young, but I remember.

Look... I start in Odessa, right?

And then I work my way to the

Crimean

You'll be dead before you f***ing

reach Kiev!

We're going home. Come on,

You f***! You f***ing f***!

You f***ing f***...

What the f*** is your problem?

Come on, Vit.

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