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 fuck 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? Shit!
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 fucking 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 fuck use is that?
He's painting a name registered
in the fucking 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