Author’s Note:

Throughout the criminal justice process and when I began my prison sentence, I did not initially plan to tell my story. The tears of my mother at my sentencing and the realization of the impact of my choices remained too close to my heart. But later came the inquiries of writers and the entertainment industry, which ultimately resulted in larger-than-life stories, a best-selling book and now a major Hollywood movie. The book and movie were based on my preliminary writings, used without my authority, which were unfortunately expanded and dramatized without consulting me – despite my offers of aide. Such unauthorized versions of my life story compelled me to respond to set the record straight despite the pain and realization that resulted in my writing this book. At the beginning of this process, someone told me an old expression that goes: “When telling your life story, make sure that you’re the one holding the pen.”

So... now I’m the one holding the pen, even though it forces me to relive such a turbulent chapter of my life. In a CNN interview, my father expressed his early dreams for me when I was a toddler, that I would become a doctor or lawyer… and then his shame when I became a gun runner. Now, I journey forth as an author, not based upon career ambition or fatherly direction, but instead to set the record straight for my own personal honor. This memoir reflects my present recollections of my experiences over a period of years.

So, here is my story, the way I remember it.

“Once a gun runner… always a gun runner.”

Efraim Diveroli

PROLOGUE

THE HOOK

“By age 18, Efraim Diveroli was an international arms dealer. By 21, he had landed a $300 million contract with the U.S. Army. And by 22, he was in handcuffs.” - Tristram Korten, Details magazine

“Since early last year [the U.S. military has relied] on a fledgling company led by a 22-year-old… to enter the murky world of international arms dealing on the Pentagon’s behalf.” - CJ Chivers, New York Times

ON AUGUST 23RD OF 2007, EFRAIM DIVEROLI was standing on the 29th-floor balcony of his luxury South Beach apartment, staring through bloodshot eyes at the clear blue waters of the Atlantic Ocean. He was clean-cut with boyish good looks - handsome by anyone’s standards - dark features, an athletic frame, five foot ten inches tall. His sensuous girlfriend was lying in bed, just inside the sliding glass doors; her bare breasts slightly exposed underneath the silk sheets. They had been out all night snorting coke and partying at Mansion, a trendy club in South Beach.

He slipped a Parliament between his lips and inhaled. Efraim had come a long way since entering the international arms business three years earlier. He had sold over a quarter of a billion dollars in weapons and munitions to the United States Government and delivered them to countries such as Iraq, Pakistan, Niger, Colombia, and Germany; he dealt with international criminals and corrupt government officials, circumvented international laws - maybe even broke a few - and he was only 21-years-old.

ACROSS TOWN, roughly two-dozen agents with the Defense Criminal Investigation Service (DCIS) and U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) shoved their way through the office doors of AEY, Incorporated’s headquarters - Efraim’s defense contracting business - screaming at the staff, “Put your hands in the air and step away from the computers!”

The receptionist yelped, “What the hell?” as the Special Agent in Charge, Michael Mentavlos, a six-foot-tall, lean and muscular military type, shoved a federal search warrant in her face, and growled, “Don’t touch anything.”

A MINUTE LATER Efraim’s secretary called his cell phone. “Efraim,” she whispered, “We’ve got police in the office.” It wasn’t uncommon for law enforcement to mistakenly show up at AEY, Inc. thinking it was a retail gun store.

“So tell ‘em to leave.”

“I can’t... they say they’ve got a warrant for...” she glanced around at an ICE agent packing up a cardboard box of documents, “pretty much everything.”

“Search warrant?” Efraim didn’t have time to deal with a search warrant and a bunch of overzealous federal agents; he had just completed a $51-million contract with the Department of Defense to supply weapons and ammunition to the Iraq Security Forces, was in the middle of a $298-million contract to supply munitions to the Afghanistan Security Forces, and had tens of millions of dollars in other military contracts to deliver on.

“What do you want me to tell them?” she hissed.

Efraim put out his cigarette, reached for the Ketel One and OJ in his fridge, poured himself a screwdriver, and sighed, “Put ‘em on the phone.” The warrant wasn’t completely unexpected; Efraim had had his fair share of run-ins with the U.S. Government, among others. Besides, he hadn’t done anything wrong - that he knew.

Agent Mentavlos grabbed the phone from the frightened secretary. “We’re not leaving, Mister Diveroli,” snapped the agent. “You’re gonna need to come down here.” He slammed down the receiver; the agent had been investigating Efraim Diveroli for nearly two years on multiple violations of federal law and the International Trafficking in Arms Regulations, from exporting weapons and munitions out of over a dozen Eastern European countries to purchasing weapons from the People’s Republic of China - but this time they had him.

Diveroli had faced down some of the world’s most corrupt and merciless arms dealers over the negotiating table, but he had no inkling of the whirlwind of secrets, lies, and betrayals that his best customer - the U.S. Government - was about to unleash on him.

Agent Mentavlos stepped into Efraim’s private office, where several other agents were rummaging through the loose papers on Efraim’s desk, copying his hard drive, and yanking files out of cabinet drawers. The agent glared at the glossy movie poster hanging on the wall behind Efraim’s desk, clenched his jaw and tightened his fingers into white-knuckled fists, while the actor Nicolas Cage stared back at him through a collage of shell casings - the Lord of War.

CHAPTER ONE

FLORIDA’S “GOLD COAST” AND A GOOD JEWISH BOY

“Now you know, and knowing is half the battle.” - G.I. Joe

I WAS RAISED IN “MAYAIMI” Beach - the Tequesta Indian word for “big water.” It’s a beautiful city. With miles of crisp white Atlantic beaches lined with glittering glass-walled skyscraper hotels, Miami Beach is dotted with marinas, yacht clubs, and golf courses - lots of palm trees and piña coladas. The city’s subtropical climate, museums, and historic Art Deco buildings make it a year-round vacation destination.

Miami Beach’s ethnic melting pot boasts a diverse Latin community and the largest Jewish population in the southeastern United States. I grew up in “Mid Beach,” in a relatively prosperous Jewish community, but my parents struggled financially. We were lower middle class - at best.

MY PARENTS WERE NEVER MADLY IN LOVE. They married too young. What should have been a teen starter relationship turned into a Jewish Orthodox marriage - my mother got pregnant when she was 19-years-old, and I was the first of five, followed by Aaron, Avigail, Avrohom, and Yeshaya. By the time my parents realized they didn’t like each other, they had five kids, and they were struggling. They constantly bickered over money, trying to make ends meet. I remember lying in bed at night listening to my father yell at my mother, “If you’re so worried about it, call your father or brother for the money!”

“But they’re our bills!” she screamed back. I remember telling myself, I never want to struggle like that. I wouldn’t live like that. They seemed so miserable.

I would be lying if I said our financial situation didn’t have an effect on me from an early age. At my fifth birthday party, I sat in front of my frosted cake stacked with five candles, surrounded by my friends and family, singing happy birthday. Someone said, “Make a wish!” as I blew out the tiny flames.

“Efraim,” said my mother, “what did you ask Hashem (God) for?”

I looked her right in the face and answered, “I asked him to make me a millionaire.” She rubbed my upper back and gave me a conciliatory grin, but I wasn’t smiling, and I couldn’t be pacified.

LIVING IN MIAMI BEACH - an affluent Jewish community - only made the situation worse. We lived in a modest house, just a few short blocks away from mansions and multimillionaires. Our neighbors had Bentleys and private jets; they shopped in stores that we couldn’t even afford to walk into. There was a period of time, when I was seven or eight years old, that we ate macaroni and cheese or spaghetti virtually every night for months. Even when it was a special occasion and my father brought the entire family out for dinner, it was always cheap pizza at the local greasy spoon - eight slices for seven people and water, no soda. “We can’t afford it,” was something I heard a lot growing up. There never seemed to be... enough. That’s what it boils down to, there was never enough.

My mother would tell my brothers and sister that money wasn’t important, that it didn’t make you happy, but I knew she wasn’t speaking from experience, and she didn’t seem all that genuine when she said it. The people living in those mansions didn’t look nearly as miserable as my parents. The kids at my school were wearing designer clothes, while every generic garment I owned came off a sales rack at Marshalls or T.J. Maxx. While my friends were taking lavish vacations, I was working summer jobs - packing screws and bolts at a relative’s warehouse, stocking shelves and bagging goods at the local grocery store.

MY FATHER, MICHAEL DIVEROLI, worked odd jobs including selling scholastic textbooks and encyclopedias to schools. He wasn’t successful like many of my friends’ fathers; he didn’t have that… drive. He wasn’t what my uncle Bar Kochba would call “an earner.” My father had an unhealthy fixation with money - to his detriment. He desperately wanted to be rich, but he didn’t want to sacrifice or invest enough to get there. That combination of greed and frugality plagued my father and my family. It consumed him. But he was my father and I loved him, yet I was also a little embarrassed by him.

MY FAMILY IS JEWISH ORTHODOX: the branch of Judaism that believes that God revealed the laws of the Torah (the first five books of the bible) and the Talmud (the basic laws of Judaism) directly to Moses on Mount Sinai. They strictly observe all traditional Jewish laws, including the dietary rules and the laws of keeping the Sabbath: no working on the Sabbath, no driving, no using the telephone or Internet, and on and on... everything had to be Kosher, that sort of thing. It’s an extremely restrictive religious sect of Judaism to follow - especially when you’re living in a place as free-spirited and party-oriented as Miami Beach.

As a child I was sheltered. I attended Toras Emes Academy, an all-boys elementary school; for middle school I was forced to attend Toras Chaim, an all-male academy. I wasn’t even allowed to go to the co-ed Orthodox Jewish school - Hebrew Academy - that was right down the street from my parents’ house.

For a long time, I was a good Hebrew student. I wore the tefillin and a yarmulke - as a sign of respect to God - studied the Torah, the Gemara, and the Mishnah. I was a true believer - until one day I began to have doubts. I wanted to believe. No one wants to think they’re going to blink out of existence and end up worm food someday, yet I had my doubts, and I knew I couldn’t be what they wanted me to be.

I’m certain my mother would describe me as having been an extremely rebellious child. “Even as a little boy he was smart,” I’ve heard her say, “but uncontrollable. If I told Efraim not to do something... he’d go right out and do it anyway. His father and I couldn’t tell him anything - he wouldn’t go to Temple, wouldn’t go to school. Punishing him didn’t work - nothing did.” My parents didn’t like my music, my clothes, or my friends. I was always in trouble.

DON’T GET ME WRONG, I’M NOT COMPLAINING - I had a loving family. There were trips to Busch Gardens and Disney World. I had a great group of friends; we would sneak into the luxurious Miami hotels and swim in their massive pools, bask on South Beach, and watch the Florida sun scorching the tourists bright pink. There were lots of sand castles, beach balls, and bikinis. It wasn’t a bad childhood... I’m just sayin’.

MY UNCLE BAR KOCHBA BOTACH owned Botach Tactical, a police-supply business. He primarily sold domestic police supplies such as weapons and ammunition, flashlights and gasmasks. He wasn’t picky; he would sell to everyone from security guards to federal agencies. Eventually my mother convinced her brother - my uncle - to hire my father. He opened a small satellite office of Botach Tactical in Miami Beach - a 150-square-foot hole in the wall, where my father used my uncle’s established relationships with manufacturers and distributors to bid on state and federal contracts to supply first-aid kits and uniforms, stuff like that. Things seemed to be all right, and my father started making a decent living.

THE FIRST TIME I HELD A GUN - believe it or not - I was ten-years-old, wandering the aisles of Toys ‘R’ Us. Somewhere between the stuffed animals and Super Nintendo I spotted an unattended cart with a small black nylon fanny pack lying in it. My mom was several aisles away looking at board games or something, and I wandered over to the cart, checked up and down the aisle - didn’t see anyone - snatched up the bag, and unzipped it, revealing a pair of chrome-plated handcuffs, two full magazines, and a loaded Glock 9 mm handgun.

I remember picking it up, feeling the weight of it in my hand... it felt powerful. I felt powerful. Dangerous. I had never felt that way before. Standing in an aisle, surrounded by G.I. Joes and Star Wars action figures, I held out the weapon, using both hands - like I had seen on television - and pretended to fire the Glock several times. I made the pop, pop, pop, sound of a gun. And for a second - at ten-years-old - I thought about slipping the Glock underneath my shirt and into the waistband of my shorts, sneaking the weapon out of the store and back home. But I was terrified of what my mom would do to me if she found it. So I placed the handgun and the bag back in the cart and walked away. I’ve been fascinated with guns ever since.

Minutes later, I was standing with my mother in the checkout lane when a man, with a shield clipped to his belt, came running into the store; franticly looking up and down the aisles until he found the cart with his black nylon bag.

IT WASN’T LONG AFTER THAT VISIT to Toys ‘R’ Us that my grandfather took me to my first gun show. It wasn’t anything special - not an expo, just an indoor flea market - but I was transfixed by the weapons. Most of the vendors displayed their guns in neat rows on their booths’ counters, and some had them arranged haphazardly on folding tables, but all of the vendors were ready to bargain and make deals.

I knew the names of several weapons from television and movies, and at the first opportunity I asked one of the vendors, “Can I see a Smith and Wesson .357, please?” The guy didn’t miss a beat, just looked down at me and asked if I wanted to see a full-size or a compact model. I didn’t know the difference, but confidently said, “Full size.”

He turned around and grabbed an unloaded duo-tone revolver with “.357” stamped on the side and handed it to me. It was huge and heavy, much heavier than the Glock, “How much?”

The vendor looked at my grandfather and the two men grinned at one another, while I stared at the glistening hunk of steel. I can’t remember what the price was, but I do remember my grandfather saying, “When you’re older, Efraim... when you’re older.” Grandpa bought me a soda and a blowgun, but he made me leave the revolver behind.

MY FASCINATION WITH MIND-ALTERING SUBSTANCES STARTED EARLY TOO. When I was 11-years-old, I would drink four or five cups of Manischewitz at holiday dinners; by age 12, I was sneaking bottles of wine out of my parents’ house. I’d drink half the bottle and refill it with water. It got so bad that by the time holidays rolled around, all that was in those bottles was water.

About a year or so after my first drink, I met a couple Jewish kids near the Boardwalk on Miami Beach - ”snowbirds” that had flown down for Passover holiday. They were 15 or 16-years-old, and they were smoking weed. I was a little scared - my mother had me pretty terrified about doing drugs - but they were older, and I thought they were really cool... so I did it. I loved it and went strong on the good herb for the next ten-plus years.

GOOFING OFF WITH MY FRIENDS became a big part of my childhood. We would skip school, hit the beach, or sneak home and play Nintendo 64 for hours. Mario Cart, 007, and Mortal Combat were some of my favorites, but especially 007, because I loved how realistic the weapons were.

My mother was constantly getting phone calls from the school informing her, “Your son didn’t show up today,” or “He skipped again.” She would scream and holler at me, tell me I was grounded, and take away my privileges, but I didn’t listen to her - she couldn’t control me. I was a straight juvenile delinquent.

One night, I was out shooting hoops with my best friend at the time, Jonathan Berney, and our buddy, Daniel Greenberg, at the local middle school’s basketball court. It was after nine o’clock, and the security guard pulled up in his little golf cart. He was a 30-year-old ex-high school football bully type, now 40 pounds overweight and wearing a polyester rent-a-cop uniform that was two sizes too small. He was a fat Billy Ray Cyrus wannabe, with a buzz cut up top and long hair in the back. This guy was constantly pushing us around, shooting his mouth off, and embarrassing us in front of girls. A bully with a rental badge. His best days were behind him, and he was pissed off about it.

“Hey!” he yelled as he got out of his electric vehicle, “it’s nine o’clock - the courts are closed girls.” Which was only true when he was working. We told him that the lights stayed on until ten o’clock, and he snapped, “Get outta here ladies!”

On the walk back to my house I said, “I’m sick’a that guy.” I stopped cold and looked at John. “Do we have any ammo left in the paintball guns?”

We put on our black T-shirts and pants, grabbed our Tippman Spider paintball guns - or “markers” - and hoppers loaded with roughly 100 balls apiece, and stuffed them into our backpacks. Forty-five minutes after being kicked off the court, we crept through the rec center - Special Forces style - and snuck up behind the security guard. We waited, and waited, and waited. He was leaning back in the plastic seat of his rent-a-cop mobile, with the basketball court’s flood lights blaring down on him, sipping on a Budweiser and listening to Def Leppard. Daniel whispered, “You guys sure about this?”

I looked at him and hissed, “I got an anti-Semitic vibe from the guy... Fuck ‘em.” We waited, and waited, and waited. Then... the court lights popped off, everything went dark, and we swarmed in from his flank - guns blazing. Thump! Thump! Thump!

The average paintball marker cranked up to its maximum velocity of 350 feet per second will leave softball-sized bruises on you from 40 feet away. We were 20 feet away, and he was yelping and screaming as the hail of hard plastic ballistic projectiles slapped and smacked against his body. Thump! Thump! Thump! The security guard jolted and jerked with each thump and strike. He threw his beer in the air and before it hit the asphalt court he had abandoned his golf cart and streaked off into the darkness.

We immediately ran off in the opposite direction - toward my house - and about halfway there we heard the sirens of a dozen Miami Beach police cruisers. The three of us dove behind some bushes as they roared by. Terrified, we stashed the guns there… and literally crawled almost the whole way home. Now I know that it seems like an incredibly reckless and cruel thing to have done, but keep in mind, he was mean to old people, children, and small animals. The guy had a mullet for God’s sake! He had it coming.

IT WASN’T LONG AFTER THE PAINTBALL INCIDENT that my life was irrevocably changed. After years of begging my parents to enroll me in a co-ed school, I was finally allowed to attend Hebrew Academy in 2000, at the age of 14. At first, I was doing pretty well, studying, attending class, and really trying. And then, a few months into my first semester, I went on a weekend spiritual retreat in Jacksonville, Florida - known as a “Shabbaton” - with several school chaperons, teachers and Rabbis. We were at a communal Sabbath dinner when my best friend Jon asked, “You wanna get high?”

We slipped out the back of the building and smoked Jon’s weed out of a beat-up metal pipe. We got caught by a Rabbi and kicked out of school. No warning. No suspension. Just, “Get out!” It was the third time I had smoked pot in my life. I didn’t even last three months at the Hebrew Academy. We were placed on a plane and flown back to Miami.

Our parents picked us up at the airport. The first thing my mother said when she saw me was, “On the Sabbath; how could you?!” She was more upset that I had desecrated the Sabbath than she was that I had inhaled an illegal substance and got myself expelled three months into my freshmen year of high school. Even Jon’s parents were upset with me, regardless of the fact that it was their son’s weed we were smoking.

THAT NIGHT, MY MOTHER CRIED ON THE PHONE to her brother, my uncle Bar Kochba Botach - or BK. “What am I going to do with this boy?” she wept into the phone. “He was expelled for drugs! His father can’t control him.”

“Send him to me,” he said from California. “I’ll put him to work in the warehouse with the Mexicans, show him how good he has it over there.”

“Bar Kochba, good Jewish boys don’t work in gun shops in the middle of South Central, L.A. They get high school diplomas and college degrees... and become doctors and lawyers…”

“But Terry, he’s not a good Jewish boy!” he barked. “Put him on a plane!”

Out of frustration, my parents banished me to stay with my uncle in Los Angeles. You know - because there’s no pot in California. My uncle was supposed to straighten me out. He thought that forcing me to work would give me a dose of reality, show me how hard the real world was.

CHAPTER TWO

THE BASE

“Patriotism... is the egg from which wars are hatched.” - de Maupassant

LOS ANGELES IS A MASSIVE CITY, stretching from the golden beaches that line the Pacific Ocean to the west and south of the city to the snow-capped mountains rising to the northeast. The City of Angels is America’s playground: Every year, millions of tourists are drawn to Los Angeles to enjoy the natural beauty of Southern California, major attractions such as Disney Land, Warner Brothers, and Universal City Studios, celebrity stargazing.

But I didn’t get to see any of that. Instead, I was stuck in a dark and dirty warehouse in South Central L.A. on Crenshaw Blvd. Botach Tactical was housed in an old bank building. A virtual fortress of three-foot-thick concrete block walls, its steel doors and bulletproof glass had been converted into a warehouse and offices. Its three stories of Home Depot-style industrial steel shelving were packed with inventory. The neighborhood was a virtual warzone, with members of the infamous Crips and Bloods gangs shooting it out in streets surrounded by slums and housing projects.

My uncle liked to portray himself as a “devoted father and husband, and a deeply religious Jew.” As the owner of Botach Tactical, a police-supply company with a popular website and a national customer base, he paid me minimum wage - which I accepted; I was just a kid. But he worked me 12 to 14 hours a day - and paid no overtime. He would pick me up from my cramped apartment at four in the morning and drop me off around six at night. I was cheap labor, nothing else. It became obvious that he had only brought me to Los Angeles to embarrass my father and come off as a hero to my mother.

My uncle never tried to teach me anything, but he berated me constantly about my drug use and lack of religious conviction. “You’re on the wrong path, Efraim,” he would say.

We argued constantly. The thing is, I didn’t like my uncle’s bullshit, but I loved working. I was a 14-year-old kid stocking and selling police equipment. I was making my own money - not a lot of it, but it was mine.

My uncle had me sharing a 700-square-foot two-bedroom apartment with my two cousins and four ex-Israeli soldiers that worked for him as salesmen. They were ex-military, but they couldn’t sell anything. Their only skills were hitting targets and smoking weed. We were crammed in that apartment; sleeping on single beds and the couch. I spent most of my free time - which wasn’t much - driving around getting stoned with my cousins, Joe and Jordan Wachtel, or hanging out at Venice Beach, watching the human carnival: female sun worshippers strutting around in skimpy bikinis, body builder freaks, hippies, and nutcases.

The only real problem with working for my uncle was my uncle. After a while, I couldn’t stand the guy and our business philosophies couldn’t have been more different. In my opinion, he was shamelessly optimistic and would invest in inventory that was difficult to sell, resulting in millions of dollars in merchandise strewn everywhere making it impossible to operate efficiently, and he always thought that the next big thing was right around the corner.

Eventually, when my parents saw that I was enjoying my exile, they began pressuring me to give school another chance. “Oh, Efraim,” pled my mother on the phone one night, “I want my children to be successful, not high-school dropouts that work in gun shops. Please Efraim, do this for me.”

“Mom,” I said, “I think I could be really good at this... I’ve been taking sales calls and…”

“Efraim, please! I’m begging you to come back and give school another chance.”

I DIDN’T WANT TO GO BACK TO FLORIDA, but around the same time my mother was badgering me about school, my uncle and I got into a huge argument. I wanted to move out of the warehouse and work sales - ”I’ll work strictly commission,” I told him. “I know the inventory and…”

“You’re just a kid! What do you know?”

“Not on the phone I’m not.” I’d been taking sales calls for months, and he knew it. “On the phone I’m thirty-years-old and ex-military... and I’m better at it than these has-been soldiers you’re keeping around who barely speak English.”

“What do you know, you’re just a punk kid,” he spat. “Get outta my office!”

After that, I knew it wasn’t going to work out.

I MOVED BACK TO MIAMI and began attending Beach High. The curriculum wasn’t the problem - I’ve always been a fast learner - but the atmosphere wasn’t what you’d call “conducive to living a drug-free lifestyle.” It was packed full of partiers, and on top of that, I hated school; it was boring. I didn’t attend 90 percent of my classes. I just felt like if I had to get up early and spend 30-plus hours a week somewhere, I needed to leave with a paycheck.

ON SEPTEMBER 11TH OF 2001 four domestic airliners were hijacked by members of the Islamic terrorist group al-Qaeda. The aircrafts were headed for the West Coast, full of fuel. You know the story.

At 8:46 am, the first plane struck the north tower of the World Trade Center in New York; roughly 15 minutes later, a second plane flew into the south tower. Each caused significant damage. A third aircraft struck the Pentagon at 9:40 am, and within an hour a fourth plane crashed in Pennsylvania.

Around ten o’clock I was eating a falafel - the only thing on the menu that was kosher - at a Beach High kiosk. I was washing my meal down with a Pepsi when Avital Ash - a girl I’d had a crush on since we were kids - walked up to my table with tears in her eyes, “Did you hear... two planes crashed into the twin towers in New York,” she sniffled and wiped at her eyes. “They’re saying it might be terrorists.”

I immediately went to my parents’ house and watched the footage of the planes hitting the World Trade Center towers on CNN. The explosions. The news anchor, Aaron Brown, was in tears. I remember hearing the bodies hit the concrete as people jumped to escape the heat. The south tower had collapsed before I got home, but when the north tower collapsed under its own weight, I couldn’t believe it... it was the worst thing I’d ever seen. I wasn’t thinking about terrorists - I was 15-years-old and not thinking on a geopolitical scale at the time. All I knew was, nearly 3,000 innocent people had been murdered.

That night, my family and I sat in our living room and watched President George W. Bush address the nation. “Today, our fellow citizens, our way of life, our very freedom came under attack,” said Bush from the Oval Office. He spoke of bravery and sacrifice, of terror and danger. “And in grief and anger we have found our mission and our moment. Freedom and fear are at war... I will not forget this wound to our country or those who inflicted it... May God grant us wisdom, and may He watch over the United States of America. Thank you.”

Just over a week later, Bush addressed the nation again. “Fellow Americans... On September the 11th, enemies of freedom committed an act of war against our country,” said the President from the chamber of Congress. “The evidence we have gathered all points to a collection of loosely affiliated terrorists’ organizations known as al-Qaeda. They are the same murderers indicted for bombing the USS Cole... [Islamic extremism] that perverts the peaceful teachings of Islam... [to] kill Christians, and Jews, to kill all Americans... The [group’s leader Osama bin Laden] has great influence in Afghanistan and supports the Taliban regime in control of that country.” Bush then demanded that the Taliban close all terrorist training camps and hand over every terrorist member of al-Qaeda - including bin Laden - to the United States immediately. “Or share their fate... We will direct every resource at our command... every tool of intelligence, every instrument of law enforcement, every financial influence, and every necessary weapon of war - to the disruption and to the defeat of the global terror network... Perhaps the NATO Charter reflects best the attitude of the world: An attack on one is an attack on all.”

After it refused to hand over bin Laden, the United States and its allies charged the Taliban government of Afghanistan with harboring bin Laden and his followers. In early October of 2001, before the fires at the World Trade Center had stopped smoldering, the United States and allied forces launched an invasion of Afghanistan.

IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG before I was hanging out with my old buddies. Within a few months of enrolling in Beach High, I was skipping classes to get stoned at the local golf course with my friend Deedles or to hang out at someone’s house - before long I wasn’t going to school at all.

A MONTH OR SO AFTER DROPPING OUT of high school, Jon and I were at a friend’s house sitting around with a group of stoners watching CNN footage of U.S. helicopters landing in Afghanistan and listening to music. We were all drinking and smoking weed - I’d just turned 16 - and someone asked, “You guys wanna try some coke?”

I figured why not - all the bullshit warnings I’d been given about alcohol and weed killing me or ruining my life hadn’t come true. In fact, as far as I was concerned, it made life a hell of a lot better. The stuff about cocaine was probably a lie too. “Sure,” I said, “I’ll do some.”

I snorted a line - and then another one - and I loved it. It was an awesome rush. Coke made me feel invincible and emboldened. It made me want to work and dream. When I was lit up on cocaine I felt like I could take over the world.

MY UNCLE’S BUSINESS had picked up considerably since September 11th: gasmasks, safety equipment, and survival gear. He called up my mother and asked if I would consider coming back and helping him out. “BK,” she said, “I’m trying to get him to go back to school. He’s so smart and…”

“Terry, I need him... He’s a hustler. I’m swamped and I can’t keep up.”

My mother told me not to go, but as much as she pleaded, I didn’t listen to her. Besides, at that point in my life it was pretty clear that I wasn’t going to be getting a high school diploma. I was working several menial jobs to make ends meet and selling bags of weed to my Jewish friends on the side, but none of that had the appeal of dealing in weapons.

CHAPTER THREE

WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION

“No good decision has ever been made in a swivel chair.” - General George Patton

I DECIDED TO GO BACK TO CALIFORNIA and give working with my uncle another try. This time, I was going to make a real effort to get along with him - a serious effort. I convinced him to allow me to work strictly on commission. He agreed to split the profit on all the new business I brought in - fifty/fifty, with me selling all the products he already carried for zero compensation. But I was sure I could make it work.

My uncle would make comments like, “Efraim thinks he’s gonna be a big businessman,” and laugh about it with his buddies. But I ignored him, and when his friends’ backs were turned he would ask me to help him organize some stock or call a supplier. It was pathetic.

I STARTED LIVING AND BREATHING GUNS AND AMMO. I was studying manuals, breaking down weapons and reassembling them in the back room of my uncle’s shop, all the while doing internet research on the technical and business aspects of a wide array of weapons and munitions. I was working 18-hour days educating myself and drumming up new business for myself and Botach Tactical.

I focused on pre-ban assault rifles, transferable machine guns, and ammunition. I would buy and sell throughout the country using Internet gun billboards - classifieds for dealers. I’d buy or trade for used AR-15 rifles from a police department in Illinois and sell them to a weapons dealer in Texas. I traveled from state to state, demonstrating Israeli Micro Galil machine guns to local and state police departments. I was 16-years-old, pitching machine guns to 45-year-old cops - totally stoned.

Initially the small-town sheriffs and city police officers were skeptical of me - I was a baby-faced teenager. But the moment I started spitting out the Micro Galil’s specs, that doubt turned into sales. The gun is based off the exceptionally reliable and virtually indestructible AK-47 platform, with improved accuracy and a 35-round 5.56x45 mm and 7.62x51 mm NATO detachable box magazine feeding system. I was a frighteningly convincing salesman. “Look,” I’d tell them, “If your officers aren’t using Micro Galil’s, they might as well be using harsh language.” They would laugh and order a dozen machine guns.

I would cold-call dealers and manufacturers, pitching weapons like the Colt AR-15, Steyr-AUG, HK-91 pre-ban assault rifles, as well as 5.56 mm, 7.62 mm, .50 cal and 9 mm rounds. I never minded cold calling - hell, I liked it! It was a great way to make contacts.

That’s how I met Ralph Merrill, a 60-year-old Mormon firearms manufacturer from Utah. I called Vector Arms, Ralph’s company, and asked if he was interested in purchasing 10,000 .50 caliber rounds. “Not for the company,” he said. “But I’m a big 50 cal shooter - I’ll buy them for personal use.” It seemed like a lot for personal use, but whatever. Weeks later, once the transaction had been completed, Merrill called and told me how impressed he was by my professionalism and enthusiasm. He wanted me to keep him in mind if I came across any more deals. Ralph seemed like a real mensch - a stand-up guy.

IN EARLY 2003, THE UNITED STATES alleged that Iraqi President Saddam Hussein was attempting to develop “weapons of mass destruction” in violation of United Nations Security Council resolutions. I remember watching Colin Powell on this old beat-up television we had in the warehouse, as he addressed the United Nations. “I’m absolutely sure that there are weapons of mass destruction [in Iraq] and the evidence will be forthcoming,” said Powell, leaning into the microphone. “We’re getting it just now.”

After years of United Nations’ weapons inspectors being denied access to a variety of sites throughout Iraq, and months of failed attempts to rectify the situation, the Security Council unanimously passed Resolution 1441, finding Iraq in breach of its obligation to fully disarm any chemical, biological, or nuclear programs, and to comply with all U.N. weapons inspections.

On March 17th of 2003, President George W. Bush addressed the American people, “My fellow citizens, events in Iraq have reached the final days of decision... [Saddam Hussein] has uniformly defied the Security Council resolution demanding full disarmament. Peaceful efforts to disarm the Iraqi regime have failed again and again... The United States and our allies are authorized to use force in ridding Iraq of weapons of mass destruction... Saddam Hussein and his sons must leave Iraq within 48 hours. Their refusal to do so will result in military conflict...” To the Iraqi people he said, “The day of your liberation is near... free nations have a duty to defend our people by uniting against the violent. And tonight, as we have done before, Americans and allies accept that responsibility. Good night, and my God continue to bless America.”

Forty-eight hours later, Hussein hadn’t left Iraq, and Bush notified the world of the United States’ intentions. “My fellow citizens, at this hour, American and coalition forces are in the early stages of military operation to disarm Iraq, to free its people, and to defend the world from grave danger.” He ordered coalition forces to begin striking targets of military importance. “The people of the United States and our friends and allies will not live at the mercy of an outlaw regime that threatens the peace with weapons of mass murder... We will bring freedom to others and we will prevail. May God bless our country and all who defend her.”

Within hours, the United States and allied nations - mainly Great Britain - launched Operation Iraqi Freedom.

I watched the invasion between cold calls: embedded CNN reporters riding along with the troops - straight to Baghdad; the M-1 Abrams firing their sabots into the Iraqi’s Soviet-made T-80 tanks, while roaring across the desert; the thousands of surrendering soldiers of the Republican Guard throwing down their AK-47 assault rifles and PKM machine guns, waving their white flags. When I saw the U.S. soldiers sweeping through Saddam’s presidential palaces with their M-4 assault rifles and M249 Squad Automatic Weapons, I thought, I want to be the guy providing those weapons.

When the U.S. boots hit the Iraqi soil, my uncle said, “This is going to be good for business.”

I hate to admit it, but that putz was right.

MY FATHER AND UNCLE would regularly search multiple web sites - fedbid.com and fbo.gov, known as “FedBizOpps” - for relatively small federal government contracts to provide gasmasks for the FBI or uniforms for U.S. Border patrol agents. $50,000 here and $100,000 there. But I noticed there were huge solicitations for billions of dollars in military hardware of all types, including weapons and munitions - my specialty.

Those were the contracts I wanted. But when I asked my uncle about bidding on them, he said, “What do you know about government contracts or delivering to a war zone? Come on Efraim, those are for large defense contractors... international arms dealers… they’re not for us.”

“Yeah, but Botach Tactical is already registered on FedBizOpps, it has past performance history with the government, and it’s a licensed import export…”

“Stick to what you’re doing with the pre-ban gun boards stuff,” he leaned back in his swivel chair, sucked on an American Spirit and said, “I’m not going to risk my money on that.”

“But there’s no more risk than what you’re already doing.” It wasn’t like selling inventory; you didn’t have to actually buy anything until after you had been awarded the contract. “I’ll start small, something like…”

“Efraim!” he spat, “I’m not backing it, so you’re not doing it... period.” Like I said, he wouldn’t have known a real opportunity if it hit him in the head at point blank range.

MY PARENTS WERE IN A LOVELESS MARRIAGE for most of my life. Trust me - there wasn’t any chance of me walking in on them having sex. When I was 17-years-old, my uncle broke the news, “Your parents are getting a divorce, Efraim. You know how your father is... My sister deserves better, she’s too good for ‘em.” The whole time my uncle was speaking I was thinking, This is how you’re telling me, by bashing my father? He could have said, “They married too young” or “They had grown apart,” but instead this asshole was making cracks about my father. My father and I may not have been particularly close, but he was still my dad - I’ve always hated my uncle for that.

My parents’ divorce bothered me, because I’d always thought they would be there - together. Miserable - but together. Up to that point in my life, I’d always felt like I had a home to go to - even if I didn’t want to be there, I knew it was there. Now that assurance was gone. I was alone. On my own. My father remarried immediately, to an Orthodox Jewish woman from Chile who spoke very little English. She was practically a Jewish mail-order bride. And she didn’t like me - to this day, she talks shit about me behind my back.

I found out later - after the divorce - that my uncle had started holding back my father’s commissions. A little here and a little there, but it added up fast, and before my father knew it, my uncle owed him over $100,000. When he demanded his money, my uncle fired him. At the time I didn’t know any of this.

WITHIN A YEAR, I had made more than $1 million in new sales for Botach Tactical, and my uncle began to avoid paying me my commissions. I’d made his company over $200,000 in profits, but he was holding off on paying me my seventy-five grand - my seventy-five grand! He paid me a little here and there - just enough to live on. My uncle used a litany of excuses to justify withholding the bulk of my commissions. He would say, “Efraim, I can’t pay you until we balance the quarterly commissions, but I’ll give you a couple thousand to hold you over,” and he would cut me a check for a fraction of what he owed me.

At the end of the quarter, my uncle told me, “Oh Efraim, I’m sorry I forgot to cut your check, I’ll do it on the fifteenth of next month,” he pulled out his money clip and peeled off several hundred dollars. “Take this... until the fifteenth.”

After six months of the delays, one of the Philippine salesmen told me, “He’s dragging you... BK isn’t gonna pay you, Efraim. He’s going to screw you... it’s what he does.”

“He’s my uncle,” I scoffed. “He’ll pay me.” I couldn’t believe that a family member would do that to blood. But I was wrong.

A couple months later, my uncle had run out of the good excuses. He’d say, “I don’t have the liquidity to pay you right now, give me some more time,” or, “You start going to Temple and stop doing the drugs... then maybe I’ll pay you.”

“Regardless of whether you agree with my lifestyle or not,” I said… “You still owe me the commissions!”

“You’re too young to have that kind of money, Efraim,” replied my uncle. “You’ll overdose on the marijuana!” Marijuana?

“I’m not shooting heroin,” I growled. “I occasionally smoke some weed after working an eighteen hour day... for you!”

My uncle brought up the fact that I was living rent-free in one of my grandfather’s apartments. Not my uncle’s apartment, my grandfather’s. I didn’t argue. Instead, I said, “Okay, so what’s fair market rent on a shitty two-bedroom in LA, one thousand a month? I’ve been sleeping on the couch there for twelve months with six other guys. So half the rent sounds more than reasonable, take six thousand out of what you owe me and cut me a check.”

“I can’t do this right now, Efraim!” he snapped. “We’ll talk about it next week.” He walked into his office and slammed the door.

MOTHER FUCKER! After a few more weeks of excuses, I finally acknowledged that my uncle wasn’t going to pay me. I guess he figured that for $75,000, he could afford to lose a nephew - he had a lot more of them. Eventually, I gave him an ultimatum, “Pay me or I’m outta here.” He knew how much I loved the business - he didn’t think I’d do it.

“You think you don’t need Botach anymore,” barked my uncle, “Go then! You’re just like your father!” He assumed that because my father had allowed himself to be fucked over I would too. He hadn’t counted on my resourcefulness.

I SPENT THE LAST WEEK WORKING FOR MY UNCLE copying his client files and then contacting my various accounts, calling in my accounts’ receivables, as the money was owed to me.

By the end of the week I walked out of Botach Tactical with my uncle’s entire client list ready to business with me personally and a little more than $70,000 of my accounts receivables waiting for me in Miami. Fuck him! I bought a ticket and headed back East.

CHAPTER FOUR

“FEDBIZOPPS”

“Efraim Diveroli’s father hoped his son would be a doctor or a lawyer. What he got instead was an international arms dealer.” - CNN

“Hamburgers. The cornerstone of any nutritious breakfast.” - Jules Winnfield, Pulp Fiction (Movie)

AFTER RETURNING TO MIAMI in early 2004, I told my father I wanted to open a company that specialized in arms/ammunition trading and defense contracts with the U.S. Government. Everything from flashlights to assault rifles, I told him. But I already knew I was going to focus more on weapons and munitions.

By law, all federal government solicitations for supplies or services in excess of $25,000 must be listed on “FedBizOpps” - the U.S. Government’s online website, fbo.gov - in order to allow the public to bid on them, provided your company is registered and has the proper licensing.

In order to give the impression I’d been in business for several years, I had convinced my father to sell me a shell company: AEY, Inc. He had originally incorporated it as a small printing business, but hadn’t done anything with it in years. The name AEY came from the first initial of my siblings and me. It took some arm-twisting, but I got my father to apply for a Federal Firearms License (FFL) and to register the company with the U.S. State Department as an International Arms broker and exporter.

“Dad, I’m also gonna need you to get a Class-Three Automatic Weapons Permit,” I said. I wasn’t old enough to have the licenses in my name, but AEY Inc. could register them in its name as long as someone over 21-years-old was the primary license holder.

“Efraim, I don’t know, you’re just a teenager...,” he complained. “What about school?”

“We both know I’m not going back to school.”

“International arms and machinegun licenses...” my father sighed and shook his head, “And you’re sure you can do all this?” To my father it was a risk, and he wasn’t a risk taker.

“There’s no doubt in my mind.”

It took some finesse and a little pressure to talk him into it, but we had a common enemy in my uncle. “I’ll do it,” he said. “I’ll do it.” Eventually, I got my own Import license from the ATF, an FFL license, and Class-Three Automatic Weapons License and became a registered exporter and broker with the State Department.

I STARTED WORKING OUT OF A CRAMPED ONE-ROOM apartment, surfing the solicitations on “FedBizOpps” and other online marketplaces. I started bidding on relatively small, safe contracts; underbidding the established distributors and colossal manufacturers of the industry like Federal, Remington, and Winchester. My low overhead and work ethic made up for my lack of experience and industry contacts. It wasn’t easy. I had to find the merchandise, call up the suppliers and shoot the shit with them, ask them about their kids’ T-ball tournaments and peewee football games. I would joke about my wife and our upcoming ten-year anniversary, “The old ball and chain is hoping for a romantic night out, but at your prices... it’s looking more like frozen pizza and domestic beer.” I could come off as a cocky young ex-navy seal or a middle-aged bureaucrat. No one ever wondered whether I was a 17-year-old stoner working with a laptop, a cell phone, and a Pyrex water pipe full of high-grade marijuana.

Once I got the suppliers laughing, I’d start talking them down on their prices - and that was crucial. What most people don’t understand is that an arms dealer isn’t a broker or middleman in the traditional sense - almost everything had to be paid for upfront. I hardly ever got credit extended to me. Once I bought the merchandise, I had to have it trucked to the buyer. Then the government had to inspect it, sign a DD250 Material Inspection and Receiving Report, and - if I was lucky - thirty days later I got paid.

I was working out of my apartment, a cheap efficiency I rented for $600 a month. Many of my competitors were corporate giants with thousands of employees. General Dynamics had approximately 95,000 employees with medical and pension plans - and they couldn’t compete with a 17-year-old living on Top Ramen noodles and sleeping on an old mattress with no box spring. I was driving a beat-up Chevy Cavalier - built in 1985, the same year I was born - I’d bought it for $500, tax, tag and title; it overheated so often I had to drive around with two gallons of water in the trunk. My working capital consisted of my childhood savings and what I took with me from Botach Tactical - that was it.

MY FIRST CONTRACT was for nearly one million rounds of 5.56 mm ammunition for the U.S. Army Special Operations Command in Ft. Bragg, North Carolina. I won the bid in April of 2004, for roughly $125,000, and it was a disaster. Between Botach Tactical’s diverted funds and my savings, I had just enough money to make the deal work. I found a million rounds of Israeli-made 5.56 rounds on the Internet, from KY Imports out of Louisville, Kentucky, for $100,000. The pictures of the ammunition looked good - maybe they were photoshopped or depicted a product I hadn’t bought - but when I had the ammunition shipped to Ft. Bragg, it was rejected by their base-ammunitions specialist. They wouldn’t sign the DD250 Material Inspection and Receiving Report.

Apparently, during the ammunition’s voyage from Israel to North America, the rounds had been exposed to salt water and had become severely tarnished. Functional, but tarnished. The U.S. Army didn’t want them. Not only was I about to lose everything I had, but I was about to default on my very first government contract.

I immediately found this backwoods guy out of Texas who ran a booth at state gun shows; he was willing to buy the tarnished ammunition - for a considerable discount. “Well,” I recall asking him, “what’re you gonna do with it?”

“Shoot,” he replied in a southern drawl, “I’m gonna dump ‘em into a cement mixer and clean ‘em up with some corncob and walnut media. By the time I’m done they’ll be so shiny you won’t be able to look at ‘em without burnin’ your eyes.” Sounded good to me.

Between the money I got back on the saltwater-ammo and some money I begged my father to lend me, I had just enough to make the deal work - again. I bought another one million 5.56 rounds from American Ammunition out of Hialeah, Florida for about $115,000, delivered. Only this time, I drove out to the company and inspected the ammunition, fired a couple rounds just to be sure, and then had it shipped.

This time the base ammunition specialist signed the DD250 Material Inspection and Receiving Report, and I made nearly $10,000. Believe it or not, as bad as the deal had gone, it motivated me. That was all I really needed: a little bit of confidence. There was no going back to working for someone else after that. I certainly would never go back to my uncle.

Over the next eight months, I started bidding on everything from ammunition and explosives for the Department of Defense to weapons for Homeland Security. I had to finance everything myself, so that limited me to smaller contracts - fifty to one hundred thousand dollars on average.

By the end of the year, I had completed over $1 million in U.S. Government contracts with nothing more than a cell phone and a laptop.

IN EARLY FEBRUARY OF 2005, I bid on a solicitation for over $1.3 million to supply 10,000 level III A-rated ballistic helmets, for the Iraqi National Army. The thing is, I didn’t really think I was going to win the bid, so I hadn’t put any thought into how I would fund it. A couple of weeks later, I was awarded the contract, but I couldn’t afford to finance it myself.

I realized I was going to need a financial backer, so I contacted Ralph Merrill, the Mormon gun manufacturer from Utah, one of the contacts I’d made working at Botach Tactical. “Mr. Merrill,” I said, “my name is Efraim Diveroli, we spoke a few...”

“Of course I remember you Efraim,” Merrill laughed, “You sold me the fifty cal. rounds...”

I laid out my dilemma - the Department of Defense contract and the amount of money involved. I had priced out the helmets at roughly $135 to the government, but I was able to buy them through a contact, Buk Seong Nam at, Jino Corp., a South Korean distributor for around $100 per.

Ralph had been in the commercial firearms industry a long time, but had never dabbled in U.S. Government contracts. I explained that the helmets were just a drop in the trillion-dollar bucket of military solicitations available out there. My only problem was the availability of funds. “I was hoping you’d consider taking an equity position in the deal, Mister Merrill.” I offered him 30 percent of the profit.

He thought about it for a couple of seconds, and said, “Sure Efraim, I’d be happy to.”

THAT DEAL PUSHED ME TO THE NEXT LEVEL. Knowing Ralph was behind me, I started getting more and more aggressive. I bid on research and development equipment for the State Department at roughly $850,000, and ammunition for the Department of Defense at over $350,000. The deals were getting bigger and bigger.

IN LATE FEBRUARY OF 2005, I was sifting through the awards section of “FedBizOpps,” and I noticed that several large contracts had been awarded to a defense contractor out of California, First Defense Group International. I called them to see if we could work something out, and spoke to the “CEO,” Peter Stein, a South African.

The moment I got the guy on the phone I felt like something wasn’t right, but I was so thrilled to be talking to the CEO of a big-time contractor that I didn’t hesitate. “So Mister Diveroli,” he said in a guttural English accent, “You’re interested in a subcontract, is that right?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied. I knew First Defense had been awarded a contract to supply 7,100 AK-47 assault rifles to the Iraq Security Forces, for roughly $700,000. “I can get you the AKs for seventy-five delivered.” I had a contact in Bosnia that had quoted a price of $55 per, but I had to cover the cost of shipping. “I’m willing to put up all the capital and split the net profit fifty/fifty.”

“You know Mister Diveroli,” he sighed, “we’re so swamped here... I’m going to take you up on that.” His company’s website boasted a dozen executives, defense experts, and account executives. It was a big outfit. The type of defense contractor I hoped to be someday.

While my guy in Bosnia was scraping together the AK-47s, Stein ran into some issues with Rabintex Industries - an Israeli armor manufacturer he’d convinced to front his company several million dollars of product on a large U.S. Government contract for body armor - and then Stein disappeared with the money. God only knows what happened to him. He stopped answering his cell phone, none of the “executives” or “defense experts” were answering the business line, and no one was responding to company emails. That’s when it hit me: I had never spoken to anyone but Stein; he was the only one who ever answered the phone, and there were no extensions other than his. He was a one-man operation, just like I was.

After a couple of weeks, my contact in Bosnia said he was ready to ship the AKs. I had put up over $100,000 of my own money and roughly quarter of a million dollars of Merrill’s money for the purchase of the AKs, and now I had nowhere to send them and no one to buy them.

I immediately contacted the Army’s contracting officer in Baghdad and explained that First Defense was a fraud and Stein was dodging the Israelis - maybe even dead. “Shit,” said the Army rep. “We need those AKs.”

“Then you’re gonna have to switch Stein’s contract to AEY, Inc.” I couldn’t complete the contract knowing the Army was going to cut the check to Stein’s company.

“Mister Diveroli...” he sighed, “That’s just not done... I can’t just unilaterally assign you the contract; it’d require signatures of both companies and the blessing of my superiors…”

“Look, how bad do you need these things?” I asked. “‘Cause if you don’t assign me the contract you’re never gonna see these AKs.”

“Huh,” he thought about it for a few seconds, then whispered, “How quickly can you have ‘em here?” I knew I had him.

It took me a few more calls and a little charm, but I convinced the Army rep to issue AEY, Inc. the contract, and I shipped the AK-47 assault rifles. I made almost one hundred grand on Stein’s deal.

A FEW WEEKS AFTER delivering the Army’s AK-47s, I was online checking my corporate account’s balance. I was waiting for a wire from the Defense Finance Accounting Services (DFAS) - the Department of Defense’s financial arm - the final payment on another completed contract. That’s when I noticed my account had over one million dollars in it. The strange thing is, I recall being shocked by the sight of the $1 million balance not because it was unexpected - I knew I had made well over a million dollars by this point - but because it had no real effect on me at all. I was indifferent. I was an 18-year-old self-made millionaire - and it didn’t even faze me.

I did however treat myself to a 1993 Mercedes S320, which I paid $9,900 for. That was it. Not a Porsche or an Aston Martin, I bought a decade-old, big-body Benz - and I went right back to work! I was still wearing hand-me-down clothes and living in a shitty apartment, but I was too focused to care.

I’ve heard people say, “Efraim’s always known what he wanted in life and how he was going to achieve it,” but that’s not true. I didn’t know what I was doing. At that point, all I could see was what was right in front of me. I was bidding on everything I thought I could handle - often times more - and I was figuring out how to buy it and deliver it after I won the contracts. On top of that, most of the time I was stoned, drunk, coked up, or some combination of the three.

I HADN’T SPOKEN TO MY PARENTS IN MONTHS. My father was upset that I didn’t respect Orthodox Judaism, but he was proud of my success. My mother, however, was disappointed to the point of writing me off. She would break down every once in a while and call me, inviting me to dinner, and I would say, “I’m busy, but I’ll try.”

“Fine!” she would snap, “Come if you want. I don’t care!” and then she’d slam down the phone.

EVERY NOW AND THEN I stopped by to check up on her. I would pull up in my Mercedes, talking on my cell phone to a business associate, eating a McDonald’s Big Mac, with some chick sitting shotgun. My mother would scream, “Efraim! It’s the Sabbath, you shouldn’t be driving,” and I would just smile at her.

I used to tease her. I’d tell her, “Come on mom... you know I’m your favorite.”

She would always respond, “I love all my children equally,” but then she would give me this little sideways grin, and I knew - I was her favorite child... and her biggest disappointment. Sometimes it works out like that.

CHAPTER FIVE

EQUIVALENT SPECIFICATIONS

“In war, you win or lose, live or die - and the difference is an eyelash.” - General Douglas MacArthur

I MET THIS GIRL, this really amazing girl. Her name was Rachel, an orthodox “JAP” (Jewish American Princess) - or at least she wanted to be - with blonde hair and sapphire-blue eyes. She was 18-years-old, petite, a hundred pounds soaking wet, and only four foot eleven inches; she was built like a Barbie Doll. Rachel was in Yeshaya’s - my younger brother - class.

We met at the canal near North Miami Beach, while drinking beers with a small group of friends listening to the likes of Godsmack and Korn. It was only puppy love, but it felt real to me.

LIKE EVERY TEENAGE INTERNATIONAL ARMS DEALER’S FIRST RELATIONSHIP, it was rocky. We argued all the time, and it was mostly about me. I didn’t dress good enough for Rachel or spend enough money on her or spend enough quality time together - all of it was true. I was wearing old cargo pants and T-shirts, and no, I didn’t spend much money on her... or on myself, for that matter. I had realized that in this business, cash is king, and I needed to stay as liquid as possible. And yeah, I worked around the clock.

We would be on a date, having a romantic dinner at a restaurant and my cell phone would ring. She’d give me that look - that don’t you dare answer that look. But what choice did I have? It may have been eight o’clock at night in Miami Beach, but it was eleven o’clock in the morning in South Korea.

I was in the middle of a $2.4 million contract with the U.S. Embassy in Bogotá to supply M249 Squad Automatic Weapons to the Colombian Army. The M249 is the American version of the Belgian FN Minimi, a light machinegun manufactured by FN Herstal. The projected profit on the deal was already very decent - roughly $500,000 - but I had a contact in Seoul that could provide Daewoo K3 machine guns, the South Korean equivalent of the M249, at a substantial discount. The K3 had the same specifications; both were gas-operated and air-cooled, with a muzzle velocity of over 3000 feet per second and a rate of fire of 900 5.56 mm NATO rounds per minute. That call could have roughly doubled my profit to almost one million dollars... and it did. I convinced the U.S. Embassy to accept the South Korean K3s, netting AEY, Inc. just over $900,000.

THE THING ABOUT MOST FEDERAL GOVERNMENT CONTRACTS IS that everything is in the government’s favor - well, almost everything. One potential advantage to the contractor is the “equivalent or equal clause,” which is incorporated into most government contracts. Once a bidder is awarded a contract, the government allows for the contracted equipment to be substituted - with permission - for merchandise of “equivalent specifications.” It’s not a bait-and-switch; it’s taking advantage of the one thing that was in my favor. So, once I obtained a contract, I’d work on whittling down my costs. I’d convince the contracting agency to allow AEY, Inc. to swap out more expensive brand-name products with generic but technically equivalent merchandise. Canadian Med-eng bomb suits or British RBR ballistic shields turned into some generic South African manufacturer’s ballistic shields, and Knight Armaments’ unnecessarily overpriced SR-25’s 308 rifles, made in Florida, were swapped out for DPMS 308 rifles, manufactured in Minnesota, which were technical equivalents that satisfied the mission requirements for half the price.

DURING THE COLOMBIAN MACHINEGUN DEAL, I became friendly with Carlos Gonzalez, a Weapons Advisor with the U.S. Embassy in Bogotá who was helping supply and train the Colombian Special Forces. Since 1989, the United States had been supplying the Colombian government with military equipment and advisers to help it oppose the coca farmers, processors, drug traffickers, and the communist guerilla group FARC (Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia).

Carlos called around five o’clock on a Thursday. “Efraim,” he said, “I’m in Miami. I was wondering if I could come by, meet you in person.” I assumed he wanted to stop by AEY, Inc.’s nonexistent office. I didn’t want him knowing I was working out of my shitty efficiency, so I suggested we meet for lunch the following day. “No, I’m only in town for the day. I want to meet now - tonight. Get something to drink, maybe. Have you ever been to a Latin dance club?” He laughed, “Do you even know what salsa and merengue music is? Come on, meet me at the club.”

His agency was one of my best clients; they had just bought $2.4-million-worth of machine guns from my company. “Sure,” I said, “Where do you wanna go?”

We met at a salsa and merengue club in South Beach that, like most clubs, carded you at the door. I was only 19-years-old, but I got in without a problem. As a result of my drug and alcohol problem, I tended to lose my license all the time. However, while trying to track down one of my many lost cards, I’d figured out that it wasn’t an uncommon problem. Lots of people lost their identification cards. So whenever I bought gas, I got into the habit of telling the cashiers I had lost my ID recently and would they mind if I looked through their lost and found. They almost always had a stack of licenses behind the counter. I’d shuffle through them, grab the one that closest resembled me, hand the clerk a five and walk away with the card. I had multiple licenses.

It took me a few minutes to find Carlos in the crowd; it was wall-to-wall tan brunettes dancing to El Gran Combo and Tito Swing. There were colored strobe lights, lots of low-cut skirts, and I was looking for an average looking Spanish guy in a club full of Latinos. Carlos was leaning against the bar; I introduced myself and we shook hands, “Efraim,” he said, “I was expecting someone... How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Nineteen.” What was I going to say - you’re with the U.S. Embassy, go look it up? “But I look young for my age.”

He smiled politely, his eyes drifting over the liquor behind the bar. “How’d you get in here?”

“That’s an excellent question, Carlos,” I was starting to feel a little nervous. “Excellent question.” But I didn’t answer it, and I was starting to think this was a bad idea, when the bartender asked what I’d like to drink. “Vodka tonic with a lime,” I said while staring at Carlos.

She said, “ID, please,” and Carlos glanced at me expectantly. The stress of the situation was starting to make me thirsty, and I thought, fuck it! I pulled out my Juan C. Perez III Florida driver’s license, slipped the card to her, and watched Carlos’ eyes follow it.

“Juan Perez the third?” asked Carlos, as the bartender handed me back the license and poured me a shot of vodka. He laughed nervously, “Who are you?”

“I’m whoever the situation requires me to be... Right now I’m a twenty-five-year-old Latino.” Tomorrow I might be a 45-year-old bible thumper.

Carlos burst into laughter, “Unbelievable, this whole time I thought you were in your thirties - probably ex-military... Are you even Efraim Diveroli?”

We had several shots, danced with a couple Cuban girls, and a few hours later we were talking shop at a table, with two bronze brunettes. Carlos had been in Bogotá training Colombian forces for almost a decade. The narcotics traffickers and FARC - or “narco terrorists” - had declared “total war” against everyone involved in the campaign against the drug trade. They killed politicians and judges, blew up newspapers and police stations. The Colombians had lost a lot of soldiers, and he had lost several good friends. “It’s the wild wild West down there,” yelled Carlos, over the salsa music, “but it’s getting better.”

While he was insisting the Colombians were making real progress in the “war on drugs,” I was excusing myself every 20 minutes or so to do a couple of lines of what was probably high-grade Colombian cocaine in the restroom. When one of the girls commented on me rubbing my nose, I told her, “I’ve got the flu...”

She could tell I was lit up like a Christmas tree, and she snickered, “I wouldn’t mind some flu?” but Carlos didn’t catch it, and ten minutes later she and I were in the men’s room snorting coke off the porcelain sink.

I was pretty fucked up. I had this chick grabbing my crotch underneath the table, while I was pitching Carlos additional military supplies - body armor, ballistic helmets, ammunition, M-4 assault rifles, and more K-3 machine guns.

“We’re good on most of that... what else you got?” he chuckled.

“What about tactical goggles?” I’d just bought over 1,000 pairs of military spec fog-proof fragmentation goggles from a military contractor for $7 per. They were part of a 100,000-unit order for the U.S. Army that got cancelled. “Everyone needs a good pair of tactical goggles... and I’ve got ‘em in black, desert tan, and jungle green.”

Carlos grinned, “How much?”

“The military buys ‘em in lots of half a million for thirty-five dollars a pair, but if you take all one thousand... twenty-eight per.”

“It’s gotta go through the bidding process,” he said, “but we can probably work something out in the way of getting a solicitation out there.”

A few weeks later, Carlos had the U.S. Embassy put out a solicitation for 1,000 Tactical Goggles on fedbid.com with technical specifications that mirrored AEY, Inc.’s goggles - I made a bid and was awarded the contract. AEY, Inc. made roughly $20,000 in a night of partying, a $7,000 investment, and about an hour of work.

CHAPTER SIX

PIRATES OF THE DEFENSE INDUSTRY

“May God have mercy upon my enemies, because I won’t.” - General George Patton

“If you’re gonna set somebody up, it’s gotta be a surprise, you got that?” - Chili Palmer, Get Shorty (Movie)

IN FEBRUARY OF 2005, I spotted a large Army solicitation on “FedBizOpps” to supply weapons and munitions to the Iraq Security Forces. It was an enormous quantity of mostly Soviet and some NATO-type weapons and munitions, many of which I’d never even heard of, like the DShK (Degtyaryov-Shpagin Large Caliber) 12.7x108 mm drum magazine, heavy support machinegun and the SVD (Dragunov’s Sniper Rifle) 7.62x54 mm box magazine, long-rang semi-automatic gas-operated engagement weapon. These things weren’t your standard Smith & Wesson service revolvers.

IN LATE DECEMBER OF 1991, the hammer and sickle flag was lowered from the Kremlin and in its place rose the white, blue, and red flag of Russia. The Iron Curtain had been pulled back. The collapse of the Soviet Union completed the end of the Cold War by extinguishing Leninism in the homeland; what emerged from the wreckage were 15 independent states with a plethora of problems. All were in economic distress, had significant national minorities, and none had secure, legitimate boundaries.

The world had become a less scary place, but a more dangerous one. At the time of its breakup, the U.S.S.R. possessed the largest armed forces in the world - roughly four-million soldiers and a military armed with everything from small arms to advanced nuclear weapons - and now all of the newly independent countries possessed sizable stockpiles of weapons and munitions.

THE WARSAW PACT in May of 1955 had established a mutual-defense organization composed of the Soviet Union, Albania, Bulgaria, Czechoslovakia, Eastern Germany, Hungry, Poland, and Romania. The treaty provided for a unified Soviet command of the combined territories’ military. But after the collapse of the communist governments, there was no need for the newly independent countries to continue maintaining their massive inventories of weapons and munitions.

So, many of these cash-strapped countries began selling off huge quantities of their surplus armaments directly after announcing their independence. But recently there had been a resurgence in Central and Eastern European Cold War weapons and munitions sales.

During the collapse of the Albanian government in 1997, over half a million small arms and light weapons and several tons of ammunition were looted from the national arsenals around the country; most of the stolen weapons ended up in Kosovo helping to ignite armed conflict in that region.

As some countries jockeyed for NATO membership, they started selling off their excess armaments and modernizing their armed forces to NATO guidelines.

In 2001, Bulgaria sold over 200 Soviet battle tanks and other heavy weapons to finance NATO standard equipment. The Czech Republic sold off nearly 200 of their surplus battle tanks, 50 combat planes, and over 20,000 small arms in order to update their equipment. Poland shed 800 battle tanks in 2002. Romania sold off large quantities of surplus light and heavy weapons and munitions. Between 2003 and 2006, Slovakia’s military sold off 200 battle tanks and over 300 armored combat vehicles in an effort to fund their modernization program.

As a result of the destabilization, corruption, and surplus military hardware and ammunition throughout Central and Eastern Europe, the availability of Soviet-style weapons and munitions was as abundant as it was during the decade preceding the fall of the Berlin wall.

When I spotted the solicitation on “FedBizOpps,” I contacted Ralph Merrill to ask if he had any contacts in Eastern Europe.

“There’s a Swiss gentleman named Heinrich Thomet,” said Merrill. “I’ve dealt with him on Uzi parts and accessories.” Merrill spoke highly of Heinrich; he referred to him as a “savvy Swiss arms dealer.” He trusted him implicitly. Merrill had fronted Heinrich several million on multiple deals they had done together, and had used him to import thousands of Uzi-parts kits from South Africa to the U.S.

The three of us swapped emails and several phone calls regarding the solicitation’s weapons and ammunition requirements. Heinrich had great contacts throughout the old Soviet bloc and Eastern Europe. It took about a month, but between his people and my own sources, we submitted a pretty aggressive bid.

Roughly a month later, in April of 2005, AEY, Inc., Taos Industries, Blane International, DLS Inc., and SAS all simultaneously won an Indefinite Quantity Indefinite Delivery (IDIQ) for $51 million. That meant each company was now eligible to bid against one another for individual delivery orders. Essentially, we were a select group cutting each other’s throats over a piece of the $51 million contract, which was a bullshit move on the part of the Army. I was disappointed about not having won the entire contract outright, but not deterred.

AEY, INC. STARTED WINNING ALL THE DELIVERY ORDERS. Mini Compete One was for 1,000 EoTech Holographic laser sights for half a million dollars. Mini Compete Two consisted of 638 PKM machine guns for nearly $1 million. A few weeks after winning Mini Compete Four, an eclectic order of RPK heavy and light machine guns, AKMS rifles, PKM light machine guns, accessories, and ammunitions for nearly $2.7 million, I got a call at the office from Stephen Chiebus, a contracting officer in Iraq, “You won another one Diveroli,” he chuckled. Mini Compete Five was 12,220 AKMS rifles for nearly $1.5 million. “Your only real competition on this one was Blane International... From what I’ve heard, Milton Blane is pretty pissed. From the conversation we had... I’d say the guy’s gunning for you.”

Milton Blane was a 70-year-old defense contractor from Cumming, Georgia who had been in the arms industry for over 40 years, and my fledgling company was taking deal after deal from him. It got to be a running joke with the Iraqi contracting officers. They would call up laughing, “You just beat out old man Blane for another Mini Compete,” or “Blane lost another one.”

THE LOSSES GOT SO BAD for Milton Blane’s company that on July 26th of 2005, he contacted Immigration and Customs Enforcement and made a blatantly false report, hoping to get me arrested and AEY, Inc. suspended, thereby eliminating his main competition.

Blane stated, “This kid is illegally purchasing AK-47s from China and having them shipped to Bulgaria and Croatia” - a violation of the U.S. export laws and regulations. Once there, Blane said, the weapons were being re-stamped using the mark of Bulgarian and Croatian manufacturers before being forwarded to Iraq for the fulfillment of my U.S. Army contract. “What he’s doing is criminal.” The allegations were complete bullshit; I hadn’t done anything remotely like that - wouldn’t do anything like that.

The report was eventually forwarded to Agent Michael Mentavlos with the Defense Criminal Investigation Services (DCIS). Mentavlos immediately opened an investigation into the allegation.

BLANE’S UNDERHANDED TACTICS weren’t uncommon for military contractors or arms dealers. They were constantly trying to sabotage one another, and some arms dealers have even been known to kill off challengers. I beat out another competitor in mid-2005 on a contract to supply 100,000 pistol and rifle cleaning kits to Iraq. I won it at roughly $700,000. But I was so swamped with other orders that I decided to subcontract it out to another dealer - Beyong Kim, a defense contractor out of Newport News, Virginia - one of the same competitors AEY, Inc. had been consistently out-bidding on several non-weapons related procurements in Iraq.

I talked Kim into accepting what amounted to 30 percent of the profit margin to complete the contract AEY, Inc. had beat him out of. I should have known something was wrong... the guy was too eager to help. Kim ordered the cleaning kits from a South Korean supplier at I assume no less than $3.50 per kit, but he arranged the transportation to Iraq himself - it was supposed to be a quick clean $300,000 profit, less $90,000 for Kim.

The day the kits were supposed to arrive, I got an angry call from a contracting officer. “What the fuck, Diveroli!” he screamed, from Baghdad. “What’re you thinking; you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“No, I...” I replied genuinely shocked, this was my best client at the time and I definitely wouldn’t have done anything to upset them, “What’d I do?”

“Our cleaning kits arrived at Ummqasr port.”

“That’s great, right?”

“No, not great! They arrived in an Iranian cargo ship - an Iranian-flagged vessel!” A clear violation of not only AEY, Inc.’s U.S. Army contract, but U.S. law and possibly international sanctions. “Diveroli, you’re through!”

My first thought was, Kim! And then my adrenalin kicked into overdrive, “I’ve been sabotaged... hoodwinked,” I then explained what Kim had done and why. “The guy set me up, Lieutenant.”

“Huh,” he grunted, unconvinced. “Still... it’s still your responsibility.”

“Come on Lieutenant... what would Jesus do? It was an honest mistake. Let’s not turn this into an international incident here… nobody would benefit from that. It’s not going to look good for either of us, let’s just move past this and... complete the mission.” Just before our conversation ended I said, “By the way, did you sign off on the stuff?”

“Christ!” he scoffed; “You’ve got a real set on you.” He took a deep cleansing breath and said, “I’m doing it right now.”

NOT LONG AFTER I started winning the Mini Competes, I decided I needed some toys. I was at the point where the shitty car and grungy clothes were becoming a hindrance. I bought a silver Saab 9-5 with black leather interior and a stainless-steel Rolex Submariner, along with a half dozen Ermenegildo Zegna and Lanvin suits, Hugo Boss casual wear, and Cole Haan dress shoes. Believe it or not, it was hard to spend anything on myself - I’d worn my frugal existence like a badge of honor, bragging about buying off sales racks and clipping coupons. I’d never even taken a vacation.

I had a Class III Federal Firearms license, so I began collecting machine guns. They were the only thing I bought that I really enjoyed: two full-size Israeli-made Uzis, two H&K MP-5 sub-machine guns, two Bushmaster M-4 carbines, two AK-47 assault rifles - a Hungarian-made AMD-65 short barrel variant and an Egyptian-made standard Kalashnikov - and a Steyr AUG assault rifle... about twenty in all. I kept a loaded Uzi under my desk at all times, in case someone decided to go postal on me - I was a high-net worth individual, the grandson of Holocaust survivors, and I wasn’t planning on going out like a sheep to slaughter.

THERE WERE ADVANTAGES to being a small government contractor, and disadvantages. I was able to win bids with margins that larger outfits couldn’t afford to compete with. The downside was that I didn’t have a history with manufacturers or the ability to buy in large enough quantities to get the sort of significant discounts that were reserved for the manufacturer’s established distributors. So I improvised - I bid on a contract for 350 aviation helmets for the Air Force, below what I was told I could purchase the product for. You have to understand that it was a huge risk, and underbidding distributors’ or even dealers’ costs just isn’t done. It could have ruined AEY, Inc.’s performance record, and opened me up to serious litigation.

Once AEY, Inc. was awarded the contract - at roughly $123,000 - I contacted GenTex, a manufacturer of aviation helmets that met the Air Force’s specs. I told them I had won the contract and tried to place an order for the spec helmets at a price that would leave me with a reasonable profit margin.

“You’re screwing with me, right?” snapped the account executive. Apparently I had caused a real problem for GenTex’s account executive; he had already received several angry phone calls that morning from the company’s established distributors. They were in an uproar about being underbid on a product they - supposedly - had preferential pricing on. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done...? You underbid all our distributors, and now you want us to sell you the helmets for less than we’d have sold them to our own people for… not gonna happen.”

“Look,” I said, “I’m real sorry about that, I made a mistake. I’m new to this whole thing, but I’ve still got a contract for three hundred and fifty helmets here, and I need ‘em at two hundred and eighty-five apiece - to break even.” These were helmets that typically sold for no less than $340 apiece.

“Mister Diveroli,” he growled, “I can’t do that; my distributers would - ”

“I understand what you’re saying, but this doesn’t look good for either of us - they’re expecting GenTex helmets. I’ve gotta have those helmets and you don’t want the Air Force coming down on both of us, or cancelling the order altogether. We both know there’s no guarantee they’ll reorder the helmets. Even if they do, they might request an entirely different product that you don’t manufacture.”

“Christ!” barked the account executive. I could practically hear his teeth grinding through the phone. “Two eighty-five is at cost for us. I can’t approve that…”

“Then get it approved by a superior, because we’ve gotta get this done.”

He sighed, “I’ll check, but I doubt it... I’ll have to get back with you.” He didn’t sound hopeful, but he didn’t say no, either. So I immediately bought a cashier’s check in the amount of $100,000 and overnighted it to GenTex’s office.

The following day he called my cell phone, “What’re you doing?” he asked, perplexed. “I’ve got a cashier’s check here for...”

“Right, good, good, when do you think they’ll be ready; we’ve only got thirty days to deliver, so...”

“What’re you talking about?” he snapped. “We haven’t agreed to accept the two hundred and eighty-five dollar price yet.”

“You said you were going to get it approved…. I thought we had an agreement... You’ve got the check.”

The problem was “FedBizOpps” posted awards on their website, and GenTex’s account executive had checked the award amount for the helmets. “First off, we’re not letting you make twenty-three thousand dollars, when we’re breaking even.” Right then I knew GenTex was willing to do the deal; provided they thought I wasn’t making a profit.

“Come on, we both know I’m not making twenty-three grand; I’ve gotta pay for financing, shipping, employees, overhead...” I added a slight tremble to my voice, as if I might break down, “I’ve got a kid in college, my wife’s outta work, if I default on this contract, I... I... I don’t know what I’ll do...”

“All right...” he said, struggling with the decision, “I’m gonna email you a contract and I’ll deposit this... but this can’t ever happen again.”

After shipping and overhead, AEY, Inc. made a profit of roughly $20,000 on the aviation helmets. I’d turned a loser bid into a winner contract, and God, did it feel good.

I WAS TURNING five to ten percent margins into 20 to 25 percent profits, sometimes more. It was a huge adrenaline rush, and I became addicted to it, sometimes pushing the limits of what was legal, ethical, and socially acceptable. But every warrior has a code. As deep in it as I got, after people had taken multimillion-dollar chances on me, not one of them got burned.

CHAPTER SEVEN

LORD OF WAR

“There are over 550 million firearms in worldwide circulation. That’s one firearm for every 12 people on the planet. The only question is: How do we arm the other 11?” - Yuri Orlov, Lord of War (Movie)

“Efraim Diveroli [from a young age] knew exactly what he wanted to be; an arms dealer… he loved the arms industry’s intrigue and ruthless amorality… war criminals, soldiers of fortune, crooked diplomats…mercenaries loaded with arms.” - Guy Lawson, Rolling Stone

IN JULY AEY, INC. WAS AWARDED A U.S. ARMY CONTRACT for nearly $550,000 to supply the Iraqis with spotting scopes and tripods, ballistic helmets, shatter-resistant safety glasses, portable GPS, and a dozen other security-related items and accessories. It was a massive amount of items, including 13,000 flashlights and 2,100 electric measuring tapes. I was dealing with Harry Chang - a frail Chinese guy who owned KenDoo Technology - and at the time I only semi-trusted him.

Chang had arranged for the acquisition of most of the goods from several suppliers. I gave him a 30-percent deposit but insisted on inspecting the merchandise prior to sending the balance. If anything went wrong I couldn’t afford to lose the money or have it tied up in litigation - at the time it would have crippled my cash flow. So I asked Rachel if she wanted to come with me and Harry to China for a week.

“Seriously, Efraim...” squealed Rachel, “China?” I was amazed at how much shit this tiny little girl had packed for the trip - three huge bags of clothes. When I picked her up, I immediately thought, this was a mistake.

I’LL NEVER FORGET being at the Miami International Airport; I was about to hand my suitcase to the baggage handler, and Chang said, “Efraim,” he glanced respectfully at Rachel, “if someone were to get caught transporting drugs into China - even a small amount of recreational drugs - they would be shot and the People’s Republic of China would mail their family a bill for the cost of the bullet.” Rachel glanced at me knowingly. “It is that serious of an offense,” continued Chang, “and not even the United States could stop it.”

I didn’t know what type of drugs Chang thought I had in my bag, but I knew the little bit of weed I had, had to go. “Mister Chang, I’m going to need to go to the restroom for a second.”

I wheeled my suitcase into the men’s room and flushed the Ziploc bag of pot down the toilet.

THE FLIGHT TO HONG KONG (Fragrant Harbor) took 18 hours; we landed at Kai Tak International Airport in Kowloon and took a crowded underwater subway to Shenzhen, China - immediately north of Hong Kong. Shenzhen is a coastal city located in a special economic zone set up for foreign investment, foreign-owned joint ventures, business enterprises like manufacturing electronics and textiles - stuff like that. The place was concrete-and-aluminum factory after factory after factory... and hot like you can’t believe. Surface-of-the-sun hot.

We stayed at this generic little hotel, and the first thing Rachel did was order a kosher meal from a specialty delivery service - at $50 a plate. “Seriously,” I said, “Kosher in China?”

“Yes, Efraim... you might not want to follow the commandments in the Torah, but I do.”

The second thing she wanted to do was violate one of the commandments of the Torah, by having pre-marital sex. But who was I to call her a hypocrite?

The following morning, Chang and three of his associates - wiry Chinese guys in their mid-40s - took me to the warehouse. It was dark and dusty, packed with crates and pallets. I randomly opened several boxes and checked the items and turned on a couple-dozen of the GPS pads - everything worked and looked good, so I pulled out my cell phone and called my bank in Miami. “This is Efraim Diveroli,” I said to my account rep, then provided my account number and security code. “I need to have two hundred and forty thousand dollars wired to the bank of Su-chou in China (KenDoo Technology’s bank).” I was placed on hold and a couple of minutes later the account rep gave me the confirmation number.

Around ten o’clock that night, Chang called to ask if I wanted to be there when they loaded the containers. “Absolutely.”

It was hot and muggy at the warehouse, over 100 degrees, and it was in the middle of the night. Chang and his associates had 15 skinny kids who looked between the ages of 13 and 15 years old loading two 40-foot steel cargo containers. I felt horrible for them. I’d had some shitty summer jobs, but I’d never worked the midnight shift on the docks, loading cargo in 100-degree heat and humidity.

“Efraim,” said Chang, “I’m not sure the boys will be finished loading both containers in time to make the next vessel.” If we missed that ship, it could be days before the container could be slotted for the next cargo vessel. The shipment was already two weeks overdue; I had already wired the money and needed to complete the contract.

“Fuck that!” I snapped - I had no intention of leaving China without my merchandise being on a vessel - so I bent over and grabbed a box of First Aid Kits. Chang and his associates looked shocked as I started helping the child laborers load the cargo, but they didn’t help. The kids and I packed both containers over the next several hours. When the steel doors were finally bolted, I handed the teens a crisp twenty each - which must have been the equivalent of several days’ labor because the look on their faces is something I’ll never forget.

When I got back to the hotel, I was drenched in sweat and filth, and smelled like body odor and cigarettes. Rachel shrieked, “Oh my lord, Efraim, you’re disgusting!” But I didn’t care what she thought. That shipment represented over a $150,000 profit, and at the rate our relationship was deteriorating, she would be gone within a few months. Hopefully I could make the money last.

Once I knew the containers were safely on their way, Rachel and I headed to Hong Kong. We checked into the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, an opulent Chinese palace filled with red silk and Wu school prints.

The city of Hong Kong was bustling with activity. It’s one of the world’s most crowded places, with about six million people on less than 20 square miles of land. The urban center is packed with shops and open-air markets, where merchants sell fresh vegetables, fish and poultry; luxury high-rise buildings wrap around Victoria Harbor and line the narrow streets crowded with top-of-the-line BMWs and Mercedes-Benzes - it really is the Manhattan of the East.

We bought knockoff name-brand wallets and purses, sang at a Karaoke bar in downtown Hong Kong, and visited Walt Disney World in Mainland China - a “must see” as far as Rachel was concerned. But one of the coolest things we did was take the sky trolley up Victoria Mountain. At the peak we could see virtually all of Hong Kong. It was an amazing sight.

We bickered and picked at one another for most of the trip. In Shanghai I bought a lamb-kabob thing in the shopping district and got really sick - violently sick. I was sweating and shaking, while puking my guts out in a garbage can. Rachel just stood there, hands on hips, tapping her foot, making comments. “You don’t wanna eat kosher... this is what happens,” and “It’s God’s will.”

She was void of sympathy. At one point, I thought, this chick must fucking hate me. She was an Orthodox Jew and I was a born-again Pagan. The relationship was doomed; we were just too young to know it.

NOT LONG AFTER I RETURNED TO MIAMI, Chang asked me to meet him for coffee at a local cafe. Over lattes, he asked if I would be interested in another deal, “A very lucrative deal,” he said. Chang knew I had supplied AK-47 assault rifles to the U.S. Government, and he wanted to know if I could get him 10,000 of them. “My clients are willing to pay one hundred and thirty dollars per rifle. They’ll be going somewhere in South America... I’m working on that now,” said Chang. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing to... Listen, I can’t just ship ‘em anywhere, flooding South America with AKs. I need to make an application with the State Department’s Directorate of Defense Trade Controls office, and to do that I need an End User Certificate from the country they’re ultimately destined for. Who are these for anyway? Maybe I can assist with obtaining the necessary documentation...”

“They’re for the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia.” He said the name as if it changed nothing, like I’d be shipping them to Wal-Mart. “But we can’t ship them directly to Colombia because…”

“FARC?” I chuckled nervously, “No, no, no... that’s a violation of some serious fucking U.S. and probably international laws. That’s serious prison time we’re talking about here, Mister Chang.” FARC was listed as a terrorist organization by the U.S.; any attempt to supply them with arms would be considered participation in a conspiracy to kill U.S. nationals. Besides being 100-percent illegal, I had just supplied 500 K-3 machine guns to the U.S. Embassy in Bogotá for the Colombians to combat the narco traffickers and FARC. Plus I was friends with Carlos. “Mister Chang, I’m on the other side of that conflict… absolutely not.”

About a week later, Chang called my cell phone. “They’ve got someone in the Peruvian military that’ll provide you with an End User Certificate... very legal, yes.”

I could only imagine what that was going to cost him. Had he never mentioned FARC I’d have gladly shipped the 10,000 AKs to the Peruvian military, which was perfectly legal - I could have easily done that. Hell, I could have forged the End User Certificate for Colombia and had FARC pick up the AKs at the dock, but morally I just couldn’t, knowing they would end up in the hands of the same narco terrorists the Colombian Special Forces and U.S. were fighting. Plus, the possibility of a stiff prison sentence certainly was a factor in my decision.

“Mister Chang I’ve got a buddy that works at the U.S. Embassy in Bogotá, supporting the Colombian anti-drug forces... I can’t do it, sorry.”

“They’re willing to pay one hundred and sixty-five per rifle,” said Chang. “That would be roughly a million dollar profit for you.”

Honestly, how close was I with Carlos? We had only met once. “No, no, no! I can’t do it. I can’t provide weapons for both sides!” I laughed. “I’m not the Lord of War...”

IN EARLY 2005, I moved into the Executive Condominiums in Miami Beach, a historic building built in the early 1920s where the famous mobster, Meyer Lansky, once lived. I was working out of my apartment, doing really well, but the paperwork was just getting to be too much. I couldn’t keep up with all the banking and accounting. I brought in my aunt Julie to handle the dizzying array of filing and organizational office work. She is this recluse, without anyone in her life, and a constant pain in my ass. Aunt Julie kvetched and moaned all the time about anything and everything. She was scared of her own shadow and thought everything was a conspiracy and everyone was out to get her - and me. She was superstitious, visited psychics, and was constantly doing tarot card readings in the office - a real nutcase. But, I know her heart was in the right place, I love her to death for it, and always will.

“You’re gonna crash and burn, nephew,” warned Aunt Julie constantly, “It’s all gonna come crashing down, trust me.”

She tracked my every move. If I went out clubbing or came into work stoned, Aunt Julie would yell at me. She tried to keep me on a short leash, but it was useless. I didn’t listen to her. I was making millions and could care less what she thought.

RACHEL AND I DIDN’T EXACTLY BREAK UP. She just couldn’t put up with my work schedule and drug use. She gave me an ultimatum and stopped calling.

I was pretty broken up about it; she was my first real girlfriend. About a week later, I was getting drunk on Jose Cuervo with Jon, whining about how I’d never find someone like her, never feel that way again, never be in love again - crying the first love blues.

We had just finished the bottle when Jon said, “Fuck Rachel! She cheated on you anyway, dude.”

“No,” I replied, thinking he was just trying to make me feel better, “she was a good girl, I fucked it all up. She deserved better and she knew it... I’m a maniac.”

“Bro,” he sighed, finishing off his glass of Cuervo, “She tried to make out with me at a party a couple of months ago.”

Five minutes later - drunk and distraught - I drove my car over the curb of Rachel’s parents’ yard and onto their lawn. I stumbled out and started banging on her bedroom window, crying and screaming about how much I loved her and how she had ruined my life. Looking back, it was a pathetic scene, which I will forever be embarrassed about.

Rachel came to the window and yelled, “Go home, you’re drunk!” Her mother yanked open the front door with the phone in her hand and screamed, “Efraim, I’m calling 911… leave!”

“You’re not calling anyone,” I yelled, “It’s the Sabbath!” When her mother started dialing I realized she wasn’t fucking around, and I slinked back to my car and drove off.

A MONTH LATER, I had forgotten all about the incident when I was served a summons to appear in court for a hearing on Rachel’s petition for a restraining order. I delayed the proceedings several times, but when I eventually had to appear in court Rachel didn’t even show up and the entire case was dismissed.

I’ve never actually broken up with a woman. Typically, I drive the relationship into the ground, and then I just stop calling her or she stops calling me. I would cheat or would get so busy I’d forget to show up for dates - no woman is going to put up with that for very long. My relationships don’t end amicably so much as they implode.

IN NOVEMBER OF 2005, I went to a college dinner party in a South Miami neighborhood at a Rabbi’s house with an old acquaintance from the neighborhood, David Packouz. We were only going in the hope of meeting some girls. I had known Packouz since I was 14-years-old; he was on the fringes of a group of guys I used to hang out with, getting high. He struck me as a narcissistic wannabe pop star, with a shaved head, zero confidence, and even less talent. He wasn’t doing very well, as far as I could see. We started talking - catching up.

Packouz was working as a massage therapist; I got the impression that for an extra $50 he’d give his clients a happy ending. But he must not have been very good at that either, because he was dead broke. Packouz was driving a rusted-out Mazda Protégé and living in a shitty efficiency in a rough area of Biscayne Bay - nowhere near the beach.

I had just completed a $3 million contract to sell AK-47 assault rifles to the Department of Defense to supply the Iraq Security Forces, and yeah, I was probably bragging about how much I loved the arms business - the adrenalin involved in putting together deals, and, of course, the money.

Packouz was acutely interested. He’d already done some online business himself, buying linens from textile companies in Pakistan and selling them to distributors in Miami, but he wasn’t dealing with anywhere near the sums I was dealing with.

HE ASKED ME what kind of money I was making. “Dude, if you had to leave the country tomorrow, how much would you have… cold hard cash in the bank right now?”

“One mil’, eight hundred thousand,” I replied. “In cash.”

“Dude.” Packouz wanted in immediately. He started following me around like a stray dog - hounding me until I let him in. So I printed up 1,000 business cards; listing my old buddy as an “Account Executive,” and let him start hanging around. He was working strictly on commission.

I liked Packouz, but after a couple of weeks, I realized he wasn’t aggressive or proactive enough. In sales, especially when you’re dealing with the military or weapons and munitions manufacturers, you’ve got to push all the time: call distributors, email manufacturers, and visit wholesalers. Be polite and professional, but always apply pressure.

I would tell Packouz, “Make sure to fax that quote over before you leave, we need if for the bid next week.”

“Bro,” he would reply, “they’re not going anywhere. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

Packouz couldn’t seem to grasp the concept of high-pressure sales or business decorum. Whether I was drunk, half-baked or coked up, I was always professional, and I never stopped applying pressure - he just couldn’t get it. He wasn’t a closer.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE SHIKSA

“The faint of heart never won a fair lady.” - General George Armstrong Custer

PACKOUZ AND I MET FOR DRINKS AT PURDY LOUNGE. It was a trendy dance bar that played contemporary hits, from reggae to hard rock. Lots of skinny jeans and miniskirts, tramp stamps and fuck-me pumps. Dim lights and loud music. It was constantly filled with women drinking shot after shot of whatever the guys were buying them, and washing them down with giggles and hair flips - my kind of place.

Purdy was a great place to pick up girls. I was shameless in my approach with women, hitting on them one after another. I’d be flirting with a sorority girl, and the moment I saw she wasn’t interested, I would start chatting up her friends; if that didn’t work out, I would turn my charms on the next blonde or brunette who walked by.

“My God, Efraim,” chuckled Packouz, after witnessing my systematic approach to meeting women. “You must get turned down all the time...”

“Yeah,” I responded, “but I pick up a lot of women; and I’ll leave here with someone tonight.” I wasn’t interested in relationships; I was interested in one-night stands. I worked all the time, dawn to dusk. If my failed relationship with Rachel had taught me anything, it was that I wasn’t dating material.

That’s when I noticed this chick at the bar. Jenna was a 23-year-old, half-Chinese/half-white girl from Ohio, five foot three inches, and 120 pounds. She had a Panda bear-like face and a La Bre - a little metal-ball face piercing - between her lower lip and her chin. She said she was an “Adjunct Professor” at Florida International University - a glorified teacher’s aide. Jenna was more sexy than hot; she liked to act nouveau riche - without the new money. She was trashy - a dirty curvy porcelain doll - and the strange thing is I couldn’t get enough of her.

I APPROACHED HER AT THE BAR and ordered another round of “Whatever she’s having.” The bartender handed Jenna another Cosmo, and she told me, “Danke.”

“Okay...” I replied.

“What, you don’t speak German?” she said, with a flirtatious attitude. “It means thank you.” Jenna thought she was the “it” girl, and to me... she was.

I asked her, “Do you wanna party?”

“Sure,” she shrugged, and then Jenna glanced at Packouz, who was hitting on some sorority girl and said, “You know, your friend over there? You know he’s a douche-bag, right?”

“Yeah,” I laughed. “But he’s good for a laugh.”

We did a few lines in the restroom, and she asked, “How old are you?”

“Old enough.” We had a dozen shots at the bar and danced for a couple hours. By the end of the night, we were sitting in my new Saab talking and making out. I was hooked on this chick. She was uninhibited - nothing like Rachel.

I CALLED JENNA THE NEXT DAY and asked her out. “Efraim,” she said, “you seem like a nice kid, and I had fun the other day, but I’m seeing someone.” She was dating some guy in the Coast Guard.

“Well, I won’t mention our date to him.”

She giggled, “I’m sure you won’t... Where do you wanna go?”

We went to Sushi Siam, a nice sushi bar in South Beach. Over tempura and sashimi - and a whole lot of steaming hot sake - Jenna and I flirted. She asked, “What do you do for a living?”

I got the impression that Jenna was the tree hugging, save the whales, feed the children type, so I went with my generic “I’m a government contractor” response. “A salesman, really.” And she dropped it.

We ended up back at her place, a cookie-cutter apartment with cheap carpet and chipped Formica counters. I noticed a book bag on the kitchen table with a patch on it that read, “Arms Are For Hugging,” and another one that had an arrow pointing to her side that read, “These Are All The Arms We Need” plus a peace symbol. I thought I might want to hold off on mentioning the international arms dealer thing. We were on her couch making out, and I wasn’t trying anything - just some heavy petting and a little tongue... I was totally slow-playing her. I didn’t want to pressure her, she had a boyfriend and - she was older than me, so I was nervous.

Around a week later, on our third “date,” Jenna and I were at her apartment, and I made my move. We were kissing and I slid my hand between her thighs. “You have a condom?” I asked, “‘Cause I don’t, but enough is enough.” I looked at her bedroom door. “We’ve gotta do this... now.”

Jenna said, “Finally.” I couldn’t believe it - I had been taking my time and it turned out she was ready to go all along.

A minute later she had her top off and I pulled off her Victoria’s Secret thong and bra. She yanked at my belt-buckle as I yanked off my shirt, and a second later Jenna was on her back with her legs wrapped around my waist, her stilettos digging into my ass and thighs.

Jenna grinded against me, dug her nails into my back and moaned, “I’ve been wanting to do this since that night at the bar.”

After we had finished, lying on our backs and tangled in the sheets, I said, “You gotta get rid’a the guy in the Coast Guard.”

Jenna stared up at the ceiling and sighed, “I know.” She broke it off with her boyfriend the following day, and we started seeing each other every night.

WE HAD BEEN DATING ABOUT A WEEK when I told Jenna I loved her. I was that into her. We were walking her dog, a Schnauzer/Poodle mix thing she called a “Shnoodle” named Oliver, and it started raining - a light sprinkling. We stopped about a block from her apartment, and started kissing and grinning at one another - the way couples do when a relationship is new. That’s when I told her. She was soaking wet and I just knew I was in love, and I had to say it, “I love you.”

She grinned, “I love you too.” I was so relieved; I didn’t even care whether she meant it.

Within a month, Jenna had asked her roommate to move out, and I moved into her 700-square-foot two-bedroom in the Greenwich Studio Apartments. I turned the second bedroom into my office and started working out of our apartment. Her little dog barked all the time. Ruff! Ruff! Ruff! Even when we were sleeping together. In retaliation, I used to get stoned and pop shots at it with my Airsoft gun. Jenna would scream, “Stop abusing my dog, Efraim!” and I’d yell back, “It’s our dog now, woman!”

Jenna worked during the week, so she was gone during the day, while I negotiated with suppliers and manufacturers. Every once in a while she heard me discussing, “ten-thousand 5.56 mm” or “two-thousand helmets” or “thirty-five-hundred GPS pads,” but I was careful not to discuss weapons in front of her. I wouldn’t say I was hiding it; I just didn’t go out of my way to throw it in her face.

She was more than just some chick I was dating; she was my partner in crime and my best friend. I really liked this girl. I hesitate to mention this next thing, simply because it’s so embarrassing, but I feel it adequately conveys the depth of my love for Jenna: I was so in love that we actually had pet names for one another. Because we both thought she resembled a Panda Bear, Jenna was dubbed “Panda Bear,” and because I was bigger than she was, she referred to me as “Big Bear” or just “Bear.” We even used to introduce ourselves to other couples as “The Bears.” Isn’t that humiliating? That’s how in love I was with this girl.

DON’T GET ME WRONG, our relationship wasn’t 100 percent bliss - between my alcohol binges and drug-induced mania, and Jenna’s bipolar mood swings, we had our problems. Her prescription of Zoloft wasn’t exactly the medical cure her doctor had promised.

Screaming matches and breakups were common, and my mother was always ready to pounce on an opportunity to remind me I was living in sin with a shiksa. She would call me every time she got word of a disagreement between Jenna and me. My mother would cry, “You’ve got to stop seeing this... this shiksa! What if she gets - God forbid - pregnant!? Your children won’t be Jewish... Your family will disown you. Disown you!” She would scream, “Is that what you want!? Is that what you want!? “

The calls from my mother were a constant theme in my life. I would put in a ten- to 12-hour day, grab my Pyrex water pipe, smoke some weed, and listen to my mother’s voicemails. “Efraim!” she would say, “It must have been me. I wasn’t a good mother. Oh Lord, what have I done? Why? Why! I tried so hard to raise a good Jewish boy. Why did this happen to me?!”

I WAS STILL PRETTY MUCH A ONE MAN OPERATION. My aunt Julie was strictly a part-time assistant, taking messages, running errands, and filing invoices. I worked out of Jenna’s apartment, but the money was rolling in. My company was doing over $1 million in sales a month; I needed help. I hired a Haitian exile named Ronald Ledain Didier off Craigslist to be AEY, Inc.’s “Operations Manager.” The guy had no papers - I had to pay him in cash every week - but he was a great employee, a true soldier.

After a month of working out of Jenna’s apartment, the place started to get crowded; there were file cabinets in the dining nook, stacks of paperwork on the kitchen table, and a fax machine and copier crammed into the bedroom. It didn’t bother me, I liked working out of the place, but Jenna and Ronald started giving me a hard time, so I leased a 300-square-foot office on 41st Street in Miami Beach - a low-rent generic office complex called the 925 Building. Eggshell walls and beige carpet.

JUST AFTER I OPENED THE OFFICE, in late December of 2005, I surprised Jenna with a ten-day Royal Caribbean cruise. The Jewel of the Seas was a massive, sleek ocean liner with over 500 rooms, half a dozen restaurants, several pools, spas and saunas, and a huge rock-climbing wall. The ship docked in Key West, the Cayman Islands, and Cozumel, Mexico.

In Key West, we pounded Margaritas and ate like pigs, but at Grand Cayman we got massages and walked the cool coral beaches while holding hands - Jenna always wanted to hold hands and kiss; she was very affectionate, which I liked. We ate mangos and drank at a thatch-roofed beachfront greasy spoon, frequented by tourists and surrounded by coconut palms and banana trees. Jenna kept trying to pick up the tab, but I wouldn’t let her - it was very cute. In her eyes I was just a 19-year-old boy who had scraped together some money to impress his older girlfriend, and I let her believe that.

We rode wave runners, swam, and scuba-dived in the clear blue waters of the Caribbean among the tropical fish and coral reefs.

THAT NIGHT JENNA AND I were lying in bed in our suite, wrapped in each other’s arms, staring out of the cabin’s sliding glass door at the Gulf of Mexico. Jenna whispered, “God, baby, you’ve spent so much on this trip... You didn’t have to do this for me.”

“It’s not a big deal.” I was exhausted. I had had too much sun and too much alcohol.

“I’m serious,” she said, squeezing her arms around my waist. “It’s too much.” I was driving a Saab and sporting a stainless steel Rolex Submariner, but I was crashing at her place and I had never mentioned money to Jenna. She still thought I primarily sold gasmasks and uniforms for a living.

“It wasn’t a lot of money,” I responded, dozing off. “It’s nothing...”

But Jenna just wouldn’t let it go. “Still, you don’t have to spend all your money on me.”

“Jenna, this isn’t even the interest on my money,” I chuckled softly. “I’ve got millions... go to sleep.”

She immediately pulled away from me, slid up onto her knees and asked, “What did you say?” Jenna had dated a succession of less-than-successful guys in the past, so it came as a shock that her teen boy-toy was worth millions. Her naked body was lit by the moon’s bluish light; she pulled a pillow over her exposed breasts and held it tight to her chest. “I thought you were a contractor for the government?”

“Yeah, but, I’m a private contractor, not some civil servant eking out a living, hoping to put in twenty-five and retiring on a thirty-grand-a-year pension.”

THE NEXT MORNING WHEN WE WOKE UP, the ship was docked in San Miguel de Cozumel, Cozumel Island, approximately ten miles off the eastern coast of Mexico’s Yucatán Peninsula. It was jam-packed with tourist resorts and surrounded by gorgeous sandy beaches. The brochure said it had excellent fishing, boating, and scuba diving, but we didn’t do any of that stuff.

Our first day in port was my birthday, and Jenna surprised me by making a reservation for us to swim with dolphins in the clear waters of the Caribbean Sea. They feel like rubber, by the way. The following morning we took a short boat ride to Playa del Carmen on the mainland of Mexico and rented a white 1970s VW Beatle. I couldn’t drive stick, so Jenna drove us to the Mayan Chichen Itza; an ancient city founded in the 6th century, deep in the south-central jungle of the Yucatán.

AT CHICHEN ITZA, the “Mouths of the Wells,” we took a tour of the remarkable limestone ruins of the Temple of the Warriors, the massive ball court where the Mayan’s played tlachtli for their lives and the lives of their families - these were serious gamblers. We were looking into the deep blackness of the cenotes (wells), when the tour guide told our group, “The cult of the cenote sacrificed young children along with gold and jade ornaments, by throwing them into the darkness of the wells.”

I looked at Jenna and whispered, “The kids I get, but the gold?”

An hour later we were climbing the tall Castillo (the great pyramid) when I got a call from a contracting officer in Baghdad, regarding an order of PKM machine guns for the Iraq Security Forces. The conversation was brief, but Jenna definitely overheard me say, “machine guns.” We reached the top of the great pyramid - dripping with sweat - sat on the edge of the limestone cap, and looked out over city’s ruins. “So,” asked Jenna, “what type of stuff do you sell to the government?”

I knew the answer was a potential issue for her, depending on her convictions at the moment. Jenna proclaimed to be a vegetarian, but she typically ate half my steak. She was supposedly “done with drugs”, but was always asking for a bump of coke or a hit from my joint. It was impossible to predict how she would react.

“All kinds of stuff, I’ve sold uniforms, bomb suits, radiation detection equipment…”

“Huh,” she looked skeptical. “What do you sell the most of?” She cocked her head to the side and took a sip of the Stolichnaya and lime that I’d filled our mineral water bottles with earlier that morning.

“Well... that’s hard to say, I... I do occasionally sell weapons and munitions to the Department of State and Homeland Security...” I shrugged, “and the Army.”

Jenna glanced at me. “Are you an arms dealer?” She held her hands up to her mouth, “I can’t date an arms dealer!” but she didn’t sound all that convincing.

“Well yeah, but I’m on the good guys’ side: freedom, democracy, and all that. I’m a patriot.”

“Uh huh,” she grunted, unconvinced. “And it pays well, right?” As principled as Jenna wanted to be, she wasn’t going to leave me. I was a 19-year-old multi-millionaire - weapons of death or not, she wasn’t going anywhere.

I HAD STEADILY DRAINED my mineral water bottle throughout the day and most of Jenna’s; so I was fairly intoxicated by the time we got back to the VW Bug, and I insisted on driving back.

“Efraim,” said Jenna, “you’re drunk and you don’t even know how to drive stick.”

“So teach me.” It was a catastrophe. I was grinding gears and burning the clutch all the way down the highway. Eventually I broke something and the little Beetle ground to a halt on the side of the interstate.

Jenna and I thought it was pretty comical that I’d broken it, until the cops showed up. They could see I was drunk. The taller of the two made the universal drinking or drunk sign, tipping his hand to his mouth. “Drinky, drinky,” he said in a thick accent, “No good. No good.”

I looked at Jenna and back to the Mexican officers in confusion, “Drinky? I’m not drunk; what’re you talking about?”

What I liked about Mexican law enforcement was their directness. After giving me the onceover and making a couple of comments about “drunk driving” and “jail,” they flat out said, “You pay fine now... No go to jail.”

“Not a problem,” I laughed. “How much are we talkin’ about?” I pulled out my wallet and started peeling off greenbacks until we agreed on an amount - around $200. I shoved the money in the cop’s hand and said, “Now, you’ve gotta tow us back to Playa de Carmel. Pronto! Our ship leaves in an hour.” We actually had five or six hours, but they didn’t need to know that.

The Mexican officers griped a little, but they eventually pulled - honest to God - a green garden hose, out of their cruiser’s trunk and tied it around both of our vehicles’ bumpers. I climbed back behind the wheel and they towed us back to the rental company’s lot, with Jenna and me laughing the whole way.

A WEEK OR SO AFTER WE GOT BACK from Mexico - in late December - my aunt told me what AEY, Inc.’s final numbers for 2005 were. My company had delivered over $7.3 million worth of goods to the Departments of Energy, Defense, Homeland Security, and even the Environmental Protection Agency, in addition to nearly $9 million to the U.S. Army for the Iraq Security Forces.

I was in love with a great girl and making millions - life was good! I went out and leased a black Audi Quattro A6, with a V8 power plant, black leather interior and a ten-speaker stereo. It was modern and luxurious. And then you know what I did? I went right back to work. Because that’s what I do!

CHAPTER NINE

SIN CITY BABY!

“God made man, but Samuel Colt made them equal.” - Colt Manufacturing advertisement

IN JANUARY OF 2006, I went to the annual SHOT (Shooting Hunting and Outdoor Trade) show in Las Vegas, Nevada. The place was awesome, strip clubs and casinos 24/7 - who doesn’t love that? Everything in Vegas is bigger than life and wrapped in neon. We stayed at the MGM Grand Hotel and did a little gambling in the casino.

The expo was held at the Vegas Convention Center; it was the mecca of the gun business, and all the industry’s heavyweights attended; I actually met Gaston Glock, the owner and founder of Glock Pistol Company. It was pure Vegas, lots of glitz and glamour. There were gorgeous models strutting around with automatic weapons, wearing nothing but Kevlar body armor and black thongs - guns and ammo porn. Every major domestic manufacturer and dozens of foreign companies were there exhibiting their products; Knight’s Armaments was showing off their 7.62 mm SR-25 semi auto sniper rifles, Bushmaster was pitching their AR-15s, and ATK was marketing their flagship Federal ammunition line.

That’s the first time I met Heinrich Thomet in person. He’d been a crucial supplier on several Iraq deals, but we’d never met. Heinrich was a tall, polished Swiss German in his early 40s, with typical German features - light brown hair and the piercing blue eyes of an Aryan. He wore nice expensive suits and had a pretty girl by his side, his assistant Amanda today.

Heinrich had been in the business since he was my age and had connections all over the globe - especially in Central and Eastern Europe. Heinrich knew King Abdullah of Jordan and the notorious international arms dealer Viktor Bout - the man known as the “Merchant of Death.”

Amnesty International had accused Heinrich of smuggling weapons out of Zimbabwe - a violation of U.S. sanctions. He was currently under investigation by the Central Intelligence Agency and the Defense Department Intelligence Agency for shipping weapons and APCs (Armored Personnel Carriers) from Serbia to Iraq. He was an amazing character who had supplied weapons to dozens of countries’ militaries and rebel armies. He’d done it all... Heinrich was a real live Lord of War; I wanted to be just like him.

Heinrich and I were in the middle of completing a bid on a Department of Defense contract for 650 APCs (Armored Personnel Carriers) that also had to meet MPV (Mine Protected Vehicle) specifications, making them impervious against IEDs (Improvised Explosive Devices). We were essentially looking for armored personnel carriers with mine-resistant features. Heinrich insisted he could get the spec vehicle made by a large state-owned manufacturer out of India. “Efraim,” Heinrich said, with a slight German accent, “they can deliver - no problem... Very solid government company, okay.”

The initial order called for five prototype or sample vehicles; once the Army inspected them, the lowest bidder would be awarded the contract for the remaining 645 APC-MPVs. AEY, Inc. had bid out each vehicle at $230,000 per. “And you’re sure they can deliver ‘em for one hundred and ninety thousand?” I asked Heinrich. That was a $26 million profit to AEY, Inc. after Heinrich’s cut.

“Yes, Efraim... have I ever let you down?” He hadn’t. Up until that point, Heinrich had consistently delivered on every order - late - but he always delivered. However, within several weeks, Heinrich’s “solid manufacturer” was making excuses and missing deadlines on the delivery of the initial five APC-MPVs. They couldn’t meet the Army’s MPV specifications. It was a nightmare... Heinrich kept saying to give them more time, “Next week, next week.” by the time I realized they couldn’t do it, it was too late to get another manufacturer. It was the first time Heinrich let me down and cost me tens of millions of dollars in potential profit in the process. The incident also seriously jeopardized my standing as a government contractor and exposed me to massive re-procurement fees and other damages related to AEY’s default.

THE FALLOUT FROM THE APC-MPV deal almost sank me. I got several nasty letters from the Director of the Indian company, threatening to sue me for their research and development costs, even though I didn’t have a contract with them - Heinrich supposedly did - and it was their delays that caused AEY, Inc. to lose the APC-MPV contract.

As soon as the Indians realized they didn’t have a case, the Department of Defense started threatening to go after AEY, Inc. for their re-procurement and administrative costs. I ended up getting off with a non-performance notation of AEY, Inc.’s record, which could have affected our contractor statues, but it didn’t seem to.

I KNEW JENNA WAS REALLY IN LOVE WITH ME in early 2006; we’d been out all night dancing and partying with her friends Farren, Jacky, and Christina. I had been drinking vodka and snorting coke most of the night. When we got back home, Jenna and her friends headed to the kitchen for ice cream, and I pulled out my Pyrex water pipe. I thought the weed would help bring me down - level me out... and it did. I passed out on the couch, drool running down my face. Twenty minutes later I woke to a discussion, between Jenna and her friends - about me.

“You can’t be serious about this guy,” said Farren. “He’s a maniac, Jenna... look at him.”

“She’s right,” agreed Jacky, who was no lightweight herself. “He is out of control.”

“I know, but I can’t help it... I’m in love with the kid.” That was when I was 100-percent sure she was hooked.

MY MOTHER WAS STILL CALLING. “Please Efraim,” she would cry into the phone. “Your aunt says this girl is Chinese... What are you thinking?”

“Half-Chinese ma’… they make some excellent stuff in that country.”

“Why are you doing this to your mother? Why? Why!” The calls never ended. My mother would rather I be a serial killer and married to a Jewish woman with five kids in Hebrew school, than a multimillionaire businessman dating a shiksa. That’s just the way it is; if you’re not an Orthodox Jew you wouldn’t understand.

“What do you want me to tell you, Mom? I like this girl. I mean… I really like her!” That was irrelevant to my mother. What mattered - the only things that mattered - were your religion and your family. Period.

CHAPTER TEN

THE CITY OF LIGHTS

“I’m proud of my invention [the AK-47 assault rifle], but I’m sad that it is used by terrorists.” - Mikhail Kalashnikov

IN JUNE OF 2006, I took Packouz and flew to France for the Eurosatory. It was the world’s largest defense expo, held at the Paris Nord Villepinte Exhibition Center.

I was headed to the trade show to find a supplier for weapons, munitions, and parts to fulfill a subcontract I had accepted for a Lockheed Martin subsidiary on behalf of the U.S. State Department to supply weapons to several countries in Africa, specifically Chad, Niger, and Liberia.

It was midnight when we arrived. As the Boeing 747 banked toward the runway at Charles de Gaulle International Airport, I got an aerial view of the Eiffel Tower lit up by the Parisian floodlights. It was an awesome sight.

YOU OFTEN HEAR THAT PARIS IS ONE OF THE MOST BEAUTIFUL CITIES IN THE WORLD. It’s absolutely true. The city is littered with landscaped parks and lush gardens, chestnut trees line the grand avenues, and there are beautiful women with sexy accents everywhere. Everywhere! It’s also called the city of lights: At night, floodlights illuminate Paris’ historic monuments, the Cathedral of Notre Dame and the Arc de Triomphe. I immediately loved the place.

AT THE NORD VILLEPINTE EXHIBITION CENTER, there were hundreds of arms manufacturers displaying their latest weapons. We were totally stoked to be there. The auditorium was enormous - polished concrete and marble, track lights and Beethoven. Eurosatory made the Vegas SHOT show look like a flea market. These clients weren’t buying for gun stores and pawn shops; they were generals and Defense Ministers buying for armies. We were in the heart of the international defense industry, shaking hands and making contacts with state owned arms enterprises like Serbia’s Yugoimport and Romania’s Rohmtehnica. There were booths from every major weapons manufacturer imaginable, marketing everything from Russian tanks and Swedish missiles to high-tech Israeli-made unmanned drones. Svelte European models walked around just to decorate the place - a far cry from the southern bells and corn-fed mid-western beauties in Vegas.

Packouz and I met Heinrich at his booth (Swiss BT International). Heinrich had recently been placed on the State Department’s “watch list” for potential illegal arms trafficking in August of 2006, but I didn’t know that at the time. Given his issues with the international community and the United States, Heinrich was eager to work with AEY, Inc.; using my small company to legitimize his operations, Heinrich could buy and sell arms without fear of being harassed by U.S. and International law enforcement.

AEY, Inc. had recently won an Army Mini Compete to provide 30,000 AK-47 assault rifles to the Iraqi Security Forces.

The Avtomat Kalashnikova Assault Rifle Model 47 (AK-47) was designed by Mikhail Kalashnikov in 1947 and is by far the most popular military assault weapon on the planet. Its distinctive curved magazine and wooden pistol grip are recognized throughout the world. The AK-47 assault rifle is reliable, simple to understand, and easy to operate. It works in any environment, is easy to manufacture, and can be assembled and disassembled with little instruction.

The AK-47 was a mutation of the assault rifle concept: a rifle with a high-capacity magazine and selective firing. With the flip of a switch, the rifle can be fired in either semi or fully automatic modes. A perfect blend of performance and economics. Joseph Stalin’s Soviet Union may have crumbled, but the estimated 100 million Kalashnikov assault rifles manufactured in a variety of countries live on.

Heinrich had quoted a price of $75 per AK. “Come on Heinrich,” I complained, “I’ve still gotta ship ‘em to Baghdad; I’m breaking even at seventy-five... I’m thinking sixty-five.”

Heinrich grinned, he knew AEY Inc. was charging the U.S. Army $99 apiece, just as I knew Heinrich was buying the AKs from the Bosnians for roughly $60 per. We negotiated back and forth for several minutes, while Packouz stood behind me nodding his bald head in agreement with everything I said - the guy was useless. I got Heinrich down to $70 per; netting AEY, Inc. a profit of just over half a million dollars.

THAT NIGHT, HEINRICH AND I were at the bar in his highbrow hotel. It was spacious and opulent, teeming with gorgeous wannabe trophy wives and the industrialists and investors hoping to bed them. I was chatting up an attractive heroin-chic brunette at the bar.

My cell phone kept ringing and ringing, over and over. Jenna was on a rampage, leaving voice mails and text messaging her usual threats. “If I find out you fucked some French euro-trash whore we are over!!! Answer your phone!!!” I laughed when I read the messages. It was a fairly common occurrence when I traveled without her, which was most of the time. If I didn’t answer my cell she would text me, threatening to break up if I didn’t call immediately. We were constantly splitting up and getting back together. She always assumed I was cheating on her - and I was. But in my defense, I feel I was sexually oppressed by my Orthodox upbringing. Plus, I was typically halfway around the world and multiple time zones away... fidelity seldom survives distance and time. I wasn’t planning on sleeping with some French girl anyway; I was working on an Italian diplomat’s secretary. Besides, Jenna wasn’t going to break up with me - I was flying her into Paris the following day.

The Italian was drinking Malibu and Diet Coke, sucking on a Davidoff cigarette, and giggling at virtually everything I said - she was a sure thing. “So what brings you to the City of Lights?” she asked, blowing a stream of blue vapors into the air.

“The Eurosatory Expo,” I said, “I’m a defense contractor. I provide weapons and munitions to the U.S. and its allies like Iraq, Colombia, Niger... primarily to their security forces and U.S. Special…”

She leaned back slightly and said, “Wait a minute.” Her smile faded and she looped a dark strand of hair behind her ear, as the negative connotations associated with international arms trafficking washed over her. “So you provide the weapons men use to kill one another?”

“Well...” I tried to put a positive spin on it, “well, yeah... but I do it at a profit.” Humanitarian? Maybe not, but I was driving a brand new Audi and wearing Ermenegildo Zegna suits.

THE DAY AFTER EUROSATORY, Jenna arrived. She was like bottled energy, snapping pictures of everything. We stayed at a five star boutique hotel, traveled to the Champaign region and took private tours of the Dom Perignon and Mumm wineries - French castles in the Chambord region - and had a top-shelf champagne dinner at Circe De Soleil.

BACK IN PARIS, we went to the Louvre. The infamous museum is housed in part of a huge palace that was originally built as a fortress in the 12th century. The complex’s ground-level entrance is situated in the center of the Coeur Napoleon, and is crowned by the controversial steel-and-glass pyramid designed by the American architect I.M. Pei - which I thought was a very cool modern touch. The museum’s collection is one of the richest in the world, with art from all periods of European history.

Jenna and I meandered through the miles of immense galleries with high vaulted ceilings and marble floors gleaming with light flooding through the enormous windows that lined the gilded walls. The place was amazing. I never appreciated art until I went to the Louvre. We saw Picassos, Renoirs, and Rodins. The Mona Lisa was... fascinating, with her “life like” features and a mysterious smile. There was something behind that grin. But what struck me the most about the genius of da Vinci’s work were his engineering sketches: mechanical wings and helicopters. Red chalk schematics of tanks and artillery, military equipment that wouldn’t be invented for another 500 years.

AT THE ARMLESS SCULPTURE of the Venus de Milo, I leaned in and whispered into Jenna’s ear, “Wanna do it in the men’s restroom?” It was the type of thing she loved to do. Sex in public places got her “hot.” We had had sex in cars, restaurants, next to the pool at our apartment, the dressing room at the mall, and once in the restroom at Ripley’s Believe It Or Not museum in Key West.

Seconds later, I had her wedged into the corner of a toilet stall, Jenna with one high-heel on the toilet paper dispenser and the other on the rim of the bowl. Her leather mini-skirt was hiked up around her waist and my Diesel jeans were wrapped around my ankles; our pelvises bumped and pounded away at each other, as Jenna’s G-string slid down her thigh with every thrust. Jenna’s hair smelled like perfume and pot, and the room smelled like disinfectant. She bit my neck, dug her nails into my back, and moaned, “God this is so hot... It’s, it’s...”

“It’s like a work of art,” I whispered and we both grinned. I thrust into her and Jenna squealed, then she started moaning louder and louder, even as men were entering and exiting the restroom. I placed my hand over her mouth several times trying to quiet her down, but I only managed to smear lipstick across Jenna’s face. I flushed the toilet repeatedly, trying to drown out her theatrics, but she just moaned even louder. I couldn’t help but wondering how disappointed my mother would be if I were arrested in France for nailing my shiksa girlfriend in a restroom at the Louvre. I could hear sinks running, toilets flushing, and people making comments just outside the stall. But I never stopped thrusting away at her, and there was nothing I could do to shut her up. I ran my hands through her sticky hair-sprayed locks - she groaned, “God, yes!” Someone just outside the door coughed - startling me - and I stepped backward. Jenna slid down the wall, and her foot slipped into the toilet bowl full of blue cleanser.

“Shit!” she said, hopping around the toilet stall on one pump, her panties and second pump in the blue water of the toilet bowl.

Laughing, I exited the stall door to a restroom full of scowling patrons. She was a real mess. I zipped up my fly and tried to regain my composure. The other restroom occupants were visibly disgusted by the crass Americans’ behavior. Who could blame them? When Jenna hobbled out of the stall, tugging at her mini-skirt, and holding a blue pump dripping cleanser, I started laughing again. Jenna ignoring the horrified men standing around gawking at her, looked into the restroom mirror, saw the crimson lipstick smeared across her face, her hair twisted into a mess, and screeched, “Efraim! Are you serious?”

THE NEXT DAY, JENNA AND I took a boat tour down the Seine River; curving through eight miles of Paris, drifting by the Grand Curving, the Obelisk of Luxor, and the Cathedral of Notre Dame. It was the first time in two years I can remember truly relaxing. We ate and talked about the Arc de Triomphe and the Place de la Concorde, where King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette were executed via the guillotine.

Later that day we visited the Eiffel Tower, drank Premium Cognac, and smoked Parliaments. We fell asleep in the Champ de Mars Park, underneath the massive structure’s steel and iron girders and beams... It was an amazing day. Jenna and me sleeping underneath the Eiffel Tower - that was my best day.

I COULDN’T GO TO EUROPE without dropping by the Dam of the Amstel. Jenna and I flew into Schiphol International Airport in the capital of the Netherlands, Amsterdam. The city’s canals and attractive building help make it one of Europe’s most charming cities. We held hands and walked the narrow pedestrian streets, admired the handsome mansions and churches dating back to the Middle Ages, and visited the Van Gogh and Madame Tussaud’s Wax museums.

We toured the office building where Anne Frank and her family hid in a secret annex during the Nazi occupation of the Netherlands. With the aid of food and other supplies smuggled in by Gentile friends, the family hid for over two years until the Gestapo discovered them. They were sent to Auschwitz - only Anne’s father survived. As the descendent of Holocaust survivors myself, it was an intense experience being there.

Jenna was very moved by her story and sympathetic to the Holocaust. “I’m glad we came here,” she said, while we stared at a grainy black and white photograph of the Frank family. “Someday I’ll be Jewish and our kids’ll be Jewish.” My mother would kill Jenna before she’d let that happen.

At the Grass Hopper Coffee Shop we ordered some of the strongest grass I’ve ever smoked, right off the menu. I managed to get us kicked out for asking the server if they sold ecstasy. “No,” snapped our German waiter in this really thick Nazi-ish accent. “Ecstasy is illegal in Amsterdam! Get out!”

“Are you joking? You’re kicking us out?” I said, shocked. “How am I supposed to know it’s illegal?” There were junkies shooting up in the alley next to the coffee shop.

We walked the narrow streets and drank European beer in a Red Light District bar while watching a sex show, where the male performer literally threw his female co-star four or five feet in the air and she landed on his erection (very talented, very talented indeed). Dangerous stuff!

ON THE WAY BACK FROM AMSTERDAM, I was carrying an Indian-made ballistic helmet in my carry-on bag that I’d picked up from a vendor at the Eurosatory Expo. I had convinced the manufacturer’s sales rep to give me the display sample. At first he refused to let me have it. So I showed the salesman a copy of my Department of Defense contract, and the signed DD250s proving I had already delivered over 20,000 similar helmets at that time. I told him, “You want to give me that helmet sir, trust me,” and he handed it over.

Unfortunately, when I was walking through U.S. Customs at JFK, I got randomly selected for a screening. They asked me to step over to a stainless steel table. I took off my shoes and opened my bag. It wasn’t a big deal until the guy came across the helmet. The customs guy stopped cold. “What the...?” He immediately nodded to his supervisor and I was instantly surrounded by three customs agents. If the search wasn’t intrusive enough before, it was about to get so now. They began meticulously inspecting every document in my carry on. I had pictures of OG7 and OG7V rocket propelled grenades, pamphlets on Israeli-made fully automatic weapons, and manuals for Remington 700 sniper rifles. A plethora of literature and photos of military hardware.

One of the agents grunted, “What is this guy... ah terrorist?”

“I’m a licensed fire arms dealer and a government contractor,” I yelped, pointing to a photocopy of my federal firearms license lying on the table - along with everything else in my bag. They ignored me and kept rummaging through my things.

Another agent glanced at me and snorted, “How old are you?”

“Twenty, going on fifty.”

It took roughly two hours before I was released. And from that point on, I was detained every time I passed through U.S. Customs. Sometimes they would handcuff me and stick me in a holding room for an hour; other times they would photograph me and make copies of all my paperwork. It got so bad no one wanted to fly with me.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

PATRIOTISM AT A PROFIT

“An army is a team. It lives, eats, sleeps, and fights as a team. This individual stuff is a bunch of bullshit.” - General George Patton

THINGS DIDN’T ALWAYS GO ACCORDING TO MY “MASTER PLAN.” I had received several emails from Richard Emmert, a Quality Assurance Representative complaining about the latest round of helmets AEY, Inc. had supplied the Iraqi Security Forces. One of Emmert’s emails stated, “The helmets have peeling paint and a few appear to have been damaged such as having been dropped... I put them in the rejected category.” Another email was slightly threatening. “The concern was that, if [the helmets] break and crack, are they ballistically correct? In other words, will they stop a bullet and what do we do if they don’t? Several scenarios were being planned for you, none of them pleasant.” In defense of Emmert’s aggression, the guy wasn’t a diplomat or a politician; he was a soldier, and they tend to be abrasive.

Due to the air shipping, a couple dozen of the 10,000 helmets had arrived with peeling or chipped paint. Not all 10,000, only a couple of dozen, and AEY, Inc. was in the process of arranging to have the helmets replaced when I received a call from Emmert. “We’re not sure these helmets are even ballistic rated,” grumbled the Army rep. “You know they were made in China, right?”

“So is everything in Wal-Mart, Emmert - including my girlfriend - they make excellent products in that country,” I retorted. “Listen: pop one of the helmets with your Beretta nine millimeter. If it penetrates it, I’ll take back all ten thousand of ‘em and you can terminate the contract... and you don’t ever have to do business with me again.” That’s how sure I was the helmets were bulletproof.

The following morning Emmert called me back. “I fired three rounds into one of the helmets, at three meters,” he said, sounding slightly defeated. “Not one round penetrated... They’re ballistic all right. I signed the DD250 Material Inspection and Receiving Report, we’re good to go, Mister Diveroli.”

ANOTHER TIME, HEINRICH seemed to have gotten me an amazing deal on 10,000 Italian Beretta 9 mms - $190 apiece. That’s a $450 pistol, retail. I worked out a deal with the Army to order all 10,000 at $2.3 million under my $51 million IDIQ contract. The deal netted AEY, Inc. a $400,000 profit.

Initially, the problem was that the Italians wouldn’t release the weapons. “They’re saying the serial numbers aren’t right; they’re checking the serial numbers,” explained Heinrich. “They think some of the Berettas might have been used in organized crime.” In the context of Italy, that probably meant they’d been used for contract killings or had “fallen off the back of a truck” - stolen.

Eventually the Italians signed off on the draft End User Certificate the Iraqis were prepared to provide them with, which is the document I needed to obtain an export license allowing AEY, Inc. to export the Berettas from Italy to Iraq. But then - I swear to God - the DHL plane went down somewhere near Orio al Serio, Italy, killing the entire crew.

I didn’t believe it myself until Heinrich faxed me a letter from DHL confirming the plane’s crash and the loss of the cargo.

‘[W]e must inform you that your shipment to Zagreb (Croatia) was on our Airplane that crashed near Bergamo (Italy) on Oct. 31st at 10:10 PM. In the course of this accident, all three crew members were killed, and all the DHL shipments aboard were destroyed.’

Unfortunately, by this point the Army had heard so many excuses that they didn’t believe anything I told them. “Bullshit!” said the Army rep. “I’m going to file your ‘the plane crashed and burned’ excuse right between ‘the devil made me do it’ and ‘the dog ate my homework’.” They cancelled the order.

I DIDN’T ALWAYS GET PAID ON TIME EITHER. Once AEY, Inc.’s weapons and munitions were delivered, the receiver had to inspect the products and sign off on them; in an active warzone, that doesn’t always happen in a timely manner. Sometimes I had to improvise. I called a Quality Assurance Representative in the Green Zone, the fortified ten-square kilometer (3.9 mile) area of central Baghdad that houses the international coalition presence in the city. I spoke with a lieutenant I had become friendly with and complained about not receiving AEY, Inc.’s DD250 Material Inspection and Receiving Report. “Christ, Diveroli!” yelled the Lieutenant, “I’m hiding underneath my desk right now, the insurgence have been firing mortars into the complex for a week straight, we can’t even get to the warehouse at Abu Ghraib to inspect the cargo.”

I could hear the sirens in the background and picture him huddled underneath his desk, half a mile inside the concrete blast walls and concertina-wire fortifications - he was exaggerating. “Well,” I said jokingly, “someone’s gonna have to jump in an APC and head over there - I need to get paid, Lieutenant.”

“My God,” he chuckled, out of disgust I’m sure. “There are mortars raining down on us, the roads are lined with IEDs, and there are insurgents with sniper rifles in the surrounding buildings, but you need to get paid? You’re a ruthless bastard, aren’t you?”

“No sir,” I laughed, knowing how insensitive I sounded, “I’m a patriot. Now act like you’ve got a pair and go inspect those AKs, so I can keep my delivery schedule and help our country win this war.” And of course... make a healthy profit while I’m at it.

“What’re you gonna do for me?”

“What would you like me to do... sir?”

“Jack Link’s Beef Jerky,” He said.

I had a plane landing in Baghdad the following week. “I’ll ship you fifty pounds of it.”

“Don’t fuck with me Diveroli!” he snapped - serious as a federal indictment. “I haven’t seen a piece of Jerky in ten months...” The lieutenant sighed. “What about some Reese’s Pieces and Hershey’s Dark Chocolate bars, and... a bottle of Jose Cuervo.”

“No sir, I can’t do Jose Cuervo. That stuff’s shit - wouldn’t put it in my car, let alone my body,” I replied. “But you get those AKs signed off on in the next two days and I’ll do two bottles of Patron.”

“Sounds good,” he laughed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The following day the Army put together a convoy of six armored Humvees, drove to the warehouse at Abu Ghraib, inspected the shipment of Kalashnikovs and signed AEY, Inc.’s DD250. The following week I sent him the provisions - including the Patron.

I REMEMBER ONE NIGHT around the time I completed the AK deal, Jenna and I were taking a bath. I was smoking a Parliament and we were both drinking wine. I was sleeping two or three hours a night and had rings underneath my eyes; I was drinking or smoking weed to sleep and doing coke to get me through the day. “This is killing you, Efraim,” said Jenna. “Why don’t you get out?” I couldn’t get out: I was in love with the adrenaline. It wasn’t even about the money - although that was part of it - it was more about the thrill of the industry. “How much do you have right now? If you walked away right now, how much?”

“Five, maybe five and a half million - after taxes.”

“Then get out.” She could see what I couldn’t: The arms industry was helping to fuel my excessive nature, my ever-increasing desire for more - more excitement, more alcohol, more drugs, more money, more of everything.

But I couldn’t walk away; I loved it too much.

EVERY ONCE IN AWHILE my mom called just to check on me. “So...” she would say, “You sound good.” We would make small talk for a while - she would tell me how my brothers and sister were doing, talk about her job; she might even ask how my business was doing - but she couldn’t maintain her composure for long. “I suppose you’re still seeing the shiksa?”

“Who?” I would respond, feigning confusion, “You mean Jenna? Yeah, we’re still dating. She’s fine... thanks for asking.” I knew my mother didn’t care if Jenna was fine. In fact, if Jenna had been struck dead by lightning, she would have taken it as a sign from God, but I liked to goad her until her facade cracked - it didn’t take much. “She’s so sweet mom. If you met her I think…”

“Efraim, why are you doing this? Why Efraim?! Why? Why! Oh God, what did I do to deserve this?” It’s not an exaggeration: my mother is a real drama queen. She would get so worked up I’d have to wait until she calmed down or cut the conversation short or just hang up on her. Sometimes it was all I could do.

IN MID 2006, our Boeing 737 lifted off from Miami International Airport, en route to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. Jenna and I were sitting in first-class, she was drinking Diet Pepsi and I was reading a manual on Knight’s grossly overpriced SR-25 semi-automatic sniper rifle, trying to find an equivalent product for a Department of Energy solicitation on “FedBizOpps.” Apparently the weapons were being procured for use by the security force protecting some nuclear facility in New Mexico. Knight’s product was going for nearly $2,400 per rifle. Initially, I wasn’t all that interested in the Department of Energy’s solicitation - it was only 48 rifles - but a couple weeks later the State Department place an identical solicitation for 48 semi-automatics on “FedBizOpps” and I decided to find an equivalent and underbid both contracts’ spec product; I knew I could do better than $2,400 per.

About two hours into the flight - around midnight - Jenna leaned into me and whispered, “You ever hear of the Mile-High Club?”

I glanced around the cabin and saw that almost everyone was asleep. Thirty seconds later, we were in the first-class restroom, which is no roomier than coach’s, despite what the travel agent said. I unbuttoned Jenna’s blouse, unsnapped her bra, and yanked off her G-string. Jenna slid onto the stainless steel sink, spread her thighs and took me in her hand. Horizontal missionary. She had one foot on the handicap handrail and the other on the door jam. Her Express mini skirt and top were lying in a heap on the floor.

The cabin trembled and Jenna whispered, “Turbulence.” She smiled, dug her nails into my ass and pulled me inside her with a moan. She squealed and panted while I bumped and grinded away at her until we were finished.

When we exited the restroom, a guy seated near the door glared at me in disgust. Jenna was still buttoning her blouse and we were both glistening with sweat. I looked him straight in the face, grinned and gave him a wink. A violation of FAA regulations? Maybe, but I’m a proud member of the Mile-High Club.

WE STAYED AT A SEASIDE HOTEL in Puerto Vallarta - your basic tropical paradise resort. Our room was lavish: plush furnishings, a large Jacuzzi on the balcony overlooking the Pacific Ocean - the works. The first couple of days, we rode jet skis, swam, and took an ATV tour with roughly a dozen other tourists through the mountains. Not some safe, “sissified” well-worn path - we were tearing through thick foliage, climbing dirt embankments, and splashing through ditches filled with two feet of muddy water. At one point our tour guide took our group to a tequila factory - where I’m sure he got a kickback from the owner. Most of us proceeded to get drunk, just before we climbed on our 4-wheelers to drive back the same treacherous trail through the jungle. I looked at Jenna and laughed, “This would never happen in the states.”

The following day we were sitting in our Jacuzzi getting stoned while I was reviewing the spec sheet on DPMS’s Panther .308 semi-auto sniper rifle. It was the equivalent of Knight’s SR-25: same caliber (7.62 mm NATO), the same gas-operated, rotating bolt action, roughly the same length, weight and feeding system. Virtually identical distance and accuracy. It was practically the same weapon. I called my contact with DPMS, Dustin Emholtz, to get a quote for the .308. “We can do... twelve hundred per Panther,” said Dustin.

“You can do better than that; I’m buying ninety-six of ‘em. If State and Energy likes them, God knows how many they’ll order.” I got him down to roughly $1,050, yielding a profit of nearly $1,000 per weapon - that’s unheard of in the industry.

Jenna had listened to the entire conversation, and when the call ended she asked, “What’s the difference between the SR one and the Panther?”

“Roughly a grand,” I replied sarcastically, and she shot me a scathing look. “Listen,” I laughed, “the difference is prestige. Knight is the Mercedes-Benz of sniper rifles, and I’m providing them with Infinitis. They’re both great vehicles - eight cylinders, same gas mileage and the same performance. Same car, but most people would rather drive the Mercedes.” I took a sip of my Corona. “But if I provided them with Mercedes, I wouldn’t have just made a hundred thousand dollars.”

“Oh my god,” snapped Jenna. “You’re gonna make a hundred thousand dollars on that deal?” It sounded easier than it was. I had to fill out the paperwork, read a couple manuals, and make several calls to get clearance for the “equivalent product” and wire the money. By the time we were back in Miami, the 308s were in production, soon to be en route to the State and Energy Departments’ facilities.

HERE LIES THE RUB: Knight Armament’s owner, Reed Knight, or one of his sales staff, must have known that “FedBizOpps” had multiple solicitations out for roughly 100 of their SR-25s; they had received over a dozen request for quotes from their preferred suppliers and defense contractors.

When the order never materialized, someone at Knight must have checked “FedBizOpps” and saw AEY, Inc. had been awarded the contract. Knight is a prestigious company, but not exactly a behemoth of the industry, with gross annual sales of roughly $100 million. So, they checked into the loss of the $250,000 sale.

A couple of phone calls easily revealed I had swapped out their overpriced SR-25s with 308 Panthers. It’s my understanding that they weren’t happy.

Knight’s moneymaker - the product that made his company - was the rail system: the RIS (Rail Interface System) and the RAS (Rail Adapter System). The system allowed users to mount accessories to a variety of firearms without additional modifications - tactical flashlights, laser units, bipods, vertical grips. A great product, but hardly worth the $352 Knight was charging for them - it’s roughly a pound of cheap aluminum and composite plastic.

The Army was constantly including small orders of rail systems in their solicitations - 500 here, 2,000 there. The quantities were never large enough to get a significant discount from Knight, but the Army was continuously requesting Knights Systems or “fit, form, and function”. So I contacted a South Korean company and got them to manufacture a “genuine equal” rail system for around $30 per unit. I started under bidding Knight’s product by 30 percent - roughly $215 per unit - an after-shipping profit of $175 per. I took a breakeven line item and turned it into a profit of $7,500 to $20,000, depending on the order.

Knight wasn’t happy with my solution, and I even got an angry call from one of his salesman about my “knockoff” of Knights Rail System.

“It’s a genuine equivalent product,” I told him. “It’s not a ‘knockoff’.”

“It’s legal theft, that’s what it is!” said Knight’s salesman. “It’s unethical.”

“No, it’s capitalism... quit your whining and deal with it.” As it turns out, I had made an enemy of Knight, the kind of enemy that doesn’t forget. The kind of powerful, politically connected enemy that would eventually bite me back.

IT WASN’T LONG AFTER OUR MEXICAN VACATION, that I decided we needed a nicer place. The Flamingo was a trendy apartment building in South Beach, a sleek concrete tower with views of the ocean and the bay, South Beach and downtown Miami. I remember looking out the 29th-floor balcony at the Atlantic Ocean while the leasing agent pointed out the 1,500-square-foot luxury unit’s amenities to Jenna - marble countertops and stainless steel appliances, tiled floors, his and her sinks, Roman tubs, and walk-in closets.

A minute later, Jenna walked up behind me and whispered, “It’s nice, but it’s almost three thousand a month, Efraim...”

I stared out at the clear blue waters of the Atlantic, the powder white sands of South Beach, the city’s glass skyscrapers, Biscayne Bay... I felt like I was on top of the world standing on that balcony. “I don’t care,” I said. “I want it.”

It was my first adult apartment. It was the type of place that guys walk into and think, I can get laid in here, and women think, I want to get laid in here. We filled the place with new plush furniture and high-tech electronics.

ONCE WE MOVED INTO THE FLAMINGO, Jenna started pushing to meet my mother. She wanted to be a part of the family, and to get married at some point. She was even willing to convert to Judaism - whatever she needed to do. “Efraim,” she said, “someday we’re going to have kids... I’m going to have to meet her eventually.”

“Are you kidding?” I laughed. “You’re half Chinese... even if you convert, my mom can’t pass you off as Jewish to her friends. She’s never gonna accept you. She doesn’t even like me!” Hell, I was barely a part of my own family.

But Jenna insisted that someday my mom would have to accept the situation. She didn’t know my mother. “We’re in love,” she used to say - as if that had anything to do with it.

CHAPTER TWELVE

COKE TALK

“Bring war material with you from home, but forage on the enemy... use the conquered foe to augment one’s own strength.” - Sun Tzu, The Art of War

ON JULY 28TH OF 2006, “A Solicitation for Nonstandard Ammunition” was posted on “FedBizOpps.” The Army Sustainment Command in Rock Island, Illinois, needed to purchase ammunition for Soviet style AK-47 assault rifles, SVD Dragnunov sniper rifles, AK-47 UBGL (Under Barrel Grenade Launchers), T-55 and T-62 battle tanks, and Mi-17 and Mi-24 attack helicopters, to supply our allies the Afghan National Army and Police. I spotted the solicitation immediately; it was an enormous amount of munitions. It was the type of opportunity that would solidify AEY, Inc. as an International defense contractor. A serious player.

Supplying the Afghan Security Forces with munitions - that wasn’t a small order. AEY, Inc. would have to scour Central and Eastern Europe and a host of former Soviet Republics for hundreds of millions of dollars in munitions from countries like Albania, Armenia, Azerbaijan, Belarus, Bulgaria, Serbia, Estonia, Georgia, Hungary, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Latvia, Lithuania, Moldova, Montenegro, Romania, Russia, Serbia, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, Yugoslavia, Ukraine and Uzbekistan. I’d have to negotiate with people speaking languages I didn’t know, travel to countries I’d never heard of, and deal with characters most people wouldn’t want to associate with - corrupt politicians and ex-communist military officials, mobsters and warlords. I couldn’t wait!

There was, however, one problem: At this point it was just me and Ronald Ledain Didier, AEY, Inc.’s “Operations Manager.” Packouz, my “Account Executive,” had all but disappeared into his massage business. He would come by every once in a while to go out or get high, but he wasn’t actively working on any contracts for AEY, Inc. And this contract, if AEY, Inc. won it - was going to take a team of additional staff.

I CALLED PACKOUZ immediately and told him I had the perfect contract for AEY, Inc. “Bro,” I said, “It’s a huge order for surplus munitions. Bigger than the fifty-one million dollar Iraq contract... bigger than anything I’ve ever done.”

“How big?” asked Packouz.

“Huge!”

“How huge!”

“At least... two hundred and fifty... no, no... Three hundred million dollars, at least!” I yelled into my cell phone. “I’m going to need some help, not part time help, real help.” I worked out a commission agreement with Packouz for eight percent of the total profit margin on the Afghanistan contract - once it was completed. Keep in mind this was a two-year contract, and because of his work ethic I didn’t want to pay Packouz a salary, and I couldn’t pay him a full commission per Task Order because some of the Task Orders might need to be completed at a loss, and some would have large profit margins. As a result, it wasn’t possible to determine precisely how much AEY, Inc. would make until the completion of the two year contract. “Here’s what I’ll do... I’ll let you take fifty percent draws against your commission, upon completion of each Task Order. What do you think?”

“I’ve got no problem with that,” he said.

“We’re gonna have to start getting quotes from Eastern European manufacturers, air freight carriers, state owned military liquidators and trading companies... it’s gonna take some time.”

Most of what AEY, Inc. would be acquiring was surplus Soviet type munitions. By this point, I had already established a lot of my own contacts; between them and Heinrich, I believed I had access to some of Eastern Europe’s largest and most lucrative stockpiles. Had the solicitation called for new munitions, the competition would have been far fiercer, requiring large upfront cash deposits that I couldn’t possibly make, but after the Communists relinquished power, the old satellite states started liquidating their weapons and munitions inventories, dirt cheap, to whoever brought the cash first. Eastern and Central Europe were flooded with military warehouses, depots, and bunkers filled with stockpiles of munitions, and peppered with factories eagerly awaiting and willing to manufacture whatever weapons and munitions the bunkers didn’t already contain.

Packouz and I began calling dozens of military liquidator companies - both private and State owned companies - in Eastern Europe and the old Soviet bloc, such as Ajencija Alan, the state owned exporter for Croatia, Yugomont, and Montenegro’s state owned export company, or ROMARM, Romania’s excess military equipment liquidator. We would sit around hitting a bong, and scream, “English! English!” into the phone until they found someone at the company who spoke English. We emailed or faxed the list of munitions AEY, Inc. needed to secure for the solicitation.

Half the time, if I got a quote from a military liquidator that was too high, I would do a couple lines of coke, call them up and let the coke do the talking for me, “Are you fucking with me!” I would yell into the phone. “I know you can do better than this; its forty-year-old surplus stock for God’s sake!”

“You can sell it to the U.S. Government through me… or pay to destroy it once the U.S. and NATO tells you that you have to.”

“Nyet,” they would reply in a thick Russian accent, “Dis best price.”

“No, no, I know you can do better!” Most of the time they would eventually cave, and drop their price.

It took a little more finesse to get a decent quote out of Eastern European manufacturers such as ZVS out of Slovakia, PRVI PARTIZAN based in Serbia, and Arsenal manufacturing headquartered in Bulgaria. See, when I called and asked for a quote for AEY, Inc. - a small defense contractor out of Miami, Florida - most manufacturers took forever to get back to me, and the prices were high. So, I switched tactics. I’d get someone from Slobada, a large-scale ordinance factory based in Cacak, Serbia, on the phone and say, “I’m a U.S. Government procurement contractor calling in regards to a U.S. Army order for eighty thousand 40 mm high explosive grenades, fifteen thousand 80 mm aviation rockets, and one hundred thousand 30 mm high explosive fragmentation grenades...” and they would assume that I worked for the U.S. Government, or, at the very least, that I was affiliated with it. I would ask how much stock was currently available to ship - as if I was ready to buy immediately - and how quickly they could have our order in production - as if we were ready to whip out a government credit card and order $10+ million dollars in ordinance right there on the phone. “When will it be ready to ship?”

They would scramble around checking on their inventory and calling the factory for the production schedule. I’d tell them, “We’re interested in creating a long term relationship - an exclusive relationship - with an Eastern European manufacturer. But, we’re going to need par pricing on this large of an order.”

When I felt I was getting close to my target price I would push a little harder, “At the quantities we’re ordering, the U.S. Government’s gonna need you to do better than this.” Sometimes they would go lower, and sometimes they wouldn’t, but it never hurt to push. What were they going to do… slam the phone down on Uncle Sam?

By the time we priced out the cost of shipping, fuel, storage, and handling, we had everything we needed to put in a competitive bid on the Afghanistan contract - $298 million. Believe it or not, the profit margins were razor thin - especially for this type of a high-risk business - between five and ten percent depending on the munitions. I assumed I could whittle down the quotes I had been given once AEY, Inc. was awarded the contract - if AEY, Inc. was awarded the contract.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ANGER MANAGEMENT

“Strength on Your Side” - General Dynamics, Marketing Slogan

A FEW MONTHS AFTER AEY, Inc. put in the bid on the Afghanistan contract, the Department of Defense informed me they had to audit AEY, Inc.’s books. “It’s a pre-award audit,” said the Army rep. “Your company is being considered for an award, and the information is necessary for the final evaluation and selection process.” It could only mean one thing: they were looking into AEY, Inc.’s ability to handle the size and volume of the massive orders.

The problem was, they were asking for an insane amount of information: copies of my most recent retained earnings balance sheet, a statement of current sales, an anticipated monthly sales forecast, a cash flow schedule, current bank statements, accounts payable and receivable, existing loans, lines of credit and terms, etc.

At the time, my books were a mess. I was a 20-year-old kid; what did I know about the intricacies of business administration and proper accounting? So I immediately asked my accountant, Robert P. Rachlin, to put everything together. Days before the audit, I found out Rachlin had a couple white collar convictions, and even did a few years in federal prison for mail fraud and income tax fraud. So you can imagine how worried I was when the first audit was scheduled.

Keep in mind, AEY, Inc.’s corporate headquarters were located in a cramped 300-square-foot office with cheap particleboard desks and plastic swivel chairs. So I made damn sure to have the audit take place at Rachlin’s office.

Rachlin and I sat in on the audit, and he completely schmoozed the government auditor - pulled out her chair, offered her coffee or tea, “Maybe a bagel or muffin?” he asked her with a big toothy grin. It was a whole bullshit presentation, and I honestly had to stop myself from laughing on a couple of occasions.

The whole time she was there, Rachlin kept saying, “The kid’s books are solid.” He had a really thick New York accent. “See,” he would say pointing to one figure after another.

They spent an hour going over AEY, Inc.’s balance sheet and bank account - which at the time had more than a $5.4 million cash balance - the auditor nodding in agreement with everything Rachlin said. “Well,” she said after writing some notes in her legal pad, “everything looks all right to me.”

“They’re good,” replied Rachlin. “Did ‘em myself.” The guy had pleaded guilty to multiple felonies related to his accounting practices.

THE SECOND AUDITOR insisted on meeting me at AEY, Inc.’s office. “This is a pre-award audit Mister Diveroli,” she said. “I’ve got to inspect AEY’s corporate office - it’s protocol.”

There wasn’t any way out of it. The look on the auditor’s face when she saw my office said it all. She was expecting the likes of General Dynamics - a modern, state-of-the-art facility with expansive offices full of stainless steel furnishings, where she would be served tea and crumpets while conducting her audit at a civil servant’s pace. What she got was some beat-up particleboard desks and worn out chairs, crammed into a cubbyhole. “This is your... office?” she asked, glancing around the interior.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “This is how we keep our overhead costs low... Keep in mind we also have affiliate offices in Salt Lake City, Utah, and Switzerland.” It sounded good.

She sat at my desk and rummaged through AEY, Inc.’s books. I got her a Diet Coke and some Sun-Chips from the Subway sandwich shop next-door. As she went through AEY’s documents, I thought I was sunk for sure.

THE FOLLOWING DAY, I was contacted by Chuck Moran with DCAA (Defense Contract Audit Agency). The financial analyst asked for copies of AEY, Inc.’s certified financials and an updated balance sheet - stuff I didn’t have. Keep in mind, in order for AEY, Inc. to meet the necessary net worth required to bid on the Afghanistan contract, I had convinced Ralph to pledge his half of a piece of property he and his attorney had purchased in Utah for roughly $1 million. As a result of the property being near the site of the winter Olympics, Ralph had obtained an appraisal on the property for $60 million - subject to a particular re-zoning, a re-zoning that the county had since denied multiple times.

But I didn’t mention the zoning issue to the Department of Defense. Instead, Ralph had his attorney write a cleverly crafted letter pledging Ralph’s half of the property to the DoD. We provided a $60 million “subject-to-re-zoning” appraisal, and then we waited to see if they caught it. So when I got the call requesting my certified financials and updated balance sheet, I was a little nervous. “Sorry,” I said, “I don’t have anything like that... I...”

“Don’t worry about it, Mister Diveroli,” interrupted the DCAA guy, “with your past performance record and that thirty million dollar pledge... it won’t matter.” He signed off on AEY, Inc.’s financial capabilities and we passed the pre-award audit.

ON NOVEMBER 26TH OF 2006, Jenna and I had been out with several of her friends bar hopping in Ft. Lauderdale’s Las Olas Riverfront, an area containing dozens of bars and clubs. You can imagine what that was like - a coked-up 20-year-old multi-millionaire and a bunch of chicks in their late 20s - and broke. They loved what I represented, but hated who I was.

Jenna begged me not to do any coke that night. “Please, Efraim,” she said, when we first got to the club, “You know how you get.” Admittedly, I was a lunatic on cocaine, and her friends already didn’t like me.

“Not a problem - I’m good.” But I had no intention of keeping my word. Hell, I already had the blow on me, and at the first opportunity I slipped into the bathroom for several blasts. Too many blasts.

By the time I hit the dance floor I was out of control. I was dancing with Jenna’s friends and flirting with other women. Jenna was furious.

We got home around four in the morning, and she was pissed. We argued and bickered until 8:00 am. When Jenna had had enough, she picked up a green glass ashtray and slung it at my head like a Frisbee. It shattered against the wall. I knew there was no way that sound hadn’t woken several neighbors. “I’m through!” she screamed. “We’re done, asshole!”

As Jenna stomped out of the apartment into the hallway, I yelled, “You’re not going anywhere!” I caught a glimpse of the diamond-stud earrings I had bought her several months earlier, and in my coke fueled mania I suddenly decided she didn’t deserve them. “Give me those fucking earrings back!” I yelled, heading into the hallway, where we proceeded to scream and fight about the earrings, until two Miami Beach police officers showed up.

The police quickly separated us, snapping a pair of handcuffs on me and placing me in the back of the police cruiser. I was sure I was going to jail. I always knew at some point I was going - because of my outrageous behavior. It wasn’t a question of if, but when... and today seemed as good as any.

The female officer spoke with Jenna for about five minutes. When they were finished the officer pulled me out of the cruiser and said, “I don’t believe her, but she says you never touched her.”

The officers told us they had to take a quick look around and they would be on their way. The two officers wandered through the apartment; saw the broken astray and some empty bottles of vodka. When the female officer looked in the bedroom closet she found a large black nylon gun case. She unzipped the clasp and opened it to find a loaded Uzi sub-machinegun and three spare magazines filled to the brim with Federal 9 mm submachine gun ammunition inside. “What’s this?” she asked.

“I’m a licensed dealer,” I responded, and quickly produced AEY, Inc.’s Federal Firearms License.

She inspected the document suspiciously, “Huh, okay.” Then handed it back to me. A second later she slid open the nightstand drawer and pulled out a Ziploc bag with half an ounce of hydroponic grass in it. My heart sank. The female officer turned to me and said, “You got a license for this?”

“Nope,” I smiled, “but you don’t have a search warrant either,” I said half jokingly.

She grinned back at me, nodded to her partner and said, “I like this kid,” and she dropped the bag back in the drawer. “Let’s go.”

ROUGHLY A MONTH LATER - December 21st of 2006 - Packouz and I were doing lines in my condo, getting ready to go clubbing on South Beach. I called down to the valet for my car.

When we got to the lobby twenty minutes later, my vehicle wasn’t there. The valet, this skinny Cuban guy who loved to give me a hard time, was on the phone. I said, “Where’s my car bro?” and he flipped me the finger.

For some reason this guy had never liked me. He used to call me “Richie Rich” and “Gringo.” Stuff like that. I was once on a date and I handed him a twenty and asked for fifteen back and he said, You gave me a five, and then gave me this little smirk. What was I going to do... go ballistic over $15 in front of my date? This is the kind of shit he did.

So when he shot a bird at me, I got pissed and walked over to the valet stand and grabbed my keys. Packouz and I headed to the parking garage and the valet said, “Aye, where you going, man... give me dose keys, man.”

I said, “I’ll get it myself, clearly you’ve got better things to do.”

The next thing I knew, Skinny Cuban was in my face poking me in the chest and cursing at me in Spanglish. Jacked up on coke and pissed off, I snapped, “Back off motherfucker!” and the guy took a swing at me. I pivoted, but Skinny Cuban caught me on the side of the head. I swung back and hit him in the shoulder and put two in his ribs, with little effect. He dove into my torso and we hit the lobby floor.

It wasn’t a dramatically choreographed Jason Bourne or James Bond fight; it was just two guys rolling around slugging it out. The concierge yelled, “I’m calling the police,” and Packouz eventually pulled us apart.

We were both breathing pretty hard and Skinny Cuban said, “Fucking piece a shit.” But I didn’t say anything back, I just hunched over breathing hard, and that’s when the valet crossed the line and grunted, “Go fuck your mother you piece a shi - ” I lunged forward and caught him just above the chin with a right hook - he hit the ground hard. That’s when the Miami Beach Police showed up: two Cuban cops walk into the lobby and I’m standing over Skinny Cuban, fists clinched in rage. The concierge and the valet - who were friends - lied to the police, and said Packouz and I attacked Skinny Cuban.

“Bullshit!” I snapped. “They’re lying.” But Skinny Cuban was pretty scraped up and bruised. He might have even been bleeding a little bit from his split lip. It sounds worse than it was - the guy was fine.

One of the police (who just happened to be Cuban as well) searched me and found one of my “borrowed” Florida ID cards. The officer waved it in my face and asked, “What’s this?”

I had just turned 21-years-old the day before, and like a drunk coked up dumbass, I said, “I don’t even need that anymore. I’m twenty-one now.” What an idiot!

The police snapped cuffs on me and Packouz, read us our rights, and dragged us to the Miami Beach Police Department, where we were printed, photographed, and each charged with misdemeanor battery; I was also charged with felony possession of a stolen or forged document - the ID card.

The cops called an ambulance for Skinny Cuban and he was taken to the local hospital’s Emergency room. It was such bullshit. He didn’t even get charged.

We were strip searched and placed in a holding cell. When that heavy steel door slammed shut, I remember thinking, I knew I’d end up getting arrested for something... eventually. The place was nasty. There were a couple dozen rough looking guys with tattoos and there was nowhere to sit. I was more disgusted than scared; it smelled like puke and piss - that was the worst of it. I dozed off for a couple hours in a bunk and the next morning we were released on our own recognizance.

I hired a lawyer for $5,000, this young guy who didn’t know much of anything - can’t even remember his name.

Once the police reviewed the surveillance tape, they realized Packouz wasn’t involved, and they dropped his battery charge. They also saw that Skinny Cuban took the first punch and I was defending myself. Unfortunately, the district attorney felt there were multiple points when the fight could have ended, but I seemed unwilling to stop fighting. Keep in mind there was no sound, only video, so they couldn’t hear Skinny Cuban mouthing off.

My novice attorney said, “They’re not going to drop the battery charge... it’s only a fine.” I paid the $200 misdemeanor and saved myself a felony charge for possession of a stolen or forged document by being entered into the first time offenders program or pretrial intervention program. I had to attend anger management classes once a week for six months - it totally sucked! I was angrier after I completed the course.

A WEEK AFTER THE INCIDENT, I got a call from an attorney representing Skinny Cuban who said, “This guy’s hurt... I don’t want to sue you over this... but I will. You need to think about settling.”

I started laughing, and told him to “Fuck off! I’m not giving you shit!” I never heard anything else about any lawsuit from that creep.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE SURGE

“The allies we gain by victory will turn against us upon the bare whisper of defeat.” - Rear Admiral Alfred Thayer Mahan

ON JANUARY 10TH OF 2007, I was taking some bong rips while watching President George W. Bush address the nation on the flat-screen in my posh apartment.

The war in Iraq was going badly; al-Qaeda terrorists and Sunni insurgents had blown up several holy shrines and formed death squads, murdering innocent Iraqi citizens. Assassinations, suicide bombings, and IED attacks against U.S. and allied forces were increasing along with U.S. military casualties.

Public opinion on the Iraq war was shifting, and in the mid 2006 elections, Bush’s Republican Party lost control of the House and the Senate. The consensus in the GOP was that something needed to be done in Iraq or the Republicans would lose the White House in 2008.

“Good evening,” said Bush from the Oval Office. “Tonight in Iraq, the Armed Forces of the United States are engaged in a struggle that will determine the direction of the global war on terror...” He went on to say his administration had met with Members of Congress, allies abroad, outside experts, and his military advisers; the message was clear: Failure in Iraq would be a disaster for the United States. Bush laid out his plan for “The New Way Forward,” which eventually became known as “The Surge.”

“The Iraqi government will deploy Iraqi National Army and Police brigades across nine districts.” He looked deep into the camera and said, “But for [the plan] to succeed, our commanders say the Iraqis will need help... This will require increasing American force levels. So I have committed more than twenty thousand American troops to Iraq.” I remember laughing out loud when he said, “We will help the Iraqis build a larger and better-equipped army...” Fuck yeah, Georgie boy! Bush ended his speech by saying something like, “Continuing to pursue al-Qaeda and foreign fighters... [and] bringing peace to the Middle East.”

Not long after that speech, AEY, Inc. received Delivery Orders for roughly 35,000 AK-47 assault rifles, over 800 DShK heavy machine guns, nearly 500 RPK light machine guns, 25 million 7.62 rounds, and half a dozen other contracts for weapon-related gear and accessories - all destined for the Iraq National Army and Police.

ON JANUARY 26TH OF 2007, I received an email from Rock Island, notifying me that AEY, Inc. had been awarded the U.S. Army contract to supply the Afghanistan Security Force in the amount of $298 million. The news had barley sunk in when I got a call from Melanie Johnson, the Senior Contracting Officer. “Congratulations Mister Diveroli, AEY, Inc. was awarded the munitions contract.”

“Thanks... I see that,” I stammered. “I just got the email.” She requested some documentation, nothing I couldn’t provide.

I wasn’t a rookie, and this wasn’t my first rodeo; it was just another Indefinite Delivery and Indefinite Quantity (IDIQ) contract, for munitions that would need to be flown into a war zone. There were numerous things that could go wrong. Like most large government contracts, the government had it conveniently set up so they weren’t contractually obligated to buy much of anything. But I was locked into my low-ball prices for at least two years or until the Army exceeded the max quantity and all its options under the contract, regardless of fluctuations in price, availability of munitions in the market, fuel, materials for new production, and stock. It was a big contract and potentially very lucrative - but it was just another contract.

WHEN AEY, INC.’ S FIRST ORDER came in - Task Order One - it was for less than $700,000-worth of 7.62 mm Russian ammunition, used in AK-47 assault rifles, and 40 mm high-explosive grenades, used on the AK-47 UBGL (Under Barrel Grenade Launcher). Not a large order. I was disappointed, but we started working on it immediately. The Army had technically fulfilled their contractual obligations by purchasing the bare minimum, and it was truly anybody’s guess what would happen next.

A FEW WEEKS LATER, I was hard at work in my office, putting out the usual fires on half a dozen different contracts, when I received a call from Kimberly Jones with the purchasing office at Rock Island. She asked if I was available to meet her at her office in Illinois.

“Of course I’m available.” Kim was the Army Contracting Officer with the U.S. Army Sustainment Command assigned to my Afghan contract. She held the combination to the vault. If Kim wanted to talk, I was ready to talk about whatever she wanted. I’d be her Oprah Winfrey and Dr. Phil. If she needed a best friend, I was ready to braid her hair and give her a pedicure. “Whatever you need Kim.”

I ASKED RALPH MERRILL if he would attend the meeting too. I was 21-years-old, after all, and I thought it would look better if I had someone there that looked... more experienced. Ralph was a Mormon from Utah, in his early 60s, and he looked every inch the part of a successful arms manufacturer and engineer.

In February of 2007, Ralph and I flew into the Quad City Airport in Moline, Illinois. It was freezing, snow everywhere - at least three to four feet of it. It wasn’t Miami Beach.

Rock Island was established in 1855 as a Civil War ordinance depot. It was now occupied by several military installations, including the U.S. Army Armament Material Readiness Command headquarters and Sustainment Command, as well as the Rock Island Arsenal. There were acres of World War II Sherman tanks and Vietnam-era artillery lying dormant in three feet of snow.

We met with Contracting Officers Kimberly Jones, Brett Luchsinger, and Supervisors Melanie Johnson and Daniel Stackwick in their dingy little grey conference room. She asked some benign questions about AEY, Inc., but she didn’t seem to be listening to the answers. At one point she glanced at me - really stared at me. Now I can’t be sure, but she had to be wondering how old I was and possibly questioning my company’s ability to pull off the type of volume and frequency of munitions shipments that the Afghani contract required. She glanced at Ralph and asked, “Could you go over your acquisition strategy one more time?”

Ralph looked at me, and I replied, “Absolutely, Kim...” Ralph had no inkling of AEY, Inc.’s capabilities. For the purposes of this meeting, he was just a prop. I continued, “As you know, the old communist bloc countries have been stockpiling munitions for the past several decades - all serviceable, hermetically sealed, and battle-ready per the contract requirements - there’s no age restriction.”

“Right,” she agreed, “provided it’s serviceable.”

“And it will be... We plan on buying up as much of those surplus munitions as possible. Whatever we can’t purchase from governments or private stocks, we’ll have manufactured in Eastern Europe, by several ordinance factories we have established relationships with, based on our past dealings... Kim, we’ve got affiliate offices in Utah and Switzerland, this is what we do.” AEY, Inc. had already been awarded the contract, so I wasn’t sure why we were now discussing the company’s abilities, but I didn’t mind answering her question; I was confident in my abilities. I then pulled out a draft End User Certificate (EUC) for one of the deliveries connected to Task Order One. “While I’m here Kim, you think you could have someone sign off on a EUC for Task Order One?” I slid the form across her desk, “I’m on a tight schedule.”

She looked surprised that I wanted the document signed right then and there, but she also looked impressed that I was taking the initiative and working on filling the order ASAP. “Sure,” she said with a smile, “no problem.” She then asked Daniel Stackwick to sign off on the EUC, which he promptly did.

A minute later, she flipped through what looked like a thick report on her desk. “Well,” she sighed, “your company’s performance was rated excellent...” Which was odd because AEY, Inc. had defaulted on several contracts. But any defense contractor occasionally has issues, even behemoths like General Dynamics, Raytheon Lockheed Martin, and certainly any contractor as active in supplying the war effort as AEY, INC. had been. Sometimes things come up that are beyond your control. Kim looked from Ralph to me and gave us a weary smile, “Okay then... I think we’re all good here.”

The meeting was over. Maybe it was a formality, maybe she just wanted to put faces to names, but when we walked out of her office I was confident she was optimistic about AEY, Inc.’s ability to perform. Ralph hadn’t said ten words, but I was glad he had come - numbers never hurt, and in this case the appearance of age, wisdom, and experience certainly helped.

I SENT PACKOUZ TO THE IDEX TRADE SHOW in Abu Dhabi, the largest of the United Emirates. It’s oil fields make Abu Dhabi one of the most prosperous regions in the world. The city is a Muslim metropolis, packed with glass and steel skyscrapers, lots of concrete, palm trees, and heat. Everything is modernized. It’s Vegas without the alcohol, prostitutes, and gambling.

According to Packouz, there were no fashion models or stripper types wearing body armor or demonstrating weapons at the IDEX show, just sheiks, defense ministers, manufacturers, and suppliers.

I specifically told him who to talk to and what I needed him to look for, but - typical Packouz - he spent several days sitting around trying to get an appointment with the deputy director of Rosoboron Exports, a quasi “private” company with the exclusive rights to sell all of Russia’s excess military armaments.

I called Packouz on the second day of the expo to get a progress report. “I’m waiting to talk with Rosoboron’s deputy director,” he said.

“Why?” I had told him not to approach them. “They’re on the State Department’s ‘blacklist’. It’s a waste of time.” I asked him if he had spoken with Arcus or Romtehnica, two Eastern European arms trading and manufacturing companies, but he hadn’t.

“Bro, Rosoboron can fill the whole fucking order,” Packouz said, which was theoretically true, but I told him there was no way we could legally buy from them. “Efraim, all we’ve gotta do is find a shell company and…”

“I’m not gonna do that, Pack. Talk to Arcus and Romtehnica...” I wasn’t going to risk my $51-million Iraq contract and the $300 million Afghanistan contract because Packouz wanted to take a shortcut, without having any clue to the type of potential consequences he’d be subjecting us to.

I later found out he did the exact opposite of what I had instructed him to do. As Guy Lawson wrote in Rolling Stone magazine:

Packouz went to the main Russian pavilion every day to try to get an appointment... on the last day, Packouz was given an appointment. The deputy director looked like he was ex-KGB - big and fat, in his sixties, with thick square glasses. As Packouz spoke, the man kept surveying the pavilion out of the corner of his eyes, as if he were being watched. Packouz showed him the list of munitions he needed, along with the quantities. The director raised his eyebrows, impressed by the scale of the operation.

“We have very good interest in this business,” he said in a thick Russian accent. “You know we are only company who can provide everything in the time you are asking.”

“I’m aware of that,” Packouz said. “That’s why we want to do business with you.”

“But as you know, there is a problem. State Department has blacklisted us. I don’t understand your government. One month is okay to do business; next month is not okay. This is very not fair. Very political. They just want leverage in dealing with Kremlin.”

“I know we can’t do business with you directly,” Packouz said. Then he hinted that there was a way to get around the blacklist. “If you can help us do business with another Russian company, then we can buy from them.”

“Let me talk to my people,” the Russian said, taking one of Packouz’s newly printed business cards.

It was the last Packouz ever heard from the Russian.

Packouz never spoke with the directors of Arcus or Romtehnica. All he came back with from Abu Dhabi was some bullshit brochures and zero potentially useful Central or Eastern European contacts. That was Packouz - that was what I was dealing with. Essentially, I spent roughly $4,000 to send him on a five-day Middle Eastern vacation. Although, without the alcohol, prostitutes, and gambling, I’m not sure how much fun he could’ve had.

THE NIGHT PACKOUZ GOT BACK TO MIAMI we went out clubbing in South Beach. It was after 11 o’clock, and Jenna had been calling all night, wanting me to come home. Packouz and I were on our way back when he spotted a couple of black chicks - a dark-skinned leggy one with thin dreads and a bone-thin mulatto with chemically straightened hair. They were walking down the strip strutting their stuff in club attire: mini-skirts, halter-tops, and fuck-me pumps. I’d had one too many - maybe a little more - and all I wanted to do was go home, but Packouz convinced me to pull my Audi to the curb.

He leaned out the window and started pouring on the charm, asked them, “You ladies need a ride?” and “You like to party?” A couple minutes later we were on our way back to Packouz’s apartment and my car was filled with the smell of cheap perfume; ten minutes after that, we were sitting in Packouz’s living room doing lines.

These chicks were attractive - I would even venture to say “hot” in a Vegas showgirl kind of way - but there was something unpalatable about them. Pancake makeup and gaudy hair and nails. They were a little over the top.

The skinny mulatto was sitting on Packouz’s lap flirting and giggling at everything he said - and Packouz isn’t that funny. The darker girl was making eyes at me, but I wasn’t feeling it - something didn’t seem right about her. Packouz’s chick leaned in and gave him a peck on his bald head. “You’re a real cutie,” she told him, then made some crack about liking white chocolate and they started making out right there on the couch.

I was getting more and more uncomfortable with the whole situation. My plan was to do a couple more lines and head home to Jenna. That’s when I noticed Packouz place his hand between the mulatto’s knees and slide it up her thigh, under her leather mini-skirt and up to her pelvis. Suddenly Packouz froze, he locked eyes with her and went rigid - and then screeched like a 12-year-old girl, “Ahaaa!” He must have grabbed a handful of man meat. He yanked his hand back and yelled, “What the fuck? What the…? Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

He jumped to his feet - dumping the transvestite on the ground - and started whipping and snapping his hand back and forth, like he was trying to shake the feeling or stench out of it, I guess.

Looking back, they were a little taller than your average girl, and their hands were pretty big - the Adam’s apple should have been a clue - but if I’m to be perfectly honest, they were convincing cross-dressers.

Packouz was screaming about how he was going to beat their “faggot asses,” but he was no tough guy - the smart money was on the trannies. I remember thinking, What has this jackass gotten me involved in? - and then the fact that less than a minute earlier Packouz had had his tongue down this guy’s throat struck me, and I started laughing uncontrollably. “Oh man...” I laughed, “Wait till Monday morning.”

“Bro,” yelled Packouz, “you can’t tell anyone about this!”

“Fuck that,” I said, opening his apartment door. “You’re on your own... see ya at work.” I left him and the trannies in his apartment yelling at each other. Good times. Good times.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

TASK ORDER TWO

“The problem with gun runners going to war is that there is no shortage of ammunition.” - Simeon Weisz, Lord of War (Movie)

“Firearms are second only to the Constitution in importance; they are the peoples’ liberty’s teeth...” - George Washington

ON MARCH 13TH OF 2007, Kim Jones called me and nonchalantly asked, “Efraim, you got a pen? Task Order Two came in and I thought I’d give you a heads up.” She started reading off the order. Just over 120 million 7.62 x 39 mm Russian ball and tracer rounds was the first thing she said, and I remember thinking, Fuck! 7.62 rounds were a break-even item… maybe even a loss leader. Then she said, “Five hundred and fifty thousand GP30 high-explosive impact grenades, over sixty-three thousand five hundred OG-7V antipersonnel grenades, five hundred and fifty thousand GP30 high-explosive bouncing grenades, and ninety-one thousand 12 gauge slugs... it’s roughly forty-eight million dollars.” I simultaneously had a heart attack and an orgasm. That one phone call represented three times what AEY, Inc. had ever done.

“Well, thanks for the call Kim,” I was in shock, and trembling with excitement; I still don’t know how I managed to sound so calm. “We’ll get right on that for you.”

It was a big order, a moneymaker. The kind of money that I had never seen, and it had the very real potential of pushing me personally into eight figures. We sent out a mass email to manufacturers and distributors throughout the world, listing AEY, Inc.’s requirements and stating this wasn’t a RFQ (Request For Quotation); we had the signed U.S. Army delivery order in hand.

BY THE TIME I FINISHED, it was after seven o’clock, and I raced home to tell Jenna about the Task Order. She jumped into my arms, wrapped her legs around my waist, and started kissing me. She was so excited, shouting, “My boyfriend just received a $48 million delivery order from the U.S. fucking Army!”

We were in the middle of pulling each other’s clothes off when I started spouting off the specific items I would have to track down, “One hundred million AK rounds... and five hundred and fifty thousand high-explosive bouncing grenades... and…”

“Bouncing grenades?” Jenna laughed, as she unzipped my jeans. “Why would they want ‘em to bounce?”

“Casualties!” I said, excitedly. “See, they hit the ground and bounce up several feet, blowing apart and sending shrapnel in a six-meter radius, shredding everything around ‘em - vehicles, bodies…”

“Efraim!” she snapped, and stopped unclasping her bra. “That’s horrible... How do you sleep at night?”

“What’re you talking about?” I laughed, “Between the Ambien and the ten million plus I’ll make off this order... I’ll sleep like a baby.” Jenna glared at me, and I tried to clean it up. “With you in my arms, Bear.”

AN HOUR LATER I WAS LYING IN BED, staring out the window, smoking a Parliament and thinking about the standard Kalashnikov munitions. The basic 7.62 mm rounds (excluding tracers) are made up of an aluminum alloy or brass casing, an explosive primer, a low-explosive deflagrate - a mixture of nitrocellulose and nitroglycerin - and a projectile or “bullet” consisting of a steel or lead core covered by a hard full metal jacket - and I needed a lot of them. Jenna stepped out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her torso and asked, “You okay?”

“They ordered over one hundred and twenty million 7.62 mm Russian rounds.” The bulk of the ammunition was 7.62x39 mm, for use with the AK-47 (Avtomat Kalashnikovsa) assault rifle, and others were 7.62X54 mm to be used by the SVD (Snayperskaya Vintovka Dragunova) sniper rifle and the PKM PKT (Pulemyot Kalashnikova Mounted and Tank) machinegun. “It’s a lot of ammo...” I sighed. “If they exercise all their options over the course of the contract... it’s half a billion rounds.”

Jenna’s face dropped slightly, “Can you get that much?”

“I’m sure as fuck gonna try, Bear.”

INITIALLY WHEN AEY, INC. started sourcing the stockpiles of decade-old munitions, I wasn’t the least bit concerned with its performance. All munitions are hermetically sealed - in airtight containers - and therefore made to be highly resistant to environmental influences.

However, eventually the question of age did come up, so I had roughly a dozen of the 40-year-old 7.62 rounds tested - by HP White Laboratories - against newly produced commercial-grade Russian munitions. Not only did the aging stockpile ammunitions function, they performed better than the newly manufactured Russian rounds. So, I was more than satisfied with the product.

WITHIN A WEEK, I found a 2,000-square-foot office at the 912 Building and bought nicer furniture, computers, and a phone system with an intercom. New fax machines and copiers. The works. I then worked on filling the office with employees.

Now, a typical defense contractor with this amount of lucrative business already in hand would have assigned a dozen experienced purchasing agents to handle that type of volume or subcontracted it to experienced and reputable suppliers, but not me. I made the big mistake of hiring “friends.” I hired Daniel Doudnick, an old friend from Hebrew school who was born in Uzbekistan and spoke fluent Russian; he had dark skin and hair, sort of an Arab-meets-Asian look. He was a hardworking guy, but a partier. Daniel handled all our airfreight and logistics and his buddy Levey Meyer - Doudnick and Meyer came as a package. I didn’t even want to hire Meyer - I liked the guy, but never really trusted him - but Doudnick wouldn’t come without him. I made Doudnick a “Logistics Specialist” and his buddy Meyer an “Account Executive.”

There was Alexander Podrizki, a pale-skinned wannabe hippie with shaggy brown hair who was stuck on a world-peace mentality and constantly stoned. He was bright, but had zero ambition, so I gave Alex the title of “Quality Control Specialist.”

Don’t let all the fancy titles fool you; I was pretty loose with them. Before I called them, some of these guys were high-school dropouts taking the bus to their assistant french-fry chef jobs at Burger King at eight o’clock in the morning, and by that night they were “Account Executives” with AEY, Inc., an up and coming “Defense Contractor” specializing in the international procurement and delivery of weapons and munitions to active combat zones.

I hired two ghetto-fabulous chicks, a black girl named Yanaris Fundora and a Miami chongo named Darlene Something, as secretaries. I also hired Yong Kwon, a South Korean friend of Packouz, to do internet research, finding Eastern European manufacturers, and an extremely sexy Spanish girl, Islara Soto. She was hot in a biker-chick kind of way: tattoos and piercings. Lastly, Diana Llanos, Nicaraguan secretary.

Jenna couldn’t stand any of the girls I hired. She suspected I was having sex with Diana; I wasn’t at the time, but she didn’t believe that. Look, I didn’t hire the Brady Bunch. These guys were snorting coke in the restroom and coming in hung-over. My Personal Assistant was doing amateur internet porn for Bang Bus under the pseudonym, “21 Questions” - check it out... she’s a talented girl.

ROUGHLY A WEEK LATER I was in Doral, Florida, at the Westin Hotel and Country Club, pitching several Canadian investors on becoming equity partners in the Afghanistan contract, along with several others, when I received a call from Georgi Bankov with Arcus Co., a Bulgarian manufacturer of defense- related products: ammunition, grenade launchers, mortars, and small arms. “We can manufacture the munitions and meet the delivery schedule,” he said, in a Bulgarian accent. “We want it.”

I threw out a low-ball price of roughly $22.3 million, and Georgi barked, “That’s ridiculous, General Dynamics pays us more than that!” General Dynamics is a market leader in military manufacturing and defense contracting. They make everything from combat vehicles to marine systems, and they produce weapons and munitions. Their revenues are approximately $32 billion, and they employ a workforce of roughly 95,000 - General Dynamics is a beast. But they were also one of the defense contractors AEY, Inc. had beaten out for the Afghanistan contract.

“Look,” I said, “General Dynamics doesn’t have a contract for one point one million grenades... I do!” I told the Bulgarian if he couldn’t meet the price, AEY, Inc. would acquire the grenades through Sloboda in Serbia, and I ended the call.

An hour later my cell rang. “We’ll accept your very low price,” grumbled Georgi. Arcus was selling AEY, Inc. the HE (High Explosive) grenades for $18 and the HEB (High Explosive Bouncing) grenades for $23. They were selling them to the typical buyer for $27 HE and $30 HEB - General Dynamics might have been getting a ten-percent break. AEY, Inc. was going to make a fucking killing on those grenades: a profit of millions.

I LATER LEARNED that General Dynamics - who had a long history with Arcus - was so sure they were going to win the Afghanistan contract they had told Arcus to ramp up for production of the 40 mm grenades. Arcus was in the process of doing exactly that when they got our email notifying them AEY, Inc. had been awarded the Afghan contract.

A WEEK LATER, DOUDNICK AND I LANDED AT SOFIA International Airport. I was about to invest my life savings in Task Order Two’s grenades, so it seemed prudent to take a look at what I’d be spending my money on. The airport was circa-1970s Soviet architecture, but well maintained. Bulgaria was cold, not freezing, but cool; it lies along the Black Sea in Southeastern Europe and is a predominantly urban and industrial society.

Like its Soviet Bloc counterparts, Bulgaria had moved to a democratic form of government when communist regimes across Eastern Europe relinquished their power in the early 1990s. The Communist Party gave up its monopoly on power and allowed multiparty elections - a smart move on their part since neighboring countries were overthrowing and executing their communist leaders. In October of 1991, the Bulgarian legislature elected the UDF (Union of Democratic Forces), which immediately made favorable democratic reforms in personal freedoms, property, and large-scale privatization of its industries.

Arcus’ official driver picked Doudnick and me up at the airport and took us to the tiny town of Lyaskovets, where we were checked into a quaint little three-star hotel recommended by Georgi.

The city had seen better days; most of the buildings were from an era that was long gone, and the more modern Soviet municipal structures were in disrepair. Everything seemed slightly dirty or grayish. The roads were horrible.

WE MET WITH BANKO BANKOV, one of Arcus’ owners, and Georgi - who turned out to be Banko’s son - at Arcus’ factory in Lyaskovets. Like most buildings in Bulgaria, the plant was a Communist-era utilitarian structure: function over aesthetics. Everything was concrete and steel. It had this huge Cyrillic sign, very reminiscent of the old Soviet Union. I half expected to see the hammer and sickle proudly displayed over the factory. It was eerie.

When the two Bulgarians met Doudnick and me in the lobby, they were noticeably taken back, glancing at one another suspiciously. Banko didn’t speak English - only Bulgarian and Russian - so most of our conversations were translated by Georgi. “Mister Diveroli?” asked Banko, through his son. “My father does not mean to offend... but how old are you?”

“Twenty-one,” I responded, shaking the Bulgarian’s meaty hand, “but I’ve been field tested a few times.”

The two men grinned at one another, and Georgi said, “I’m impressed.” Georgi was in his early 30s and his father was in his late 50s, handsome in a Bulgarian Alec Baldwin sorta way. I liked them both immediately.

THE FIRST THING WE DID WAS TOUR THE FACTORY. The facility was automated but not modernized - it wasn’t Lockheed Martin. There were hundreds of sweaty, thick-necked laborers in denim coveralls, feeding raw materials into loud heavy machinery that molded and stamped out dozens of munitions parts. Clank. Snap. Spark. Spitting out projectiles, fuses, and body assemblies.

We walked through the factory following the manufacturing process along the line. Excess metal chips and shavings covered the grease-stained concrete floors. Georgi said, “Almost the entire town works for the Arcus’ factory or for some facet of the company. From the sales and marketing teams to the machinists and assembly workers.”

We watched the workers attach the steel pieces of the GP30 body casings and projectiles together along multiple assembly lines, their muscular hands snapping the cylindrical shells and propellant components together. The end result: 40 mm high-explosive grenade, after grenade, after grenade.

Several female laborers quickly packed 40 of the finished GP30s into metal boxes, while another group of laborers sealed the containers up air-tight and placed three of the metal boxes - 120 grenades - into wooden cases, then nailed them shut and stacked them onto pallets, which would eventually be hauled away by forklifts to Arcus’ warehouse.

After watching the entire process, Georgi asked, “Would you like to test fire a few?”

“Aw...” I hadn’t thought to test them. I had never fired a live grenade before. I had fired various machine guns on numerous occasions, but this was way more than firing a few sub-machinegun controlled bursts at some indoor shooting range, and I was excited. “Absolutely, we have to fire ‘em,” I said.

Arcus employed several ex-Spetznaz - weapons and munitions experts who were the Soviet equivalent of U.S. Special Forces - as security. Georgi and a couple of ex-Spetznaz took Doudnick and I to Arcus’ private range, where we watched one of Arcus’ munitions specialists fire several GP30 high-explosive grenades at a distance of 100 meters (roughly 330 feet) using an Under-Barrel Grenade Launcher attached to a jet black AK-74 assault rifle - a more modern cousin of the model-47. The distant explosion sent a mound of dirt and blast fragments 20 feet into the air. Nothing within that radius would have survived.

The ex-Spetznaz handed me the model-74; I aimed down-range and shot off a couple bouncing grenades. The recoil of the assault rifle slammed hard against my shoulder as the grenade left the tube and traveled through the air. Upon impact, a small charge in the nose of the grenade detonated and bounced 1.5 meters (roughly five feet) into the air, and the device detonated. Those things are absolutely lethal.

THE INITIAL DEPOSIT MONEY HAD BEEN WIRED THE DAY BEFORE I arrived. I had signed a faxed copy of the contract, but we both wanted an original signed copy. The thing I liked best about Georgi and his father was their professionalism. The Arcus conference room was filled with inert examples of munitions the factory manufactured. The furnishings were as benign as the munitions samples. It was their attempt at a western style boardroom. After we had signed, Georgi asked me, “How long... you been in the munitions business?”

“On and off for another company since I was fourteen-years-old. I started my own company when I was seventeen.”

Georgi translated and Banko puffed, “Phff,” leaned back in his chair, and shook his head. Georgi said, “And you just ordered over twenty-two million dollars’ worth of grenades...” And I had charged the U.S. Army over $30.7 million for them. “My father’s very impressed,” he said. “I’m very impressed.”

GEORGI INSISTED HE AND I go out to celebrate. We ended up at a gentlemen’s club. It had everything you would expect of a strip club: three stages with stripper poles. Smoke and strobe lights. Beautiful Eastern European girls and lots of tits and ass. I was sliding a folded Lev [Bulgarian currency] into the thong of a blonde bombshell of a Bulgarian stripper when Jenna called. “Hey, Bear, where are you?” she asked, hearing the music and giggling girls in the background. “You at a club?”

I could barely hear her over the music, but I knew I was in trouble. “Don’t flip out, okay... I’m at a strip club, but its business, and…”

Jenna screamed, “We’re through!” and the phone went dead. It was another version of the same fight we had had over a dozen times, and I knew we would continue to have it as long as we dated. I can’t tell you how many hours and thousands of dollars I spent on international phone calls begging Jenna not to break up with me.

THE BOYS AT ARCUS insisted I visit Varna. “I can’t,” I told Banko, “I’ve got too much work to do... I don’t have time for a vacation, and…”

“You have your cell phone and laptop, yes? We’ll pay for three days; you must see Bulgaria. No excuses... Efraim,” said Georgi, “This is how we do business; it would be an insult to refuse.” I didn’t want to be rude.

Varna was a vacation destination for not only Bulgarians but for citizens across Europe - everywhere really - who flocked to the Black Sea coast to enjoy the mild weather, beautiful beaches, hotels casinos, and European-discotheques. It was everything you would expect of a typical vacation town, lots of shops and clubs.

I stayed in the Kempinsky, a very nice German-style hotel with direct access to the beach, an Asian restaurant and Italian cafe, a Spa and sauna, indoor and outdoor pool, and its own casino; it was slightly dated, but very classy. I spent my first day at the casino playing what amounted to five-dollar hands of Blackjack and fielding calls from my staff back in Miami. I remember the place was packed with Israelis screaming, “Yofi!” (beautiful in Hebrew) every time they won a hand at Blackjack. “Yofi Yofi!”

Around seven o’clock, I was walking through the hotel’s lobby and the concierge asked me, “Would you like a girl for the night, Mister Diveroli?” I was offended - I don’t think of myself as someone that needs to pay for sex - but there was so much about this country that was... off, by U.S. standards. I was so stressed out between the Task Orders and arguing with Jenna and my mother that it suddenly seemed like a good idea. I figured if she got to the room and I felt too uncomfortable, I’d back out.

About an hour later, there was a knock at my hotel room door. She was a 120-pound voluptuous Ukrainian in her early twenties: five foot six, blonde with blue eyes, and curves you typically don’t find on a European - a drop-dead work of art.

She seemed as shocked to see me as I was to see her. She stepped into the room, “I was told an American businessman,” she said in broken English. “You very young... very good looking.”

She smiled and I immediately relaxed. I didn’t know where to start. She must have sensed it because she started unbuttoning my shirt and whispered, “Svetlana... My name is, Svetlana.” I unbuttoned my blue jeans and she slipped out of her cotton dress.

When I caught sight of her perfectly toned milky white body, I whispered, “Fuck,” underneath my breath. She smiled, laid down spread eagle on the king-sized bed and pulled me down; her legs wrapped around my waist, she moaned and grinded against me; dug her nails into my back and whispered, “This good?”

“It’s good,” I responded.

She did everything right, moaned and seductively bit her lip, and breathed hard - everything you would expect from a pro. About halfway into my typical routine, I was pounding away at her, and Svetlana moaned, “You feel so good... Dis is so good.”

She looked up and unexpectedly our lips pressed together - we both went rigid. Then she relaxed and kissed me; her wet tongue slid into my mouth and for just a second I thought all the theatrics may have been for real. A minute later she climbed on top of me and we were French kissing like a couple of teenagers, our pelvises slapping away at one another until I released.

She slinked off me and lay down on the bed. We stared at one another and she grinned. “You’re Jewish?” she asked.

“Yes... how’d you know that?”

“The Israelis love me.”

“Well,” I smile, “you’re very sexy. But I’m not Israeli, just an American mutt.”

She grinned again and we kept staring at one another; she brushed my bangs out of my eyes. “Do you want me to...” she rolled her eyes toward the ceiling searching for the English word. “Want me to... leave?”

The truth is you don’t pay a hooker for sex; you pay them to leave when the deed is done. But I didn’t want her to leave - I liked her. “You can stay... if you want.”

She flipped onto her stomach, exposing her perfect ass, and rested her head in the palms of her hands. “I stay,” she squinted her eyes and asked, “You have woman friend... wife, in America?”

“I have a girlfriend?”

“You love dis girl?”

“Yes, I love her very much.” Despite having just slept with Svetlana, I did love Jenna. This was only sex, nothing else, although I was becoming more curious about her by the minute.

“I have no one... no man friend.”

We lay in bed wrapped in the sheets for most of the night, talking about our lives and our families; I let her listen to several of my mother’s voice mails, and she laughed and laughed, “What did you do to... you mother.”

“Nothing,” I laughed, “I just do what I do. I’m not the good Jewish son she wants, I guess... Plus, she’s a little crazy - Orthodox Jewish-mother crazy. That’s way worse than regular crazy.”

The next morning we slept together again and ordered room service. I watched her eat eggs and nibble on some toast, while I drank coffee and orange juice; every once in a while she would glance at me and smile shyly.

When she was leaving I handed her the 100 lev and she looked a little embarrassed. I asked her, “How much for staying the night and this morning?”

“No... Nothing,” she said and kissed me on the cheek. “I wanted to stay.” She handed me her cell number and left. I spent that day scheduling trips to several Eastern European manufacturers and state-owned military liquidators, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Svetlana. By four o’clock I had called the Ukrainian and asked her to come to my hotel room.

The moment she walked in she couldn’t stop smiling. I slid the straps of her sundress off her shoulders and it slowly slipped down Svetlana’s torso; exposing her perfect round breasts, hips and vulva. “I’m glad you called,” she said, as she slinked down onto the bed, and pulled me on top of her. We both tugged at my clothes and several seconds later I was thrusting away at her, while she ran her fingers through my hair and kissed me. “Take your time,” Svetlana said softly, between deep breaths. “If you want, I stay the night.”

Later that evening we had dinner in the hotel’s restaurant, where she told me, “I work three months every year as...” she glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention, and softly said, “as prostitute here in Varna. Then I attend University in Ukraine.” Maybe it was a line, but I believed her. I liked Svetlana, not like I liked Jenna, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like her.

When she left the next morning, I handed her the equivalent of a thousand U.S. dollars. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s too much... I don’t deserve this much, it was one night.”

“Take it - it’s just money... You need it more than I do.” I saw her on a couple of my return trips to Bulgaria, but she eventually went back to the Ukraine for school. We emailed for a while... Maybe it was all an act, but if it was I got the better part of the deal. Svetlana was the best Lev I ever spent. It wasn’t love, but it was close.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

SOCIALISM

“Socialism is like a dream. Sooner or later you wake up to reality.” - Winston Churchill

NOT ALL MY TRIPS to the eastern bloc were productive; virtually every state-owned company I dealt with was a waste of time. Most of the time I traveled with someone else, for several reasons: sometimes it was to help me out with inspecting the products, sometimes I needed a translator, but mostly it was for safety. I wasn’t dealing with Dali Llama types. The Eastern European arms industry was filled with ex-military and ex-state security officers (KGB), corrupt politicians and mobsters. It was a murky world of undesirables - everything from crooked government actors to the most ruthless Slavic gangsters, and sometimes individuals that were both.

Heinrich had once suggested to me, “Keep someone with you as often as possible. You are a wealthy American... anything could happen.” If things went bad, or if someone snatched me up - which happens - I was safer if there was a witness around. “You are going to want someone there to call your family... tell them how much ransom to send the kidnappers, and where to wire it. Before they started cutting off your fingers and mailing them to your family members as an incentive to pay.” Yeah, that’s what I was dealing with.

KEEP IN MIND, I WAS GEARING UP TO FLY tons of cargo into an active warzone; al-Qaeda and Taliban insurgents were regularly firing small arms and RPGs (Rocket-Propelled Grenades) at cargo planes arriving at Kabul and the U.S. military airbase at Bagram. Every once in a while the rebels would hit one, causing the commercial aircraft to crash, losing the flight crew and worse: the freight. Despite my best efforts to do so, this stuff wasn’t insured!

As a result of the hostile flight conditions, UPS and Federal Express-type professional outfits weren’t willing to risk their planes. What I ended up with was Eastern European and former Soviet Union (CIS) based carriers flying aging aircraft with poor maintenance records and less-than-professional crew.

Every few weeks, there was a report out of Afghanistan of a commercial cargo plane owned by a Georgian company plowing into a mountain - killing eight - or a Pakistani company’s aircraft slamming into a mountain - killing five.

Some of these carriers didn’t even have to leave the ground. I recall a Russian transportation aircraft taxing into another carrier on the tarmac at Bagram air force base - no casualties - and a Turkish cargo plane running off the runway and smashing into several mud brick houses - killing four.

Those types of things happened all the time. So you can imagine what it was like to deal with those freight companies. It wasn’t like shipping something through the U.S. Post Office.

DOUDNICK AND I TRAVELED TO UKRAINE to meet with Vitali Popov, the director of the state-owned freight company, Ukrainian Cargo Airways. We arrived at Kiev International Airport around ten o’clock at night, it was cold and dark, not that there was much to see.

Ukraine is the second largest country in Europe, just under Russia; both were part of the Soviet Union until its collapse in 1991. The two countries argued over many issues after the dissolution of the U.S.S.R., including the portion of the Soviet national debt each country should assume, the division of the countries’ nuclear arsenal, and its military installations. In the end, Ukraine ended up a bankrupt ex-Communist country with a lot of weapons.

The city of Kiev is the capital of Ukraine; many of its buildings, cathedrals, and catacombs date from the Middle Ages - kind of eerie, but I liked it. It also has modern manufacturing facilities and chemical plants actively polluting the country. That’s the type of place it was: scary and toxic. The city has some attractive parks, museums, and a University, but you wouldn’t want to live there.

Ukraine is one of those countries where you don’t want to drink the water - not because of Montezuma’s revenge, but because of the 1986 Chernobyl nuclear power plant disaster, near the city of Kiev. Nuclear fallout from the accident caused an estimated 7,000 deaths and gave Ukraine, Belarus, and Russia one of the highest rates of cancer and birth defects on the planet. So you don’t drink the water unless you want your kids to have extra limbs or a third eye.

We stayed at the Intercontinental Hotel, an incredible establishment: luxurious suites, an indoor pool, and three restaurants including a phenomenal French bistro. Vintage wines and crystal chandeliers. It had a world-class strip club or “social elite” club on the top floor of the hotel with a panoramic view of the entire city; the B-Hush served rabbit-foot cocktails and caviar hors d’oeuvres. There was a great jazz band and gorgeous strippers dancing on dozens of private stages.

Doudnick and I grabbed a couple Ukrainian beauties and spent our first night in Kiev drinking vodka and getting lap dances in a private VIP room.

The next morning I rolled out of bed with a massive hangover. I shoved a Parliament in my mouth and smoked the cigarette while taking a shower. I felt that shitty. But like a good soldier, I drank a liter of coffee and a pitcher of orange juice, and made our nine o’clock appointment with Popov ready for battle.

THE HEADQUARTERS OF UKRAINIAN CARGO AIRLINES in Kiev were less than impressive: old Soviet-era construction and 1970s-style furniture. It had lots of cracked plastic and chipped veneer, but Popov’s office was in better shape, a dorm room filled with an eclectic array of American sports memorabilia. The guy had an aquarium behind his desk filled with exotic tropical fish, a massage table, and expensive furniture.

When Popov and his underling, Victor, entered the office, I thought, You’ve got to be kidding. Popov was a bloated middle-age man wearing rumpled pajama bottoms, a New York Jets T-shirt, and fuzzy slippers. I was in an Armani suit bearing gifts of Johnny Walker Blue label and Mont Blanc pens - and this guy stumbles in wearing pajamas and smelling like cheap booze. Sure, I was an alcoholic too, but I was a functioning alcoholic. I always managed to get my shit together when it came time for business!

To make matters worse, Popov was extremely unpleasant, rude and unprofessional. There certainly appeared to be some mental health illness issues there, but I’m not a psychiatrist, so I can’t say for sure.

Our entire conversation was conducted through Doudnick and Victor, acting as interpreters; it heated up quickly, while Popov drank my gift he repeatedly barked, “Nyet! Nyet!” He wouldn’t budge on the freight prices.

“Fuel expensive,” Popov griped while staring at me through bloodshot eyes. “I’ve got bosses, pay da bosses.” Apparently he had other government and military officials that he had to take care of. “Nyet!”

Eventually, Popov dropped to a slightly more reasonable price when I agreed to increase AEY, Inc.’s shipping schedule. The problem was, shortly after Ukrainian Cargo Airways started shipping AEY, Inc.’s cargo, the airline got “black listed” by the United Nations for illegal arms shipments to a variety of embargoed African nations.

I called a dozen carriers in Turkey, Turkmenistan, Kazakhstan, Moldova, and a handful of other countries. No one would take the business. We eventually found out that Azerbaijan was seldom issuing over-flight permits to any carriers other than Silk Way Airlines. Silk Way Airlines is owned by relations and family members of the country’s president, Ilham Aliyev. So, it’s practically a state owned airline. It was a Cartel move on the part of the Azerbaijanis, but there wasn’t anything we could do about it.

THE HIGHLIGHT OF THE TRIP ended up being the River Palace, a nightclub and casino. The place was filled with Ukrainian women: thin, gorgeous, model-like beauties. Red velvet furniture and paisley wallpaper. The place was classy on a budget, which came off as cheap and tacky, and slightly sleazy. The kind of place where you’re constantly checking for your wallet. Doudnick and I were at the bar buying drinks for half a dozen women at the equivalent of ten bucks a round - laughing and flirting - when one of the better-looking ones yelled over the blaring music in broken English, “What you... do work?”

I made a gun with my index finger and thumb, “Paruzje,” I said in Russian. (Weapons.)

“Ah, guns,” she said, took a sip of her drink and continued, “Dis is dangerous.” She jokingly asked, “You ever kill a man?”

“I hurt someone’s feeling once.”

She smiled and leaned into me, slid her hand on my crotch, and whispered, “You take me home, yes? One hundred Grvna [Ukrainian currency].” My nice Ukrainian girl’s a hooker - but a sure thing. Another girl leaned into Doudnick’s ear, and he glanced nervously at me and then at our companions.

I laughed, “When in Rome, bro...” I whispered to my nice girl, “How much for two?”

“Two?” she glanced at her friend, “Two hundred, for two.”

“If I’m buying in bulk, I want it for...” I looked them up and down, “One hundred and fifty Grvna.”

Twenty minutes later, I was in my hotel room playing slap and tickle with two exquisite professionals. They were very businesslike, with their own Trojans and KY jelly (yes, they have that in Ukraine also), and made me swap out the condom every time we switched up - went through a whole box... It was an amazingly clinical sexual experience. It wasn’t love, but it was also a lot less expensive and aggravating.

IN ROMANIA, Doudnick and I met with Romtehnica’s director, a salesman, and a couple of support staff at their offices in Bucharest. It’s a state-owned company in charge of liquidating excess Romanian military equipment. The place was filthy.

In late 1989, crowds of Romanian citizens demonstrated for democracy throughout the country and were fired upon by government security forces controlled by Romanian president and Communist Party leader Nicolae Ceausescu - thousands of protesters were killed in what is known as “The Romanian Bloodbath.”

The Romanians revolted against the dictatorship of Ceausescu; army units joined the revolt, and fierce fighting between the army and Ceausescu’s security forces followed. On December 22, Ceausescu and his wife were captured trying to flee the country. They were charged with embezzlement of government funds and murder. Within three days, they were tried, found guilty, and executed on December 25th of 1989 - Romanians don’t fuck around. The following year, the country elected a non-Communist party and officially cut ties with the Soviet Union.

Everything in Romania is grey: the utilitarian buildings, the bad roads, the mountains, even the trees have grey in them. Everything looked like it was lightly dusted in soot. Communist-era industrialization caused serious environmental degradation throughout the Balkans. Nearly all industrial sites contributed to air pollution, especially the iron and steel mills, chemical plants, and thermal power plants. That pollution was particularly severe in Romania; moreover, the Adriatic and Black Sea and all major rivers were polluted by waste materials. Again, don’t drink the water.

It’s the kind of place you kick open the doors and don’t eat anything that doesn’t come out of a sealed plastic wrapper, and you only drink bottled water - not Romanian bottled water! The director of the company offered Doudnick and me some type of brownish booze in a dirty glass... I genuinely didn’t want to drink out of it. Everyone at the meeting was lazy and inept. Everything was, “No!” or “We’ll have to check on that.”

That’s the problem with ex-communists: it’s the 99 percent that give the one percent a bad name. This was a country of 25 million people, a former Soviet satellite with a standing army of near 200,000 soldiers, and the most AEY, Inc. could squeeze out of them was around 1,000 82 mm white phosphorous smoke mortar rounds - pathetic!

BEFORE LEAVING EASTERN EUROPE, Doudnick and I swung into Amsterdam to check out the Red Light District. We got stoned on Amsterdam Gold; walked the streets of the infamous area, and watched the naked girls dancing behind the windows of the bordellos.

We were watching two mocha Barbies straight out of Africa making out just behind a thin sheet of glass. Doudnick got a call from the office and stepped away, but I over heard him say, “No, we’re swamped...”

I had hired Doudnick for $75,000 a year - $25,000 more than he was making at his last gig working for a law firm doing real-estate closings - but it didn’t take me long to realize he was an asset. I immediately bumped him up to $100,000. He was a leader. Doudnick had an alpha personality. As much as I liked that about him, it became an issue.

Truth is, Doudnick didn’t like me. He made snide comments and talked shit behind my back. At first I thought it was because I was young and in charge; eventually I realized it was jealously: I was making millions and he wasn’t. Jenna used to say it was because he wanted to be me. I wanted to tell him it wasn’t all it seemed; I had business issues, addiction issues, commitment issues, control issues, mom issues, relationship issues... issues.

Just before Doudnick hung up the cell phone, he said, “Yes, I’m sure, we’re not bidding on ‘em.”

“Not bidding on what,” I asked. He told me not to worry about it, but I was worried about it and I pushed for an answer. “What aren’t we bidding on?”

“An Army solicitation for thirty thousand AKs - the deadline’s Monday - but we’re too busy, so we’re passing.”

First off, that wasn’t his call to make; second, we already had several sources for cheap Kalashnikovs; third, they were a decent moneymaker and relatively easy to source and deliver. “Call ‘em back - we’ve got a twenty-five percent profit margin on AKs right now. That’s seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Anyone on staff can handle that order.” Hell, Packouz could even handle it, and he barely ever came in anymore.

“Efraim,” sighed Doudnick, shaking his head as if he were scolding a small child, “We’ve got our hands full. You’ve gotta stop taking every contract that comes our way. We’re overwhelmed. You’re going to drive this company into the ground. You already have orders in-hand for more than 60,000 AK-47s that need to be delivered to Baghdad that are behind schedule according to the delivery contracts. You’re pushing everyone too hard.”

“That’s what I do, I push! Now, call ‘em back and bid on ‘em - ninety-nine per,” I grumbled. “That’s what you do!” I stomped off and left him standing on the sidewalk.

Maybe Doudnick was right. Maybe AEY, Inc.’s staff was overwhelmed. But I was young and inexperienced. I had an all-or-nothing philosophy. You were with me or against me. I didn’t do moderation - in anything.

I stepped into the brothel - which was set up like a typical bar with stools and booths - and asked the guy behind the counter, “How much for the Nubian Princesses?” I motioned toward the window display with my chin, “Both of ‘em.”

A couple minutes later I was led into a private room by the two hookers. They were the color of Carmel Macchiato and Dark Chocolate. Now I’d never slept with a black girl before, but I’d also never seen one who looked as good as these two. Smooth round gravity-defying breasts and asses. Curves like an hourglass; tight little waists and hips. Skin like silk. They both had full supple lips as soft as cotton.

The whole time I was thrusting away at these two chicks I couldn’t help but think, If my mother ever finds out, she’ll disown me. They smelled like cocoa butter, and tasted like mocha… and two thousand years of oppression.

WHEN I SAW DOUDNICK AT THE AIRPORT two days later, he told me AEY, Inc. had bid $3 million on the assault rifles. “Even if we’re awarded the contract,” he jabbed, “I’m not sure we have the ability to deliver on it.”

“We’ll get it, and we’ll deliver on it,” I said. “And the sooner you get with the program the happier we’ll both be.” It was always a struggle with him. Neither of us could give in - or would.

I WASN’T BACK IN MIAMI two weeks when Heinrich called to tell me, “You have to come to Montenegro...” He was a personal friend of Zoran Damjanovic, the Executive Director of Yugomont, the newly formed government liquidation company in charge of selling off the budding nation’s excess armaments, which it had inherited from its recent divorce from Serbia. “It is like a bloody going-out-of-business sale here.”

Doudnick was busy arranging a dozen shipments to Kabul and we weren’t exactly getting along, so I called my cousin Joe at his job - some shitty restaurant in downtown Miami - and asked, “You wanna go to Montenegro?”

“Fuck yeah!” Joe was in his 20s, a well-built, green-eyed, average looking guy - a pothead, but hard working and eager to learn the arms business. We jumped on the next flight to Podgorica, the capital city.

The breakup of the Yugoslav federation after the collapse of the Soviet Union left “the third Yugoslav” a federal republic comprised of Montenegro and Serbia in 1992, but like most marriages, it began to deteriorate over the next ten to 15 years, and on May 21st of 2006, a referendum on independence withdrew Montenegro from the union, declaring Montenegrin independence. The tiny little country of roughly 600,000 was in the middle of an economic crisis, and the first thing they did - before the ink was dry on the referendum - was start selling off their military armaments.

We met Zoran, a Count Dracula-looking Slav in his late 50s with a perpetually sinister grin, at his office in Podgorica. We all climbed into Zoran’s vehicle. He and Heinrich were drinking some homegrown Montenegrin hard liquor called Grushka, made from pears, and they were hammered. Zoran was all over the road, swerving and running stop signs, waving at the police with no concern of getting a DUI - Zoran was one of the guys running the tiny country.

When we pulled into the military installation a soldier approached our vehicle; Zoran handed him the bottle, barked something in Serbian, and the soldier opened the perimeter gate. Inside the base was a military hardware and munitions flea market. The moment we passed through the barbed-wire fences I noticed the base was in extreme need of maintenance: concrete structures with exposed rebar, everything in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint.

There were nearly three-dozen MiG [Mi(Koyan) & G(urevich)] 17s and 19s, the old boxey black Soviet-designed high-speed, high-altitude jet fighters, parked on cracked asphalt pavement. But these had seen better days. There was rust and worn paint on them.

There were over 10,000 air bombs - these huge ten-foot-long cylindrical grey bombs - stacked on disintegrating wooden pallets eight feet high on an unsecured asphalt strip exposed to the elements. An explosive disaster waiting to happen. “Very cheap,” grunted Zoran, as we walked through several hundred stacked rows of the rusting bombs. “They are designed for carpet bombing. They hit ground and burn off all air within... one hundred meters - kill everything.” He lit a filterless cigarette, and said, “Good price.”

“They sound like a lot of fun,” I laughed nervously, “but I don’t need ‘em.”

“Yes...” he grinned. “We can’t give ‘em away.”

They had nearly one hundred Armored Personnel Carriers in varying degrees of inoperability - but I wasn’t shopping for birds of prey or troop transporters, I was there to buy small arms and munitions.

ZORAN LED US INTO THE FIRST of a dozen light grey warehouses on the base. The first warehouse held over 100,000 Kalashnikovs, both fixed and folding stock models, packed in wooden crates; row after row of boxes lined the walls. I was astonished by the sheer number of weapons. I was inspecting a RPK machinegun when Jenna called. “What’re you doing?” she yawned - it was roughly 8:00 am in Miami.

“I’m standing in a repository with over ten million dollars’ worth of Kalashnikov rifles...” I involuntarily chuckled, “owned by a country in the middle of an economic meltdown... and it’s all gotta go.”

“I see,” said Jenna, and I could feel her smiling. “So you’re in heaven, is that it?”

“Absofuckinglutely.”

“Well,” she giggled, “have fun Bear. I’m going to work.”

Another warehouse had aisle after aisle filled with Portable Surface-to-Air Missiles and hand grenades. “There’s some great stuff here,” I said to Zoran as we passed several racks of Air to Ground rockets stacked on steel girders.

“Da, very good,” he responded, placed his cigarette between his lips and pulled open the door to another warehouse packed with munitions.

There was a soldier guarding the place, sitting on a pallet of plastic explosives while smoking what looked like a hand rolled cigar. We were standing in a room filled to the ceiling with 60 mm and 82 mm high explosive mortars and rockets, and ammunition cans filled with the Soviet equivalent of U.S. C4. The plastic explosive is stable, but the mixture of munitions powder and dust was volatile stuff, and these guys were flicking ashes everywhere. I looked at Heinrich sideways and grimaced. He shrugged and said, “Relax Efraim, they know what they’re doing.”

When Zoran dropped his cigarette to the floor, and ground it out with the heel of his boot, I winced. I seriously thought, We might not make it outta here.

“You buy,” said Zoran, and he motioned to the stockpiles of munitions, “Yes?”

“Yes,” I answered, “we buy.”

I cracked open my laptop right there, dropped it onto a pallet of mortars and started typing out a contract. That night Zoran signed and the following day I wired a deposit to Yugomont’s account. AEY, Inc. purchased a mixture of over 30,000 82 mm and 60 mm mortar shells and illumination mortar rounds, S-5 and S-8 air to ground rockets for the Afghanistan Security Forces, and a mixture of over 30,000 AK-47s, RPKs and DShK 12.7 mm machine guns for the Iraq Security Forces.

Sometimes it was that quick. Other times it was three months of back and forth negotiations with no results.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE LAND OF EAGLES AND THE GODDESS OF DEMOCRACY

“If an expert says it can’t be done, get another expert.” - David Ben-Gurion

THE INTERMEDIATE-SIZED 7.62X39 MM ROUND of the AK-47 assault rifle isn’t an overpowering full-size rifle round or a small submachine cartridge. No, the 7.62 mm round is just right for close- to medium-range combat. As a result, 7.62 mm ammunition is in great demand - and that was a problem, since AEY, Inc. needed to acquire half a billion rounds over the course of the Afghanistan contract.

Availability wasn’t the only issue. Most former Soviet and Eastern European countries had large stockpiles of AK ammunition or factories ready to produce the rounds. It was their willingness to part with what might literally be their only strategic reserves, and the cost, that were at issue. At any given time, there were half a dozen countries in Africa buying up millions of 7.62 mm rounds. And in some cases they were paying three to four times what AEY, Inc. needed to acquire the ammunition for to make any type of profit. The advantages we offered were that I could buy in bulk, and it was clean: no bullshit, since the U.S. Government was providing all the paperwork.

IN EARLY MARCH OF 2007, I received a call from Heinrich regarding Albania’s stockpile of ammunition. “Efraim,” said Heinrich, “they’ve got enough in reserve to fill the remainder of Task Order Two - all one hundred and twenty million rounds of it, and then some.”

“And it’s serviceable?”

“Yes, yes... like new, it’s all hermetically sealed in metal boxes and wooden crates. Standard military packaging.”

Albania is a small nation in the Balkan Peninsula of Southeastern Europe, one of the least developed countries in the region. Following the collapse of the Marxist government in the early 1990s, democracy brought privatization, greed, and corruption to Albania. The country did, however, have one thing going for it: millions of tons of stockpiled ammunition.

What I didn’t know was that from the late 1950s to the 1970s, the former Communist government of Albania had received the bulk of its ammunition - over 1.5 billion rounds - from the People’s Republic of China, due to the military alliance between the two countries.

Heinrich was negotiating with MEICO, the Albanian state-run Military Export Import Company that was in charge of liquidating the country’s excess weapons and munitions. In Eastern Europe - particularly Albania - practically all of the armaments were excess. If you had the cash to buy it, it suddenly became an “excess” armament.

“If the numbers work, we have a deal, but zero bullshit, Heinrich. I can’t risk it; this is the biggest contract we’ve ever had. It’s a make it or break it deal for me.” I had everything in this deal - and millions of dollars of other people’s money.

I REMEMBER I’D JUST HUNG UP THE PHONE when Jenna stopped by the office - just to let all the pretty young girls I had hired know she was “the girlfriend.” It was a common thing. She would walk around and smile politely at everyone - especially the female employees. Jenna would sit at an empty desk and check her email account. Make a couple of calls from the office landline. Really let everyone know she could do anything she wanted to do. Jenna did everything to mark me as her territory but piss on me (in public, anyway).

IN EARLY 2007, THE PRICE OF CRUDE OIL AND, IN TURN, AVIATION FUEL SKYROCKETED. Between January and April refined jet fuel prices spiked over 40 percent, to nearly $100 a barrel. It was something I hadn’t accounted for when bidding the Afghanistan contract, and it was killing my profit margin. Most of the ammunition came in large heavy wooden crates, but the actual rounds were sealed in large metal containers known as “spam cans.” Each can generally contained between one and two thousand rounds.

Roughly 30 percent of the weight associated with shipping the 7.62 mm rounds was the heavy wooden crates and metal cans. I needed to shed that excess weight. So, I shot off an email to Major Ronald Walck with the U.S. Army Terminal Operations

Ron... Whenever [AEY, Inc.] deals with surplus materials, we send a quality control team to inspect the goods... we open every metal can of ammunition to perform a complete visual inspection along with extensive sample test firing. We repackage the ammunition... loose in cardboard boxes strapped to euro pallets... [W]e wanted to confirm with you that this packaging [is acceptable].

The Major responded:

[N]o Problem. I will be there when we unload the aircraft. I will sign for the cargo.

I then sent my “quality control team” (which consisted of Alex Podrizki) to Tirana, the capital of Albania, to visually inspect, test fire, oversee the repackaging, and handle any other issues that might have come up like delivery, licensing, and the Albanian mob, which was pretty much a branch of the government - a very powerful one. Plenty could go wrong.

The city of Tirana is like most ex-communist cities of Eastern Europe: a series of basic concrete structures in a variety of stages of disrepair. Lots of peeling paint and cracked stucco. Bad roads and cheap cars.

ON APRIL 20TH OF 2007, I was at the office when I received a panicked call from Packouz. “Efraim, Alex is at the warehouse and he’s saying the Meico ammunition has got Chinese writing all over it - every single box.”

What? Is what I said when I found out MEICO had several million rounds of Albanian manufactured 7.62 mm rounds ready to ship. However, they were about to run out of that particular stockpile and were planning on selling AEY, Inc. their excess Chinese 7.62 mm rounds in its place - that could be an issue.

IN LATE MAY OF 1989, roughly 1,000,000 peaceful protesters filled Peking’s Tiananmen Square, demanding democratic reform. Despite strong warnings, the crowd refused to disburse. On June 3rd, the Chinese Communist Party ordered the People’s Liberation Army to move against the protesters; they killed hundreds of Chinese citizens and arrested thousands. As a result of the Tiananmen massacre, the U.S. Government and the European Union placed an embargo on all Chinese weapons and munitions on June 26th of 1989.

As if that weren’t enough, I recalled seeing a clause in my contract that specifically prohibited me from procuring ammunition from the Chinese. I immediately called Heinrich. “We’ve got a problem,” I said, “MEICO’s ammo is Chinese.”

“Okay. Okay,” Heinrich responded. “But you knew this, Efraim...” I had had no idea the Albanian AK rounds were from China. “We delivered the same ammo to Germany last year. No problem.”

Through Heinrich and MEICO, AEY, Inc. had shipped a couple million rounds - of what I thought were Albanian AK and other assorted machinegun rounds - to the U.S. air base in Stuttgart, Germany for an Air Force Foreign Weapons Familiarization program. Heinrich went on to tell me that one of AEY, Inc.’s fiercest competitors - Taos Industries - bought and sold this same Chinese ammunition to the U.S. all the time. “It’s okay, Efraim. It’s pre-embargo; the ammunition has been in Albania for forty years. It’s okay.”

MY TYPICAL PHILOSOPHY is that it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission. I started thinking about it and decided that weapons and ammunitions purchased and shipped prior to the Chinese embargo were exempt. I had seen pre-embargo Chinese AK rounds sold on the Internet in the U.S. several times. But I wanted it in writing prior to investing the millions of dollars required to complete the Albanian operation, in case any of the shipments were rejected by the Army. However, instead of consulting with an attorney who specialized in these type of regulatory matters, as I clearly should have, on April 23rd of 2007, I made the huge mistake of impulsively shooting off an email to the State Department’s DDTC (Deputy Director of Defense Trade Controls):

[AEY, Inc. has] been offered Chinese Ammunition that has been sitting for 20 years with a company in Albania. Is it legal for us (as a US company) to broker this material?

See, I thought I was a pro, but I wasn’t. I had a Department of Defense contract with a Defense Federal Acquisition Regulations clause prohibiting the acquisition of ammo from Communist Chinese military companies incorporated into it, but I thought to contact the State Department because it dealt with the international movement of munitions, plus I had a contact there from previous licenses and opinions we had obtained. Instead, I should have been asking the Army, which was who I had the contract with. But I fucked up, royally!

Within a few hours I received an email from the Deputy Director:

Russian-style, Chinese origin ammunition currently in Albania, U.S. policy, per part 126.1(a) of the ITAR, which addresses embargos on exports and imports [of which this was neither, as it wasn’t being exported from or imported to the U.S.] of defense articles and defense services, destined for or originated in proscribed countries [China], would not authorize the transaction.

Still, I knew I was right. Besides, the Defense Federal Acquisition Regulations specifically restricted the acquisition of weapons and munitions from Communist Chinese military companies, however, the only acquisition I was making was from MEICO in Albania. At the time, I believed that acquisitions prior to the embargo were exempt. So I called Alex and told him to have the ammunition repackaged. “Alex,” I said, “Make sure to yank out everything that has any Chinese writing on it.” We were doing nothing wrong, so why risk giving the impression that we were? Why tempt fate?

ALEX CALLED XHOI, a cardboard manufacturer in Tirana, owned by Kosta Trebicka, a wiry Albanian in his late 40s with a potbelly and thinning hair. They met at a grungy bar in Tirana, where Alex explained what AEY, Inc. needed - the thickness of the cardboard to be manufactured, the amount of labor needed to repackage the rounds, and the removal of all the paper - containing the Chinese script - wrapped around the bundles of rounds, “What’ll it cost?”

Repackaging the heavy wooden crates and metal cans to save on fuel costs made sense to Trebicka, but removing the paper seemed excessive. “Why can’t we leave them wrapped in the Chinese paper?” Trebicka asked. “This is a lot labor.”

“That’s my business...” Alex said as he got up to leave. “Come up with a price and let me know.”

Alex, Trebicka and I negotiated on and off for several days. Eventually Trebicka quoted a reasonable price of $280,000 for the entire job, which I accepted.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

ORGANIZED CRIME

“Man is very well defended against himself... The actual fortress is inaccessible, even invisible to him, unless his friends and enemies play the traitor and conduct him in by a secret path.” - Friedrich Nietzsche

IN EARLY MAY OF 2007, after Alex told Trebicka to remove all the ammunition and repackage it, he became suspicious. It’s common knowledge that the U.S. Government pays for information, and Trebicka thought he might have some worth selling. I later found out he called the U.S. Embassy and arranged to meet with the economic attaché, Robert Newsome.

The meeting took place at the Chocolate Restaurant in downtown Tirana in early May of 2007. The two men sat at a small wooden table under a large umbrella in an open-air portion of the dining area. They discussed Trebicka’s suspicions. “This ammunition is covered with Chinese writing; this is illegal, yes?”

“No, that’s not a problem,” said Newsome. “NATO, the U.S. and the E.U. have been trying to get the Albanian government to reduce its excess small-caliber weapons and ammunitions stockpile for years. We want it replaced by NATO style munitions, and apparently our boys need it in Afghanistan - pronto.”

“But they [AEY, Inc.] want me to remove all the Chine…”

“Mister Trebicka,” interrupted Newsome, “the U.S. Army needs that ammunition because the Afghanistan National Army needs it. This company AEY has a legitimate Department of Defense contract to deliver it, and it is my understanding that they are the largest supplier of munitions to Afghanistan. It’s perfectly legal.” He finished his coffee and just before leaving, the attaché said, “Do yourself a favor and drop it; do what you were hired to do, make your money, and leave it alone.”

THE CONFIRMATION THAT THE CHINESE AMMUNITION WAS LEGAL only switched Trebicka’s attention to the actual deal to purchase the ammunition from MEICO. He contacted someone inside the organization and found out that Ylli Pinari, head of the Albanian state-run Military Export Import Company, was selling the ammunition to a shell company called Evdin, Ltd., based in Cyprus - owned by Heinrich Thomet - for $22 per 1,000 rounds. Heinrich was then reselling it to AEY, Inc.

Trebicka then contacted me with the information. “I get you better price, you give me commission, yes?”

“Depends on what you have to say,” I replied. Trebicka gave me the creeps - he was sleazy. Trebicka told me that Heinrich was buying the ammunition for $22 per 1,000 rounds, and I was pissed.

Heinrich was selling them to AEY, Inc. for $33 per 1,000. Granted, I was selling them to the U.S. Army for nearly $100 per 1,000, but that price included overhead, licensing, shipping, fuel and hopefully a decent profit. He had told me that the Albanians were charging him $30 per 1,000, and he was only adding a ten percent margin, a modest and reasonable fee for the work he was doing. “Don’t try to go around me, Efraim,” he told me.

WHEN I GOT HEINRICH on the phone I was furious. “What the fuck, Heinrich... twenty-two dollars and I’m paying you thirty-three, you know it costs me more than double the price of the ammo just to ship it...”

“Okay now, Efraim, calm down,” said Heinrich. “Whoever is telling you this is lying; no one could get them for twenty-two per.” I kept hammering him until he admitted to the deception. “Okay, okay, but you must understand that money has to go to the minister and Pinari... everybody needs to be taken care of in Albania. Otherwise, there’s no deal to cry about.” Basically Heinrich was saying that after paying off several officials, the price to him was actually around $30 per 1,000 rounds.

PISSED OFF AT HEINRICH and unconvinced, I called Trebicka and asked him to arrange a meeting with Pinari, and I hopped on the next flight to Albania. I arrived on May 23rd of 2007, at the International Airport just outside of Tirana. I checked into the Sheraton Hotel; it was tall and opulent, a luxurious onyx tower and without a doubt the nicest structure in the entire country.

Pinari’s driver picked Alex and me up in a 20-year-old brown Mercedes - a rusted out beater. On the drive to the meeting, it crossed my mind that this was the type of move that could get me killed. Meeting with high-ranking officials of dubious character to cut murky arms deals was dangerous in a country as corrupt and backward as Albania. People went missing and had “accidents” all the time in that country. We were taken to an abandoned office building; it appeared to be under heavy renovation or possibly even condemned.

THE OFFICE WAS FILLED WITH SMOKE; it smelled like mildew and cigars. Pinari and several other hard-looking characters were sitting at a chipped wooden table cluttered with paperwork and boxes of 7.62 mm rounds, having a heated discussion in Albanian. Yellow paint was peeling off the walls and it was damp. Pinari was an overweight balding Eastern European in his late 40s, wearing a cheap suit. Mihal Delijorgji and his bodyguard were heavy, thick-necked and weathered; both had rudimentary gulag style tattoos on their hands and arms. A third, Scandinavian type, with light features, Skelzen Berisha, sat quietly listening to the discussion - turns out he was Sali Berisha, the Albanian Prime Minister’s son. Based on the tone of their conversation, it was pretty obvious Delijorgji was calling the shots, dictating terms for the sale of military equipment and munitions - state-owned assets.

Delijorgji was an iron merchant with a criminal history for forgery and tax evasion; yet he somehow managed to consistently be awarded large defense ministry contracts to dismantle tanks, armored vehicles and munitions. By taking care of the right officials in the military and defense ministry, Delijorgji had turned Albania’s excess armaments and munitions into his personal ATM.

“Let me introduce you to my boss,” grunted Pinari in a thick Albanian accent. I couldn’t believe it; he actually called Delijorgji his boss. He might as well have introduced him as the defense minister - he was running the place. Pinari said something to Delijorgji in Albanian, he quickly responded, and Pinari said to me, “It’s thirty U.S. per one thousand, any less and I’m better off destroying it for the pieces.” He scooped up a handful of AK rounds and haphazardly tossed them on the table.

I already knew that an outfit named Southern Ammunition of South Carolina was aggressively importing ammunition components from Albania, including brass casings and projectiles. Which may or may not have been illegal since Southern Ammunition was subject to a similar prohibition as AEY, Inc. on the import of Chinese munitions into the U.S. Regardless, the Kalashnikov rounds I was interested in were steel-cased, with steel-core projectiles, making them illegal and practically worthless to Southern Ammunition, for purposes of the U.S. commercial market.

“Look,” I said, “Southern Ammo only wants the brass cased stuff; besides, breaking down the rounds will take time and it’s dangerous, you’ll need trained specialists, licensing, and inspections; and in the end, they still might not have a large enough market for them in the U.S., which means you won’t get paid - ”

“I have contract!” barked Pinari and slapped his hand down on several loose papers - startling me and Alex. Delijorgji tightened his tattooed fingers into a fist, his bodyguard slid his hand underneath the lapel of his cheap sports coat, and for just a second, I thought, $30 per 1,000 sounded more than fair... but I kept pushing.

“Look gentlemen, let’s not get crazy here. For twenty-five U.S. I’ll take seventy-four million steel-cased rounds. Quick and clean.”

“No,” glared Pinari. “Southern Ammunition pays more for... parts.”

And in a moment of insanity I glanced at Alex and said, “State Department might have an issue with that...”

Delijorgji stood abruptly - tipping over his chair with a crash - the bodyguard stepped toward me, and Pinari held up his hand and snapped in Albanian, “Te ndaluar! [Stop!]” Delijorgji sneered at me and spat out something in Albanian. Pinari looked in my eyes and said, “This is a dangerous game you’re playing, boy.”

Alex went white and I tried desperately to keep my composure, but I was trembling inside. “Pinari, all I’m saying is... if I don’t get that ammo to Kabul, they’re going to be firing slingshots at the Taliban within a month, which won’t look good for me or Albania, considering you’re already listed as our subcontractor. The U.S. Government might start asking questions...” (or worse, AEY, Inc. would default on the Afghan contract), “and I’m not paying more than twenty-five per one thousand.”

I motioned to Alex and we exited the office. On the way back to the hotel I started working the phone. The Hungarians could fill roughly half the order, but the ammunition wouldn’t be available for at least several months; the Ukrainians claimed they could handle the whole order, but they wanted a $1 million deposit, with no guarantee, other than a “trust me,” which loosely translates to “fuck you” in Ukrainian. It just didn’t have that FDIC-insured feel to it. I called the U.S. Embassy and asked to meet with someone regarding an issue of national interest.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING - May 24th of 2007 - Alex and I met with the embassy’s Commercial Officer Victor Myev, an attaché, Robert Newsome, and an attractive assistant. I bought them several rounds of dirty martinis and cosmopolitans at the hotel bar and poured out my dilemma: “It’s a shake down, and the money’s being kicked up straight to the Prime Minister.”

“Well,” said Newsome, swirling the ice around in his glass of gin, “it’s Albania, Mister Diveroli... What does the DOD [Department of Defense] want with all that Chinese ammo anyway? It’s forty-years-old; there’s got to be other sources.”

“Not in the quantities and time frame they need it in.”

Newsome grunted his understanding, and Myev said, “I don’t want to be rude, Mister Diveroli, but we really can’t get involved in the internal workings of the Albanian government, especially when it relates to a commercial contract - which is technically what you have.” Which was bullshit: The U.S. did it all the time. I’m not an expert in geopolitics, but any semi-intelligent person knows that the U.S. influences and manipulates the laws and decisions of so-called “sovereign” nations all the time, especially in politically unstable, economically depressed shitholes like Albania.

I looked him in the face and said, “This is a crucial operation to the war on terror - and you can’t make a couple of calls?”

Myev leaned back into his chair and glanced at Newsome. No one spoke for several seconds, and then Myev said, “I’ll look into it... Give me a call in a couple of days if there’s no movement on your end.”

“Gentlemen,” I smiled, “that’s all I’m asking for.”

WHEN NEWSOME GOT BACK TO THE EMBASSY, he shot off an email to the State Department:

FYI: We have a Florida company here called AEY, that has a DOD contract to provide Soviet & Chinese arms to the Afghan government... They are having problems (“informality” issues) with MEIKO, the MOD arms contracting company. AEY wants to buy arms & munitions from MEIKO and ship to Afghanistan. They have been unable to come to terms with MEIKO to date.

He then wrote the embassy wasn’t planning to intervene:

We’re bringing this to your attention as AEY, has legitimate DOD contract to provide arms to the Afghan government and the implication this might have for Coalition efforts in Afghanistan.

Please respond on the classified side as you deem appropriate.

NOW I DON’T KNOW WHAT THEIR “CLASSIFIED” response was, but several hours after that email, Heinrich called and said, “Okay Efraim, I don’t know what you did, but Pinari will do twenty-seven per one thousand... but he wants the repackaging contract as well, okay?” I didn’t have a problem with that, although I knew Trebicka would.

THE COUNTRY WAS SO DYSFUNCTIONAL. The following day, Pinari’s driver drove Alex and me to the Albanian National Armory, roughly 100 Kilometers outside Tirana. I wanted to see my product, exactly how it was packaged and being stored. I needed to be sure they had the current products in the required quantities, etc. etc.

The installation was located inside a mountain. The entrance consisted of a large concrete tunnel, just behind a guard shack and a chain-link fence topped off with barbed wire. It was completely unprotected: The front gates were wide open and the security shed was unmanned.

Our driver stomped around for nearly five minutes calling for the soldiers tasked with protecting a significant portion of the Albanian national arsenal. He eventually stumbled across the two of them sleeping in the nearby woods; their AK-47 assault rifles were unloaded, their shirts unbuttoned and the door to one the country’s main weapons and munitions depots, wide open.

THE ARMORY WAS A MASSIVE Home Depot-sized warehouse cut into the mountain. There were thousands of weapons and munitions crates stacked randomly from the floor to the ceiling; some of it predated World War II. It was like all of Europe had dumped their excess shit in that Albanian bear cave. But the AK rounds, like most of the Soviet-type munitions and ordinance in there that were designed for long-term storage, were in perfect condition. They were, however, packed in heavy wooden crates and steel spam cans.

“Shit,” I said, inspecting several pallets of ammunition. “Alex, you’re gonna have to have Pinari’s guys break all this down, get rid of any excess weight. Also make sure the cardboard boxes they’re using are durable enough for transport.”

“What about the Chinese script?” Everything was stamped with Chinese markings - even the rounds indicated they were of Chinese origin. Practically all shell casings are stamped at the head with the manufacturer’s initials and the year; the Chinese 7.62 mm rounds were no exception.

“I’m not worried about it.” AEY, Inc. had delivered Chinese ammunitions before, and besides, it was all pre-embargo, as there was no doubt it had been in Albania long before 1989. “Get rid of any loose papers with the writing on it.” I only wanted to avoid any unwanted and unnecessary suspicion the Chinese script might raise - it was a split second decision I’ll forever regret making.

WHEN TREBICKA was told he had lost the repackaging contract, he was understandably upset. AEY, Inc. paid him for the work he had done - and then some. But he wasn’t satisfied, and on June 11th of 2007, Trebicka called me and secretly recorded the conversation. He made threats to call the CIA with what he knew: “I think what you’re doing is illegal...” said Trebicka. “If the Albanians [Pinari] want to work with me, I will not open my mouth...”

I didn’t know what Trebicka wanted from me. “Why don’t you call Pinari? Kiss him. Send one of your girls to fuck him. Let’s get him happy,” I said. “Maybe we can play on his fears. Or give him a little money; something in his pocket... he’s not going to get much - twenty thousand from you.” At this point I just wanted Trebicka to go away. Pinari already had a crew of guys repackaging the ammunition and Trebicka was pissed because while he was jockeying for a cut of the ammunition deal, he had managed to cut himself out completely - muscled out of the deal by the Albanian government and its criminal cohorts.

“There’s nothing I can do,” I said, “There are too many thugs... It goes up to the Prime Minister and his son. This mafia is too strong for me. I can’t fight this mafia. It got too big. The animals just got out of control...”

Trebicka was furious, but there was nothing he could do. His threats got him nowhere, and in Albania it was a dangerous game to play.

WHAT I DIDN’T KNOW AT THE TIME was that Trebicka had contacted Eric Schmidt and CJ Chivers of the New York Times. Trebicka told the reporters he had a story involving corrupt Albanian politicians and a very young American arms dealer. “He’s buying up surplus ammunition for the Afghanistan National Army and Police.” I doubt his motives were altruistic - I think he was trying to sell the story and it got out of control.

PINARI HAD CLOSE TO 50 LABORERS from Tirana repackaging the ammunition inside a hanger at the Rinas Airport over the course of two days. The process was simple, but labor-intensive. The wooden crates had to be pried apart and the metal hermetically sealed cans had to be opened using can-openers. The bundles of 7.62 rounds - wrapped in the paper printed with Chinese script - then had to be removed and re-deposited into thick cardboard boxes. Those boxes had to be labeled, sealed up with packing tape, wrapped in industrial cellophane and strapped to pallets with metal bands.

As quickly as Pinari’s laborers were working, none of the Chinese ammunition would be ready to be shipped for weeks.

BEFORE LEAVING ALBANIA, Alex and I went to the airport to watch one of AEY, Inc.’s shipments of Albanian-manufactured ammunition - roughly 3 million rounds, 47,400 kilograms (48 tons) of freight - be loaded into the back of an enormous light-grey Ilyushin 76 aircraft known as IL-76.

Every ton of cargo cost AEY, Inc. roughly $2,700 to transport, which meant the more cargo per shipment, the less it cost AEY, Inc. So whenever possible, I liked to go an extra ton or two over the carriers’ self-imposed limit. More cargo meant the IL-76 burned more fuel and ultimately cost the carrier more, in a flat-fee charter arrangement.

I climbed into the Ilyushin’s belly in search of the Load Master. It takes a five-man crew to keep one of those 40-year-old Soviet-built monsters airborne: a pilot to fly it, a co-pilot to navigate it, two engineers to hold it together - midair - and a load master to equally distribute the freight’s weight and secure the cargo - that was the guy I wanted to talk to.

The interior was dark and grey, with steel ribbing and rivets that made up the skeletal structure of the IL-76. There were bundles of wires and conduit running along the interior body. No windows or seats, just a huge open gulf of cargo space. I found the co-pilot and an engineer passed out in the second story crew bunks - they reeked of alcohol. I came across the Load Master filling out paperwork in the rear cargo bay. “We’re ready to start loading, but...” I said and leaned into the Russian, “I’d like to go fifty tons, if we - ”

“No, no... Forty-eight is maximum load capacity,” slurred the load master, “sorry.”

I pulled a wad of crisp bills out of my pocket, “I’m sure we can work something out,” I said, as I peeled off 300 Euro. “It’s only a few tons.”

I pushed the bills into the Russian’s greasy hand, he ran his fingers through his oily hair and I noticed there was dirt underneath his fingernails. “Hum...” he grunted, “make it five hundred... and I’ll go fifty-one tons.”

I pulled two more notes out and handed them to him. I looked at Alex and said, “You need to be doing this every flight... got it?”

He grinned, “Got it.”

Ten minutes later Alex and I watched several forklifts move 31 pallets - 51 tons of ammunition - into the back of the cargo hold of the massive Ilyushin. Just about the time the IL-76s hydraulics were raising the rear ramp, Jenna called, hysterically crying and sobbing. My mother had called the apartment looking for me, and Jenna had made the fatal mistake of trying to speak with her about our relationship. “Efraim,” wept Jenna into the phone, “she called me a whore, and... and... she said she’d never let you marry me, and... and... our kids wouldn’t be Jewish... and... and she called me a whore!”

“You already said that.”

“Well you need to talk to her!”

The engine of the Ilyushin roared to life, the noise and vibration drowning out Jenna’s voice. “Baby,” I yelled, “you don’t seem to understand the relationship between my mother and me; she doesn’t listen to me, and I don’t listen to her - that’s the cornerstone of our relationship.”

AEY, INC. SHIPPED OVER 11 MILLION ALBANIAN-MANUFACTURED 7.62 mm rounds from Albania to Kabul between May 23rd and June 22nd. In late June of 2007 AEY, Inc. began shipping Chinese-manufactured ammunition.

PICTURES

Diving face first into the cake on my 2nd birthday.

Bath time with my cousins at age 3.

Some of my artwork from my early days in Hebrew school.

My 6th grade yearbook profile (They spelled my name wrong). Favorite sport: Paintball!

Age 10, before developing a taste for liquor.

Having fun at the Miami Book Fair International circa 1996.

Horseback riding at age 12 in Davie, FL.

Holding a PKM machine gun while attending the Eurosatory International Defense Exhibition in Paris, France in 2006. One of the many I delivered to Irag under my contracts with the U.S. Army.

In Bulgaria in 2007 with a shipment of my newly-manufactured grenades bound for Afghanistan.

Viewing a 40mm grenade launcher at the Malaysian Defense Conference in 2008.

On the tarmac in Albania inspecting one of my many airfreight shipments of ammunition bound for Afghanistan in 2007.

Test firing a Russian fully-automatic 30mm grenade launcher in Bulgaria in 2007.

Visiting a remote ammunition bunker deep in the Albanian mountains, which is the origin of the decades’ old Chinese ammunition which got called into question and was the subject of the New York Times articles and the U.S. Government’s investigation. The bunker was approximately the size of five football fields, with a maze of tunnels; and contained a vast array of military equipment, arms and munitions dating back probably two world wars.

Me and Oliver, my ex-girlfriend’s dog.

With my uncle, Rabbi Shmuley at a family celebration.

My early days in prison at Coleman Federal Correctional Complex with my mother, sister and brothers visiting.

Later on in prison with my sister and younger brother during visitation.

Just out of prison and back to work!

Attending a wedding on Fisher Island in Miami, FL.

Photographed while cruising on Miami Beach in 2016.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

TASK ORDER THREE AND FOUR

“What use is an unloaded gun?” - Tony Soprano, The Sopranos (TV)

THINGS WERE REALLY HEATING UP. AEY, Inc. had planes in the air constantly, and shipments were arriving in Kabul and Baghdad every other day. My biggest problem was the backlog of orders. I had over a dozen employees sourcing products 18 hours a day.

In early June, Kim Jones with Rock Island called. “We need to step up the schedule,” she said, sounding a little frazzled. “The Army’s pushing for more 7.62X54.”

“Kim, we’re working as fast as we can. I’ve got three birds landing this week.” We were barely keeping up.

“The Army is pushing me.” She’d had several other contractors fall behind and miss their deadlines, and things were really heating up in Afghanistan.

“Listen, we’re all fishing from the same Eastern European pool of munitions. There are going to be problems, Kim.” Multiple weapons dealers from all over the world were bidding on the same lots of munitions, and sometimes the same lots were being sold to multiple buyers. The cost of aviation fuel was on the rise, and IL-76s were being shot out of the skies over Kabul. “Take a deep breath and relax...” I was a 21-year-old kid educating and calming an experienced 30-something career government official. “I’ll add a third shift to accelerate our schedule, if that’ll help.”

“Thanks Efraim, that’s all I’m asking for,” she laughed, and I could tell she was cracking under the pressure.

“Kim... I’m on it.” I immediately hired an additional crew of crackpots and created a third shift - working around the clock, 24/7.

ON JUNE 21ST OF 2007, I received Task Order Three: nearly 70 million 7.62 mm rounds, 70,000 OG-7V antipersonnel grenades, and 37,500 GP30 HE grenades.

It was a decent-size order - over $14 million - and I was excited about it. We were almost finished with Task Order One and halfway through Task Order Two. Everything was running fairly smoothly, and everyone was pulling their weight except Packouz; he was trying to balance his massage therapy “career” with international arms sales. This is a guy who used to secretly videotape himself having sex with his clients, which mostly consisted of lonely aging trophy wives.

I once called him up, asking “Packouz, where the hell are you? Rock Island is screaming about the 7.62 x 54 mm shipment from Task Order One.”

“Dude,” responded Packouz, “I’ve got my cell and laptop, but I’m in Key West doing massages for some rich gay guys,” he laughed. “They drove me down here in their Rolls Royce Phantom, I’m gonna be here all weekend. They’re paying me three hundred bucks a day - cash, I need the money.”

“Should I tell Kim Jones that?” I snapped. “Sorry Kim, the Afghanistan National Army won’t be getting their ammo because Packouz is rubbing down a bunch of fags in the Keys... is that what I should tell her?”

The situation reached critical mass in June of 2007. It was late, most of the employees had gone for the day, and the third shift hadn’t arrived yet. The office was filled with empty chairs and ringing phones. I asked Packouz to step into my office. “Everyone’s working day and night here,” I said, motioning to the outer office. “If you don’t step up you’re gonna get left behind.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” snapped Packouz. We were standing in the middle of my office - it was dusk and employees were starting to arrive.

I was living and breathing this contract every moment of my waking life - not to mention the dreams and nightmares I was having because of it. “I’ve literally got my life savings in this, and every time I turn around you’re off greasing someone up and rubbing ‘em down, working out or smoking a bowl. I’m not saying I’m gonna leave you empty-handed if you don’t start pulling your weight, but I am going to leave you behind.”

Packouz stepped forward, stopping inches from my face, and growled, “You’re gonna pay me what you owe me motherfucker!” Packouz had only closed one deal since starting with AEY, Inc., making roughly $7,000. His agreement with me was that he would get a very small percentage of the net profit margin of the totality of the contract. He could get partial draws with the completion of each Task Order, but AEY, Inc. hadn’t completed even one Task Order yet. Not one. I didn’t owe him anything.

We stood staring at one another. Packouz was glaring at me, trying to look intimidating. “Come on man,” I said. “You know that’s not going to work on me.”

Packouz turned around and stomped out of the office mumbling, “You’re going to pay me,” as he barged out the door.

WITHIN A FEW DAYS of that argument - maybe a week - Packouz showed up at my apartment and told Jenna he needed to grab some important paperwork for the Afghan contract. Jenna later told me he spent about an hour rummaging through my home office, looking at documents, and at one point he may have logged onto my computer. Jenna couldn’t be sure, but she didn’t think he took anything. Now I’m not sure what Packouz was looking for, but he was way out of line and I just couldn’t trust him anymore.

ON JULY 19TH OF 2007, I asked him to meet me at the office. It was a tense meeting, Packouz knew it was coming - we both did. “It’s just not going to work,” I said from behind my desk. “You’re not coming in, you’re not completing the line items, and the truth is - I just don’t trust you anymore.”

“Well I’m not leaving with nothing,” he barked at me.

“I’m not asking you to... We’ll have to come to some type of agreement. I mean you - ”

“I want a million dollars,” he interrupted. Apparently Packouz had put some thought in to it. “I’m not taking anything less.”

I was stunned. “You’re... you’re joking, right?” I chuckled. “I know you’re…”

“I’m not fucking around, that’s what I deserve.”

“You’ve been working five or ten hours a week between massages, for less than six months... and you haven’t even completed one Task Order. That hardly justifies a million dollars.” We argued about the figure for a few minutes, but Packouz wouldn’t budge. I told him “It isn’t gonna happen.”

He stood up yelled a little bit, told me to, “Fuck off!” or something, and stomped out of my office.

THE PROBLEM WITH PACKOUZ WAS THIS: If you asked him what he was doing at any given time, he would tell you, “I’m trying to make some money.” If you asked me the same question, I’d tell you, “I’m part of a team building a billion-dollar business...” He just couldn’t see that, and that’s why he failed so miserably as a businessman.

Over the next few weeks, Packouz started texting Doudnick with messages for me: ‘Tell Efraim I want one million dollars!!!’ and ‘Tell Efraim if he doesn’t pay I’m calling the IRS’. Shit like that. He was acting like a child, wouldn’t even take my calls.

IT WASN’T LONG AFTER I LET HIM GO that I got a letter from an attorney with Greenberg Traurig, a huge multi-international law firm, representing Packouz. Richard N. Bernstein wanted to set up a mediation regarding Packouz’s commissions. I told him, “I have no problem with that.”

Our first meeting went as expected. My civil attorney, Carlos Dezayas, and I met Packouz and his attorney at the offices of Greenberg Traurig in downtown Miami. It was a typical upscale law firm conference room - mahogany furniture and a gorgeous view of the Miami skyline. At the time, I couldn’t figure out how Packouz could afford these guys, but I later found out one of the partners was a friend of his father, and was probably working on contingency.

The meeting started off badly and only got worse; Packouz wanted $800,000. “You were a part-time employee,” I said, “who only closed one very small deal - with my help - and dropped the ball on a dozen others.”

“Fuck you dude!” snapped Packouz. That was pretty much his response to most of what I had to say.

Eventually - out of frustration - the attorneys called it a day. Packouz said, “I’ll see you in court,” as Carlos and I exited the conference room. I’m assuming he heard it in a Law & Order episode.

The following meeting I brought a cashier’s check for $275,000. I just wanted to be finished with him.

As both of our parties walked into the conference room Packouz stopped me and said softly, “I’m telling you, if you try and screw me dude, I’m gonna call the IRS... We both know your books aren’t right.”

“You’re basing this on what?” His vast experience rubbing down old ladies and queers. “You’re a CPA now?

We all sat at the conference table and I slapped the cashier’s check down. It was the most money Packouz had ever seen in his life. He hadn’t earned it, but I wanted to get rid of him. Every minute I spent in mediation I was losing money - not working.

“It’s not enough,” he snapped. Packouz motioned to his attorney, “I gotta pay my lawyer and... I worked hard on that bid.”

“Packouz, we sat around my apartment for a couple weeks getting stoned and making calls.” He had less than 60 hours invested in the Afghanistan bid, and he had only put in a couple months - on and off - since the award, not to mention it was still yet to be determined that the Afghanistan contract would eventually be profitable. “As far as your legal bills are concerned, the only reason we were working together was because I thought we were friends. But you’re the one that got a lawyer, so you’re the one who’s gotta pay for him. Not me.”

The attorneys discussed coming up with a “happy medium,” but Packouz wouldn’t budge. He now wanted $350,000. After an hour of arguing I took my $275,000 cashier’s check and left.

ROUGHLY A WEEK LATER, my attorney called me and said, “Packouz’s attorney says they’ll take three hundred thousand.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said. I planned on paying him, but I wanted Packouz to sweat a couple more days.

ON AUGUST 6TH OF 2007 TASK ORDER FOUR ARRIVED and it was huge: over 121.5 million 7.62 mm rounds, 4,000,000 12.7 mm rounds, 2 million 30 mm high explosive rounds, nearly 700,000 of OG-7V antipersonnel grenades, 30,000 S-5 rockets and 10,000 S-8 rockets, 135,000 82 mm mortars, 10,700 120 mm mortars, 8,000 122 mm Howitzer shells, and 7,500 125 mm HE tank rounds (for the T-72 battle tanks). Over $69.3 million dollars of munitions.

We had just finished Task Order One and were a couple months away from completing Task Order Two, and we had barely started on Task Order Three. When I opened the email and saw the quantities I remember thinking, holy shit. It was the first time I legitimately questioned our ability to handle the volume. It was overwhelming.

I had a pretty good idea of where I could obtain most of the munitions, except for one particular item. I called Heinrich and said, “Rockets... I need thirty thousand S-5’s and ten thousand S-8s.” There was a long silence and I interjected, “I could probably just call Arcus...”

“No,” snapped Heinrich.” I have a contact in Hungary, Choopryna, who knows a Colonel in the Hungarian Military, and they must liquidate almost everything as a requirement towards NATO membership.” Hungary’s only got about 80,000 people serving in their army and air force - the country is landlocked so there’s no need for a navy.

IN 1990, HUNGARY BECAME A MULTIPARTY DEMOCRACY and quickly voted out the Communist Party. It was one of the smoother Eastern European democratic transitions; hundreds of protestors didn’t have to be shot, and no commies died. So that was nice.

I landed at Budapest International Airport. I was only in the country for a couple of days, but I can say that Budapest is one of the most beautiful cities in Central Europe; it’s got cobblestone streets, and the minarets and spires of historic churches rise above the city. Newly constructed modern buildings, parks, and museums - it was a real shock in comparison to the rest of the ex-Communist cities I’d seen.

Through one of Heinrich’s minions, Bogdan Choopryna, I met with a high-ranking Colonel of the Hungarian Military - medals on his uniform and everything - at a base near Budapest. The Colonel was a bloated middle-aged man with thick grey hair and pale chalky skin, but amazingly friendly.

The base was an arms bazaar. They had sleek black MiG-21s lined up on the asphalt, tens of thousands of land mines and mortar shells rusting in the snow, and huge aluminum warehouses filled with AT5 anti-tank guided missiles.

After the issue I’d had with Heinrich and the Albanian price discrepancy, along with the Chinese ammunition, I made it a point to personally negotiate and inspect all AEY, Inc.’s major acquisitions. It was lightly snowing and freezing cold when we got to the base; soldiers were walking around with rumpled uniforms, their sleeves were rolled up, sporting tattoos and earrings. It wasn’t a U.S. Military base. There were no salutes or any sign of rank and discipline whatsoever.

When the Colonel showed us into the first warehouse, I thought my heart was going to stop - it was packed with enough munitions to complete multiple line items on Task Order Three: light green and grey cylindrical rockets and mortars stacked neatly on pallet after pallet - all Soviet made.

IN THE COLONEL’S OFFICE, this cruddy nicotine-colored concrete box with chairs and a desk, I handed him my wish list. As he read through the items the Colonel mumbled in Hungarian, “Igen [yes], igen... we can do that.” S-5 and S-8 rockets, 82 and 120 mm mortars, and 122 mm Howitzer shells. He looked at me and said, “Hungary wants to work with the American allies... help United States defeat terrorism.” The Colonel was doing his best to come off like a United States’ patriot.

“But at what price?”

“These are excellent munitions, good condition, almost new.” That was a stretch, but I let it go. “Eight million dollars... yes?”

“No, no,” I chuckled, while shaking my head as if scolding a child. “I’ve gotta pay for shipping, fuel, and handling; that’s millions, Colonel, millions... I’ll go four million U.S. for everything.”

We haggled for a couple minutes, and at one point I told the Colonel, “Don’t worry about the rockets, I can get them from the Albanians.” Which wasn’t true, but when I said it the order shrank and his pudgy face slumped. He was an ex-Communist career military officer, not a seasoned capitalist international arms dealer - he didn’t have a chance. A few minutes later I said, “At these prices Colonel... I might have to pass on the mortars too.” More than half the order had just been taken off the plate and I could see the desperation in his eyes.

“Mister Diveroli,” he barked, throwing his hands up in the air, as if he were finished discussing the matter, “five million and three hundred thousand, for everything.”

“Colonel, for God’s sake, you want the Afghan Security Forces throwing rocks at the terrorists? I thought you were a supporter of the cause, not a war profiteer.” I told him I wasn’t authorized to go that high, and I excused myself. I walked outside and called Jenna back in Miami. I walked around like I was on an important call for about ten minutes while the Colonel watched from inside his office. When I came back in I said, “Five millions the highest they’ll go.”

I’m still not sure who he thought I was talking to, but he caved and AEY, Inc. purchased everything on my list for $5 million. We paid roughly $3 million for shipping and handling, billed the Department of Defense nearly $10 million, and made around $2 million. God, I love this business!

ON MY WAY BACK FROM HUNGARY, I was stopped at JFK, U.S. Customs - again. While a border patrol agent watched me and four custom’s officials rummaging through my carry-on bag, and another photographing its contents, I called Ronald, AEY, Inc.’s operations manager. “Ronald, listen, I came across a warehouse full of AK-47 assault rifles in Hungary. I can pick ‘em up for fifty dollars per weapon;” and just to screw with the border patrol agent, I said, “I’m thinking we buy five thousand, ship ‘em here to New York and sell ‘em off to the Gambino crime family, maybe the Crips and Bloods too... five hundred a piece, what’d you think?” The border patrol agent squinted his eyes and tightened his lips together; several customs officials stopped what they were doing, turned and stared at the young arms dealer in horror.

“Aw...” stammered Ronald from Miami, “boss, I’m not sure...”

“You’re right,” I interrupted. “What about the North Koreans or the Cubans, they’re always looking for Kalashnikovs.”

“Um... I don’t think we can...”

“Okay, bad idea, try calling the Iranian Ministry of Defense, in Tehran; see if they’re interested. “I snapped off my cell and glanced at the room full of stunned customs officials and feigned shock, “What?”

NOT LONG AFTER I GOT BACK FROM HUNGARY I was shopping at the GAP in the mall, buying socks and T-shirts, talking on my cell phone and not paying attention to much of anything. My call ended and I slid my items onto the counter; didn’t even notice the petite blond behind the cash register until she said, “Efraim?”

I looked up and saw... my ex-girlfriend - Rachel - wearing a pink GAP shirt and a nametag that read something like, ‘Associate Sales Person.’ She was holding a scanner and looked absolutely mortified to see me.

I was momentarily stunned - we both were. She looked like hell, like she had been working 12 hours straight - thin and frizzy haired, and drenched in humiliation and shame. In contrast, I looked like I had just stepped out of a GQ magazine. Life just doesn’t get any better than this.

Rachel gave me the once over, from my Prada dress shirt to my casual Gucci dress shoes; glanced at my Rolex and sighed, “How’re you doing?”

“I’m running low on socks and T-shirts.” But she didn’t move, didn’t ring up my stuff, didn’t even blink, and just stared at me.

“You look good,” said Rachel, embarrassed - this was the girl that constantly ridiculed me about my shitty wardrobe - then she glanced at my Rolex again and scoffed, “I can’t believe this is happening.”

I instinctively smiled. The last time I saw her she was screaming insults at me, while her mother called the police. “Yeah,” I chuckled, “it’s happening.”

Rachel shook her head and rang up my items, while shoving them in a bag she took a shot at me, “How’re you doing with the drugs?”

“I’ve got plenty, but thanks for offering.”

“No,” she yelped, “I wasn’t... God, Efraim, you’re never going to change are you?”

“Is there a reason to?” I asked, slipping her my Platinum Amex card. “You don’t fix what’s not broken.”

She rang up my items, seemed to struggle with something for a second and handed me my GAP bag. “So,” she grinned, gave me a flirtatious hair flip and asked, “You still have my number?”

“I do,” I chuckled and turned to leave, “but don’t wait by the phone, darlin’.” I stepped out of the store and lit up a Parliament. It was one of those life-affirming moments that proves the existence of karma - and maybe even God.

I CAN’T BE SURE, BUT SOMETIME IN MID 2007, I was getting stoned with my cousin Joe in his condo at the Mirador on 12th Street and Bay Road in South Beach, and he introduced me to his neighbors, Dejan Djuric, a 27-year-old six foot Serb from Bosnia and his buddy Dusan Dancula, a Serb from Serbia. I liked them both immediately.

Dejan was a good-looking guy - he had made it to the states after meeting a 40-something-year-old American cruise director, convincing her they were “madly in love” and should get married. Once in Miami - and after receiving his Green Card - he suddenly lost interest in his overweight middle-aged wife and divorced her. “I still have fiancé in Serbia,” he said, over a bowl of some primo weed. “My father is doing time in a Bosnian prison.”

In 1991-1999, following the collapse of communism, units of the Yugoslav army and Serbian paramilitary forces engaged in a campaign of “ethnic cleansing” aimed at driving non-Serbs out of northern Croatia, parts of northeastern Bosnia, and the province of Kosovo, establishing an independent “ethnically pure” Serb republic. The campaign consisted of large-scale mass executions (mostly of men and boys), forced marches, torture, starvation, and systematic rape - organized and directed by Serbian president Slobodan Milosevic. This was not a nice guy.

Dejan’s father was a member of one of Milosevic’s “death squads.” In April of 2001, he, along with ex-president Milosevic and dozens of other military officers and presidential cabinet members, were arrested and tried for genocide, crimes against humanity, and war crimes. Dejan’s father received a ten-year sentence. “He gets out in a few years,” said Dejan, nonchalantly. As if everyone’s father committed a little genocide.

Dejan was working at a moving company for minimum wage, and he hated it. I needed someone in Montenegro to oversee the packaging of the mortars and rockets Heinrich had sold AEY, Inc. through Yugomont, to make sure the products were properly strapped to the pallets, shrink-wrapped, and labeled correctly. “You are a mover...” I said. “You’d have to help collect some documents and - ”

“I’ll do it,” he interrupted.

“It’s not far from Serbia, so you could see your fiancé and - ”

“I’ll do it.”

“I’ll pay you... seven hundred a week,” I shrugged, “plus expenses?” Which was a fortune in a country where the average family income is $500 a month.

“I’ll do it.”

“So...” I laughed, “Will you do it?”

“I’ll do it.”

Dejan was a rough guy, the Serbian equivalent of a mixed martial arts fighter - a tank with tattoos. The three of us used to go out to club Tantra in South Beach for Balkan night. Previously unbeknownst to me, there is a large Central and Eastern European community in the Miami Beach area. We would dance and drink.

Dusan and I were close, but Dejan and I were tight - we hung out all the time. Dejan and I would be at a club or a bar; I’d get drunk and coked up, make the mistake of dancing with some guy’s girlfriend or spilling my drink on someone, maybe shoot my mouth off. Before I knew it, there would be two or three drunken frat boys or Latin tough guys ready to bash my face in - it happened on more than one occasion. Several guys with clenched fists would head toward me ready to pounce, and Dejan would step in front of me. “No!” he would growl in his thick Slavic accent. “You go through me first.”

Dejan was no joke, I’ve seen him face off with four guys in a bar, and they backed down - that’s how tough looking this Serb was. All tatted up, angry looking, red faced, and solid as a brick. He saved my ass more than once.

Dejan and Dusan were both great guys. Unfortunately, within a few months Dejan was in Montenegro overseeing the packaging. I flew him back to Miami every few weeks just to hang out; he was that cool of a guy. Then Dusan - the Serb from Serbia - passed the expiration date on his visa and within a few months of Dejan leaving for Montenegro, Dusan returned to Serbia. We kept in touch. I used to send Dusan $300 a week to help source weapons and munitions for various contracts, but he hardly ever came up with anything - not that it mattered; I liked the guy.

CHAPTER TWENTY

SHYSTERS AND SHAMUSES

“Well, everyone’s your brother ‘til the rent comes due.” - Vincent, Ronin (Movie)

BLANE’S FALSE COMPLAINT that AEY, Inc. was buying Chinese AK-47 assault rifles finally yielded a search warrant. There wasn’t a shred of evidence that AEY, Inc. or I had imported or exported, bought or sold one Kalashnikov rifle from China, but somehow the U.S. Attorney and the DCIS and ICE agents convinced a Federal Judge to sign off on it.

ON AUGUST 23RD OF 2007, I was standing on the 28th floor balcony of my South Beach suite, staring out through bloodshot eyes at the clear blue waters of the Atlantic. Jenna was lying in bed, just inside the sliding glass doors, her bare breasts slightly exposed underneath the silk sheets. We had been out all night doing coke and partying at club Mansion in South Beach.

I slipped a Parliament between my lips, lit up and inhaled.

When my receptionst called me and told me there were cops in the office, I said, “So tell them to leave.”

“I can’t... they say they’ve got a warrant for... pretty much everything.”

“Search warrant?”

“What do you want me to,” she hissed.

I crushed out my cigarette, poured myself a screwdriver, and sighed, “Put ‘em on the phone.”

Agent Mentavlos came on the line. “We’re not leaving, Mister Diveroli,”he snapped. “You’re gonna need to come down here.”

ON MY WAY TO AEY, INC.’S OFFICE I called Lydecker, Lee, Behar & Dezayas - the only law firm I had any kind of relationship with at the time, with the exception of the hack attorney I had hired for my minor brush with the law, and I didn’t think he would know what to do - until that moment I had avoided attorneys as I naively believed I was capable of identifying and understanding the plethora of laws and regulations that were applicable to my business, for fear of being ripped off by them. I spoke with John Priovolos; he told me he would meet me at the office, saying, “Don’t talk to anyone.”

At AEY, Inc.’s office I was shown the search warrant by Agent Mentavlos. It read:

All items evidencing violations of AECA (22 U.S.C. subsection 2778(c)); the EAA (50 U.S.C. subsection 2410(b)); false statement (18 U.S.C. subsection 1001; false claims with regard to contracts (18 U.S.C. subsection 287); and the use of electronic telecommunications instruments to forward these alleged false statements and false claims, ultimately resulting in the receipt of payment from the DOD (18 U.S.C. subsection 1343)...

The warrant allowed them legal access to, and seizure of, virtually every paper and electronic document on the premises. “Any and all United States Government contracts or subcontracts... All documents and any written records... The following categories of computer equipment... software... passwords and data security devices... electronic records... electronic storage devices... Any records or documents pertaining to accounts held by Internet Service Providers or Internet use.”

After Priovolos showed up, I asked the Agent, “What’s this about?” I hadn’t made any false statements or claims with regard to my DOD (Department of Defense) contracts, which was what the warrant seemed to be focusing on.

“We’re investigating you for not acquiring the licenses to import and export weapons and munitions.” Mentavlos smirked, “You forget you needed those?”

“I don’t,” I told him. Under the International Traffic in Arms Registration (ITAR), businesses and individuals must acquire licenses per individual arms transaction, but as a government contractor and or subcontractor, AEY, Inc. was exempt from the broker licensing registration in ITAR, so long as the U.S. Government was the purchasing party or the end user. “What else you got?”

“Well...” he stammered, “what about the AK-47s from China.” Here was Blane’s bullshit allegation in action. I looked into Agent Mentavlos’ eyes and I saw nothing but contempt for me, and the truth is - at the time - I felt bad for him. He was a career military officer, a DCIS investigator eking out a living chasing false leads about a 21-year-old making millions off a government that paid him a pittance. I was young, arrogant, and rolling in dough. I didn’t blame him for hating me. I do however blame him for pushing to create a case against me that didn’t exist.

“Agent Mentavlos,” I said, “you’re working off bad information. I’ve never bought any…”

“Okay, don’t answer that,” interrupted Priovolos. He looked at the agent and said, “He’s done talking.”

They grabbed all the loose documents and used a flash drive to copy all the computers’ hard drives, which took all day. I was convinced we hadn’t done anything listed on the search warrant, certainly not intentionally, as seemed to be required by the statute, which stated, “Knowingly and willingly violated.” The only thing I was remotely concerned about was the Chinese ammunition, and it didn’t even seem to be on the DCIS’s or ICE’s radar... so we went back to work.

AT THE END OF THE DAY I went home and told Jenna about the search warrant. She hugged me and said, “You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s a mistake. Nothing’s going to happen.” I wanted to believe that, but I could tell she was worried.

I IMAGINE OVER THE NEXT SEVERAL DAYS Assistant U.S. Attorneys Eloise D. Fernandez and James Koukios, and DCIS Agent Mentavlos and ICE Agent Oscar Garcia, looked into my dispute of their allegations against AEY, Inc. and me. I’m sure they were scouring over the ITAR exemptions for government contractors and subcontractors and scrutinizing our purchases and shipping documents - it must have been obvious we hadn’t bought any AK-47s from the Chinese. They had to be disappointed, and they should have dropped the investigation, but they didn’t.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

EMPTY

“I love treason, but I hate a traitor.” - Julius Caesar

I STARTED INTERVIEWING LAWYERS, and I ended up meeting with Hy Shapiro, a supposed veteran and well-respected federal criminal defense attorney, to discuss the situation. But even after sitting in his office surrounded by law books and conservative oak furniture, I still wasn’t convinced the government had a legitimate case against me. Plus, he wanted a $100,000 retainer, and he asked for it with a straight face. The second time I asked to speak with Shapiro he said, “You wanna talk to me again? You take me to lunch, and we’ll talk.”

WE MET AT A FANCY RESTAURANT IN DOWNTOWN MIAMI. Shapiro wanted the case, but he wanted a large retainer for something I didn’t even think was going to happen. I didn’t want to pay that much for a bullshit case. Shapiro ordered around $200 worth of food and wine - on my tab. “I’m just saying this might blow over. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Efraim,” said Shapiro, shoving a shrimp in his mouth, “it’s not going to blow over, the United States government is investigating you for illegal arms trafficking... Even if it’s not true, they’re going to find something. Everyone’s a walking indictment, and that’s twice as true for someone in your line of work. Then, considering your age and the press coverage it would generate, forget about it... they’ll find something. They could indict a ham sandwich if they wanted to.”

“I disagree. I haven’t done anything, and at the end of the day, they need something real to stick... don’t they?”

“Look,” said the attorney, “I called the U.S. Attorney’s Office and spoke with one of the Assistant U.S. Attorneys, Eloise D. Fernandez, assigned to your case. We know each other. Eloise said nothing’s going to happen for the next ninety days at least. You need to retain me, so we can get ahead of this thing.” He stood up and told me to think it over.

I HIRED SHAPIRO THE NEXT DAY. He seemed sharp, and I figured because he knew the prosecutor, he might be able to make the whole thing go away, and he was probably just waiting to get his $100,000 before he gave me the good news. Hell, I was even willing to pay a civil fine or something to keep the government happy and off my ass.

Once I had wired him the money, I told Shapiro the only thing I was worried about was the Chinese ammunition. He did some research and the following day he told me, “Based on what you told me, I’m not even sure you violated the DFAR’s prohibition in your contract, let alone committed a crime. I don’t see that it’s illegal... A violation of your contract maybe, but that’s not criminal. It should be civil.”

So I kept shipping the ammunition. At a subsequent meeting Shapiro said, “You can’t give this David Packouz character the money, it’ll look like hush money.” The truth is I wanted to pay him to get rid of the headache associated with a lawsuit. But I couldn’t now that Shapiro specifically advised against it. He said it could be considered, “witness tampering,” or “obstruction of justice.” So Packouz wasn’t getting shit. “Also,” said Shapiro with a sigh, wiping the sweat off his forehead, “I think you should stop shipping it [the Chinese ammo].”

“Why?” I asked. “You said it wasn’t illegal... is it?”

“No, not that I can see, but... it’s causing DCIS, ICE, and the U.S. Attorney’s Office to focus an investigation on you, and...” he stammered out of frustration, “The government doesn’t like to lose.”

I couldn’t just stop shipping or the Army could - and by all accounts would - terminate the contract and sue AEY, Inc. for nonperformance. “I can’t. AEY has to complete the Task Orders.”

SOMEONE IN AEY, INC.’S OFFICE, one of Packouz’s buddies - a mole as far as I was concerned - told him about the search warrant. Packouz immediately called Alex in Albania, saying, “They raided the office, bro. It’s gotta be the Chinese ammo... You need to get outta there.”

Alex grabbed his laptop and took a ferry to Italy, while crossing the Adriatic Sea he threw his laptop into the water. Apparently he was scared shitless and didn’t know what else to do.

Within a week, Packouz contacted the U.S. Attorney’s Office and offered his cooperation in their investigation of AEY, Inc., and me. On August 30th of 2007, Packouz and his attorney Marc Seitles met with ICE Agent Oscar Garcia to be interviewed. It’s my understanding that Packouz sat down, looked at Agent Garcia, and said, “Well, I guess you guys know about the Chinese ammunition...” They had no idea what he was talking about, as far as the U.S. Attorney’s Office was concerned that case wasn’t even part of their investigation.

On April 23, 2007, [Alex] Podrizki notified Diveroli and Packouz that the 7.62X39 and the 7.62X54 ammunition had been manufactured in China and contained Chinese markings. Podrizki, Packouz and Diveroli were aware that China was a prohibited source of supply and there was a clause in the Afghan contract that specifically stated Chinese manufactured ammunition was prohibited... Diveroli made the decision that the deal would continue and the repackaging company would remove all the Chinese markings prior to transporting the ammunition to Afghanistan...

Up until that point, DCIS, ICE and the U.S. Attorney’s Office had no idea about the Chinese ammunition. They asked Packouz about Milton Blane’s false accusation, that AEY, Inc. was illegally shipping Chinese AK-47 assault rifles and licensing violations - none of which were even remotely true, to the point where even Packouz’s brown-nosing ass couldn’t corroborate them.

Packouz was not aware of other weapons or munitions that were either directly or indirectly acquired from China. Diveroli did state on at least one occasion that he did not need an import license from the country of Afghanistan, but did need an export license from Albania to transport the munitions out of that country.

Packouz’s interview pointed the agents in the direction of the Chinese ammunition. Which quickly breathed new life into what they had realized was a dead case, even for an overzealous prosecutor.

LESS THEN TWO WEEKS AFTER PACKOUZ BLABBED about the Chinese ammunition, Agent Mentavlos contacted Rock Island. He arranged a teleconference between himself, Melanie Johnson, and Kim Jones.

“We [DCIS] believe Mister Diveroli’s company is buying Chinese 7.62 mm rounds from the Albanians,” said the agent. “He’s having it repackaged and then flown to Afghanistan.” Mentavlos then asked them to seize all AEY, Inc.’s shipments and hold them in a secured location. “We’re going to need it as evidence.”

“We can’t do that,” complained Kim Jones. “AEY’s our main supplier!”

“Look, Agent Mentavlos,” said Melanie Johnson, “without something in writing from someone higher up the chain of command, ordering us to suspend the shipments...” she sighed. “He’s our most important source of supply and we need that ammo.”

Mentavlos told them he would work on obtaining the needed approval to seize the Chinese ammunition. He then reminded both women he was conducting an ongoing criminal investigation, saying, “Don’t discuss this with anyone.”

NOW I CAN’T BE 100 PERCENT CERTAIN, but I’m pretty sure Kim Jones called me immediately after that meeting. Knowing all the MEICO ammunition was manufactured in China, she said, “Efraim, we’re going to need you to accelerate your delivery schedule.”

“Kim, we’re…” I almost told her it wasn’t possible, but instead I said, “I’ll make it happen.”

ABOUT THE SAME TIME KIM WAS PLEADING for more ammunition, I found out Alex had fled Albania. The timing couldn’t have been worse. But I didn’t panic, instead I asked a gung-ho, yet still wet-behind-the-ears employee, David Black, to step into my office. “Listen David,” I said, “we’ve got a position that just opened up, in theater... you interested?”

“Absolutely,” replied David; he left for Albania on the next available flight to pick up where Alex left off, supervising repackaging and shipping ammunition to Kabul.

ROUGHLY SIX MONTHS EARLIER, one of my procurement guys had located 25 million 7.62 mm rounds available for sale by a trading company in the Czech Republic called Banzai, at $45 per 1,000, which at the time was too expensive to justify buying. It cost $6,000 to $10,000 per hour to keep a bird in the air; Czech Republic was roughly 3,800 miles from Afghanistan - 1,000 miles farther than most of my other 7.62 suppliers. That’s an additional two to three hours of flight time.

But with the way things were looking in Albania, I was going to need another source of 7.62 mm rounds, so now the 25 million Czechoslovakian rounds were worth looking at. In addition to that lot, Ralph Merrill had a contact out of Ostrava who claimed to have 32 million rounds for $46 per 1,000. That amount of ammunition had the potential of completing Task Orders Two, Three and Four.

I jumped on a plane and flew to the medieval city of Prague, capital of the Czech Republic. The communist collapse in Czechoslovakia was so smooth it became known as “The Velvet Revolution.” Hundreds of thousands of protestors gathered in the streets of Prague and the Communist Party was ceremonially voted out of power. The Soviet Union withdrew its troops in June of 1991, and in 1993 Czechoslovakia broke into the Czech Republic and Slovakia. Not a drop of blood was shed.

Prague is known as the “City of a Hundred Spires” because of its many churches; it’s cut into two sections by the Vltava River and connected by dozens of bridges. Its narrow winding cobblestone streets were lined with many beautiful old parks and cathedrals - a true medieval city, and I loved it.

I met Petr Bernatik - Ralph’s contact - at my hotel. He was an overweight Aryan in his late 50s with a handlebar mustache. He owned Imex Group Ltd. and he wanted too much for his 7.62 mm rounds. “I can’t make anything at forty-six per,” I told him. “You’re gonna have to come down to forty per.” I also told him I needed to inspect the product, “Are they near the city, you do own them right?”

“Of course,” he said, “I’m not brokering the ammunition; my company owns it all,” said Bernatik, but he wouldn’t budge on his price. He was pretty confident I couldn’t go anywhere else, and he was right - my options were running low.

THE FOLLOWING DAY, I met Lucas Trachta at his generic little manila colored office. He owned Banzai, a military supplier, and 25 million rounds of ammunition I desperately needed. We went around and around regarding the price, and ultimately - after showing him the amount of Eastern European weapons and munitions I was buying - he dropped his price to $42 per 1,000. “I’ll take the twenty-five and any additional rounds you can find at that price.”

We were finalizing the details of the contract when Bernatik called. “If you’re still interested in the rounds,” he said, “I’ll come down to forty-five.”

I had just bought 25 million rounds; as a result I wasn’t nearly as desperate as I was the day before. “You’re going to have to come down closer to forty-two...”

“Let me call you back,” he said. Twenty seconds later Trachta’s cellular rang, he asked me to excuse him and he stepped out of the office. It was too much of a coincidence.

When Trachta sat back down, I said “Look, I’m gonna level with you here... I’m trying to buy thirty-two million rounds from a guy named Bernatik out of… “

“Ostrava,” he interrupted, finishing my sentence. “Yes, twenty-five million of the thirty-two million rounds are what you just bought... that leaves him with seven million.” I was hoping to get Bernatik’s 32 million rounds and Trachta’s 25 million rounds, but it turned out Bernatik didn’t own an additional 25 million rounds; he was trying to sell me Trachta’s ammunition. He was brokering, and hoping to make the spread. I had counted the same 25 million rounds twice. Shit! “Sorry, Mister Diveroli... Bernatik owns around seven million - that is all.”

On our way to inspect the ammunitions, Trachta told me he had bought the rounds from the Czech Ministry of Defense (MOD) several years earlier and stored them in two warehouses. So I’m thinking they’re in two secure storage facilities, but he drove me out to the country where the rounds were being stored in two huge unsecured barns located on a farm. This would never happen in the United States.

Inside the barns was an amazing cache of weapons and munitions: over 2,000 crates filled with Czechoslovakian VZ.58 assault rifles. “I’ve got twenty thousand of them,” said Trachta. “Fifty U.S. per weapon.” He told me he had access to another 150,000 if I was interested. The VZ.58 resembled the Soviet AK-47, but internally the weapon was substantially different; a short-stroke gas piston assault rifle that shared absolutely no parts with the Kalashnikov.

“I’ll make some calls.”

The 25 million AK rounds were in the hermetically sealed spam cans and in pristine condition. “They’re perfect,” I told Trachta while calling my bank to wire the deposit. That’s when I noticed what appeared to be several small armored personnel carrier type vehicles with turret style automatic cannons mounted on them. “What’re those?”

“These, I call them beasts,” he laughed. Trachta pointed to one of the cannons, “Dis is 30 mm fully automatic cannon... antiaircraft machinegun monsters.”

Now, Task Order Four had two line items for two million 30 mm rounds, and I could see several thousand spam cans of 30 mm rounds stacked besides the beasts. “You interested in selling the rounds?”

He shrugged, thought about it and said, “I have one million of them... I can do six dollars U.S. per cartridge.”

I did the calculation instantaneously. I had billed the Army roughly $30 per round; minus shipping and fuel; that was a potential profit of over ten million dollars - my knees went weak. “Let me get the specs on them, make some calls... I might be interested.”

When I got back to my hotel I called a weapons specialist in Kabul and told him what I had. My contracted 30 mm round was 30x165 mm and so was the Czechoslovakian round. It took him about 20 minutes to locate the Czechoslovakian specs in some manual. After he reviewed the specification he said, “Sorry they won’t work.”

Apparently the belt-fed Czechoslovakian 30 mm round’s casing varied ever so slightly in length, making it problematic for the Soviet GSh-30 gun’s chamber and ejection mechanism. “Are you sure? I mean, have you tried?”

“Mister Diveroli,” grumbled the Army’s specialist, “it’s simple physics... They won’t fit.” When he told me that, I almost cried. I felt like ten million dollars had just slipped through my fingers.

I then dialed Baghdad. The VZ.58 assault rifle’s performance was close to the AK-47s, so I called a contracting officer I was cool with, but he said the Army didn’t want them. “Their parts aren’t interchangeable with the Kalashnikovs, Diveroli...”

“But they take 7.62 mm x 39 Russian rounds, same as the Kalashnikov.”

“They’re not interchangeable... we’re not interested.” Shit, there goes another four or five million I could have made. I did buy the 25 million 7.62 mm rounds from Trachta, and Bernatik managed to come up with 9 million 7.62 mm rounds - a total of 34 million rounds - so the trip wasn’t a complete waste of time. Unfortunately, I was still short on ammunition... and getting more desperate.

ON THE FLIGHT BACK TO THE STATES, I called Jenna and asked her to meet me in New York. We had been arguing due to my excessive traveling schedule and I thought it would be a nice break. On approach to JFK International airport, I remember thinking the Statue of Liberty looks so small standing in the harbor.

We stayed at the W in Manhattan; it’s a nouveau riche, black cherry infused martini kind of place. Sleek and trendy. Marble and stainless steel. Minimalist decor, I think they call it “modern deco.”

We took a rickshaw to the Meat Packing District and ate at the Spice Market, a conservative posh restaurant. There were lots of businessmen and investors having power lunches. Over filet of sole with almond butter sauce, I surprised Jenna with a diamond encrusted Michelle watch. “Ohmigod, baby...” Jenna’s eyes filled with tears and she sniffed. “You didn’t have to.”

“I’m gonna try harder from now on Bear,” I told her. “I swear.”

Jenna and I saw the musical Rent and visited the 9-11 Memorial at the World Trade Center site. We walked in the park and read the victims’ names off the granite memorial. I’ll never forget watching CNN that day in 2001, the sounds of the bodies hitting the pavement and the sight of the north tower collapsing.

I was one of the largest suppliers of munitions in the war on terror and it had started there, at Ground Zero. I wish I could say I felt patriotic or proud, but I didn’t. All I felt was overwhelmingly sad and empty.

We were walking into the lobby of the W when my cell rang. “Efraim,” said David from Albania, “listen, I’m just outside the hanger at Rinas (the Albanian airport where the Chinese ammunition was being repackaged) and you’re not going to believe this... U.S. Army Special Forces are here and they’re loading up two C130 aircraft with Chinese ammo and mortars. One of the Albanian soldiers said they’re flying it into Africa.”

I called Shapiro, asking, “Should I have David photograph them?” I thought I might need to use this tidbit of information, in defense of my own actions regarding the purchase of Chinese ammunition in Albania.

“Are you crazy?” he snapped. “Don’t do anything!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE UNITED KINGDOM OF GREAT BRITAIN

“There is at least one thing worse than fighting with allies. And that is fighting without them.” - Sir Winston Churchill

DESPITE THE ISSUES HEINRICH AND I HAD in Albania, my cousin Joe - one of my top lieutenants at the time - and I flew to England in late September of 2007 for the DSEi (Defense Security and Equipment International) Exhibition; the biggest international defense exhibition featuring land, sea, and air products and technologies.

While London is one of the world’s oldest, largest, and most historic cities, I was struck by how modern and bustling it is. Its downtown is packed with massive skyscrapers, stores, and sidewalks teeming with shoppers. Beautiful parks and gardens are scattered throughout.

DSEi’s Expo was massive. There were booths and representatives from all the manufacturers. I was amazed at how many of them I knew. Manufacturers’ sales representatives and various arms trading companies were shoving their business cards into the palm of my hand and asking me to call them. The same guys who I used to look up to were pleading for a minute of my time. It was the first time I felt like I had made it. I was a player.

JOE AND I MET HEINRICH and Martin Meixner - Heinrich’s deputy - at the Exhibition’s cafeteria for a sandwich and a beer. I was working a deal with Heinrich to complete several line items on Task Orders Three and Four: 2 million 30 mm high explosive aircraft rounds, 30,000 S-5 and S-8 mortars, 4,000 122 mm artillery shells, and 7,100 50 mm rounds, for these ancient Soviet T-55 and T-62 battle tanks the Afghanis had. Heinrich quoted me a price that I wasn’t very happy with - $10.5 million.

We haggled over the price for several minutes and Heinrich said, “Efraim please, this is a lot of munitions to deliver, a lot of headaches... I have bills, a greedy bitch of an ex-wife, a… “

“And a number of girlfriends on several continents,” I interjected. “Come on, Heinrich, are you really going to make me threaten to go through MFS or Arcus for this one?” At this point I was almost as connected throughout Eastern Europe as Heinrich, and he knew it.

“Okay, okay,” he smiled politely, “I’ll take... ten million U.S.”

“You made the right decision,” I said. If he hadn’t, I may not have ever given him another order.

“Now” said Heinrich, “let’s celebrate.”

HEINRICH INSISTED THE FOUR OF US - him, me, Joe, and Martin - go to Stringfellas, a world-renowned upscale strip club in the heart of London. They had girls from all over the globe, from Parisians to Russians, from Indians to South Africans. The place was set up like a fashion show, with multiple stages or “runways,” track lights, a smoke machine and stripper poles. It smelled like fine Cuban cigars and French perfume - the way a strip club should smell.

The manager recognized Heinrich the moment we walked in. He sauntered over and asked Heinrich, “Would you like your usual room?”

“Of course,” he said, and slipped the manager his black Amex card.

Two minutes later we were seated in a room lined with booths and strippers, drinking Dom Perignon champagne, Johnny Walker Blue Label whisky and Belvedere Vodka, while getting lap dances. These chicks were feeding us fresh fruit while we were making small talk about buying up arms and munitions from the Hungarians and others. It was a surreal scene.

Every hour the manager would bring Heinrich a stack of 3,500 pounds and he would throw the money in the air; the notes - stamped with pictures of the Queen - would rain down on the group and the girls would go wild, grabbing at everything they could get. I told Heinrich, “You’re going all out tonight, huh?”

“Yeah, well,” he laughed, “I don’t want to be the richest man in the graveyard.” This was common for Heinrich; he loved fine whisky, women, and cigars. Who could blame him?

Toward the end of the night, a platinum blonde Russian stripper, “Candy Cane” - I’m thinking that probably wasn’t her birth name - leaned into me and whispered, “You want to meet me after work? I could come to your hotel room?”

Between the hookers, strippers, and the women I met at bars and clubs that were dying to sleep with a young American businessman, I was taking a different woman home every night during my European trips; she was a beautiful girl, but Jenna was flying in the next morning and the thought of “Candy’s” perfume lingering on the sheets of my hotel room or leaving a lipstick stain behind or her thong for Jenna to find deterred me. I needed to be primed and ready, like a guy that hadn’t had sex in a week.

I shoved some pounds into her hand and said, “Not tonight, my girl’s coming in tomorrow.”

THE FOLLOWING DAY JENNA ARRIVED at Heathrow. I had spent most of the day at the DSEi Expo speaking with various manufacturers and suppliers continuing my efforts to locate more hardware. I was staying at a contemporary five star hotel, and when I got back to the room, Jenna answered the door in a towel. I pushed her onto the bed, yanked the towel off her and she dropped backward onto the mattress - laughing. I attacked her like a lion on a gazelle; I was biting her neck while she was scratching her nails down my back. It had been nearly two weeks since I’d seen her. All the other girls were just women... they were an escape from work, a form of stress release, nothing else... But I was in love with Jenna.

It was one of those nights that stick out in your mind. Not because of the sex - although that was great - but because we lay in bed and talked and laughed all night. We made love and drank wine. It was a great night.

The following morning I woke up to Jenna jumping around my suite yelling, “Get up sleepy Bear, we’re in London!”

We ate bubble and squeak (fried potatoes and vegetables) for breakfast in a nearby cafe and caught a historic tour of London in one of those red double-decker busses. We saw the House of Parliament towering along the Thames, Westminster Abbey, and the Tower of London, where Sir Walter Raleigh and Thomas More were imprisoned.

Over the next couple of days, Jenna and I held hands and wandered through the city along the River Thames, crossed Tower Bridge, had crumpets and tea with milk at a cafe near Hyde Park. We were watching the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, the home of Britain’s Monarchs, when Jenna looked up at me and said, “I never see you anymore.” We had been together for two days straight; shopping in the fashionable West End district, and seeing the sights of one of the most amazing cities in the world, but I understood what she meant.

“Hang in there Panda Bear,” I whispered. “It won’t be like this forever.” But the truth is... I had no idea when things would change or even if I wanted them to. I loved the life I was living.

AFTER JENNA LEFT FOR MIAMI, Joe and I dragged Heinrich’s young Ukrainian lackey - Bogdan Choopryna - to Amsterdam for a quick three-day vacation. Bogdan had never been stoned before, so that was a must. He was a very serious guy, a tough looking Slav in his 30s. He never laughed or smiled - not a funny guy - but when we got some weed in him Bogdan wouldn’t stop giggling and laughing. He was suddenly all hugs and kisses. He kept telling Joe and me what “great guys” we were, and how much he “loved his American friends.” The contrast was comical.

The last day we were there, I made the mistake of ordering mushrooms at this cafe near Vondel Park. Joe looked at the menu and ordered a latte and I said, “I’ll try the hallucinogenic mushrooms.”

“Jesus, Efraim,” he laughed, “you go hard.”

I had tried ecstasy, acid, and opiates, but I wasn’t prepared for the mushrooms. My perception wasn’t slightly altered - I was fucking seeing shit. Inanimate objects seemed alive, and I couldn’t stop laughing. And when I did laugh, it sounded like a hyena. We were walking in the park, and I was tripping hard. There were couples walking their dogs and little kids riding bikes. Everything looked amazing. I was having a great time, and then Jenna called. “Why haven’t you called?” she yelled. “You haven’t called in two days!”

“What’re you? We talked last night!”

“Only because I called you!” she screamed, and suddenly the park started to get irritated at me. Everything felt unfriendly. “You haven’t called in days!”

I felt like everyone was staring at me. The Dutch couples were glaring. The dogs were growling. The kids were sticking out their tongues at me. Even the trees were angry that I hadn’t called Jenna, as insane as that sounds.

“What does it matter whether I call you or you call…?”

“We’re through! I’m sick of this. You don’t call. You’re never home... and I’m... I’m calling Adam!” Adam was this 35-year-old loser tattoo artist ex-boyfriend of Jenna’s who had earrings that looked like model car tires. He would call every couple of weeks to see if she and I were still dating. The guy was sleeved out and had tats on his neck - God knows where else. “He loves me.”

“You’re not gonna call Adam.” I had heard the threat many times.

“I’m calling him!” she screamed. “I’m going to his apartment, and I’m gonna!” Now that part was new, and everything suddenly got really dark. My girlfriend was threatening to fuck another guy - that’s unacceptable! She was killing my high. “I’m gonna and I’m gonna…”

“Jenna,” I yelled into the phone, “I’m within walking distance of one of the largest Red Light Districts in the world... Do you really want to play this game? ‘Cause I’ve got enough cash on me to nail every whore on that strip!”

She burst into tears. Over the next couple of hours we threatened and pled with each other not to do anything drastic. The worst thing about it was, it was a common fight. Maintaining our relationship long-distance ran me $3,000 to $5,000 a month on cell phone bills alone. It was $4 to $5 a minute for international roaming in some countries.

WHEN I GOT BACK TO MIAMI I STOPPED BY MY MOTHER’S HOUSE. I hadn’t spoken to her in almost a month - it happened sometimes. She would get frustrated and just stop calling; it typically took me a week or so to notice. Sometimes I would ignore the “silent treatment” and after a couple weeks she would start calling again, but every once in a while she would hold out.

This time, it had been a month - requiring a face-to-face visit - so I stopped by her house. My mother opened the door and said, “Mazel Tov, you came to see me?” She hugged me for a long time, and then pulled me inside the house. “Let me feed you...” She made me chicken, stuffed cabbage, and Matzo ball soup.

I sat at the table and ate. I told her about some of AEY, Inc.’s more benign deals; a little ammunition to Afghanistan and some assault rifles to Iraq. I told her some funny stories, tried not to curse and avoided anything to do with Jenna. After a good hour or two visit, I told my mother, “I love you,” and I left. The following day she started calling me again - and that’s how it went sometimes.

IN LATE 2007, I had several flight permits get delayed, or AEY, Inc. was quoted a figure that was so outrageous it constituted a denial, or they would suggest that I should speak with so and so at one of their state-run or private air freight carriers.

It all boiled down to lack of accessibility to Afghanistan. Unlike Iraq, which is located on one of the world’s most trafficked waterways, the Persian Gulf, and next to two U.S. allies - Turkey and Kuwait - Afghanistan, by contrast, is landlocked and its neighbors range from uneasy allies like Pakistan and Uzbekistan, to outright adversaries, such as Iran.

After nearly ten years of war, there was virtually no infrastructure left to truck in the munitions - they had to be flown in, often, ironically, by Russian veterans of the 1980 Soviet Union’s Afghanistan war. The only routes were over former Soviet Bloc countries. All of which were now run by notoriously corrupt governments that had all but sold their official duties and powers to the highest bidder. These governments were working in conjunction with their state-owned and privately owned air freight companies to price gouge or monopolize all Afghanistan-bound cargo.

It was a constant problem, and on several occasions I had to call Kim Jones to explain a shipment was going to be late. “How late?” she asked. “We need that shipment. What’s the problem, maybe I can help?”

“A week... maybe two,” I replied. “The problem is we have good reason to believe the governments of Turkmenistan and Azerbaijan are being unduly influenced into denying our over-flight permits by local competing carriers as a result of AEY, Inc. not contracting with their authorized carriers, so we’re being shaken down, Kim… Sabotaged... extorted. I either pay an outrageous fee using their carriers or I wait until they decide to issue the flight permit... can you help with that?”

“Aw...” there was a long silence and she almost whispered, “no, that’s kinda what we have private contractors for... We can’t... You know.” They couldn’t pay bribes. Instead, they hired defense contractors to take actions and work in environments that the Army couldn’t legally engage in.

Sometimes I paid the outrageous fees, other times I hired the state-owned air freight companies, other times I told the Army, “Well, then you’re gonna have to wait, Kim.”

“Shoot!” she griped. “Efraim... we need that shipment. I know you can do something.”

“Listen Kim, I’ve got no problem having a carrier attempt a mission without the proper over-flight permits.” They had done it for me on a couple other occasions. “I’m even willing to mis-declare the military cargo as commercial goods... That’ll guarantee the permits; just give me the go ahead.” I almost laughed; there was no way she was going to tell me to do that.

“I... I can’t,” she sighed, Kim was really struggling with what to say.” Look, I can’t tell you which of those two to do - pick one. Do whatever you’ve gotta do to get it to Kabul by the end of this month... Got it?”

“Got it!” She didn’t tell me to do it, but she didn’t tell me not to do it either.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

TASK ORDER FIVE

“Nine times out of ten an army has been destroyed because its supply lines have been severed.” - General Douglas MacArthur

I WAS USING RUSSIAN IL-76 ILYUSHINS to ship our freight. The IL-76 was originally designed for the Soviet Air Force as a multi-purpose four-engine strategic airlifter to deliver heavy machinery to remote, poorly serviceable areas of the U.S.S.R. Since the breakup of the Soviet Union, the IL-76 has been adopted as the workhorse of the Eastern European airfreight industry. The problem with the Ilyushins is their fuel consumption. They’re serious gas-guzzlers: 80 percent of the cost associated with air cargo is fuel. 747s, however, are much more fuel-efficient. Unfortunately, most insurance companies won’t allow 747s to fly cargo into a war zone, which was a real bummer because using 747s would have saved AEY, Inc. hundreds of thousands of dollars over the life of the Afghan contract - maybe millions.

AEY, Inc. was blanketing the airfreight community with inquires looking for a carrier that would fly 747s or similar western-style fuel-efficient aircraft into Kabul. That’s how I met Simon Milne, a freight broker out of New York. He was a Brit, but you would never have known it by his behavior - loud and obnoxious. Overbearing to the point of amusing.

The first time Milne and I spoke I immediately began whittling away at his prices. “Why don’t you try lowering the cost by picking up freight from Kabul, for the leg back; pick up some additional revenue, and reduce my per-flight cost there?”

“Oh... that’s a great idea Efraim; what do you suggest we haul back? Heroin? Bodies?” he said sarcastically. “You ignorant bloke, no one’s shipping cargo out of Afghanistan... Stick to selling guns and ammo; I’ll take care of the freight.”

As insulting as the comment was, I laughed. I didn’t like the guy, but I liked that he spoke his mind. The whole airfreight business is notoriously corrupt and rife with fraud and deception. Milne was no exception - he embodied the industry.

A FEW WEEKS LATER Milne notified me he had located a single 747 operator - Tesis Avian - that could fly 110 metric tons, the equivalent of roughly 6 million rounds of ammunition, to Afghanistan. AEY, Inc. had just bought 15 million rounds from MFS (Hungarian Ammunition Manufacturing Inc.) in Hungary, and Milne was ready to deliver it. “Two hundred and twenty thousand U.S.,” he said, “from Hungary to the Afghani war zone.”

What Milne didn’t tell me was that he planned on having the 747 land in Kyrgyzstan, unload the carrier, split up the freight between two Ilyushins, then ferry them from there into Kabul International Airport.

Kyrgyzstan is located in central Asia - wedged between Kazakhstan, China, and Afghanistan - it’s nothing but mountains and rocks. It’s been an independent “democracy” since the collapse of the Soviet Union, notorious for cronyism, corruption, fraud, and nepotism that penetrate all levels of the Kyrgyzstan government. In late March of 2005 - after serious fraud allegations - the “Tulip” revolution overthrew the corrupt plutocratic government and replaced it with an even worse one. The new regime ranks among the top 20 percent of the most corrupt governments on the planet. I’d have never landed a plane there. Never!

IN MID 2007, after the 747 landed at Bishkek airport and rolled to a stop, the crew disembarked and a dozen heavily armed Kyrgyzstani soldiers rushed out of a nearby hanger, their AK-47 assault rifles held high and tight, aimed at the terrified Tesis crew members. The soldiers screamed in Russian, “Stoy! Pavdigny ruki! Pavdigny ruki! [Stop! Put your hands up! Put your hands up!]”

The aviators complied immediately; they were handcuffed and led away. The Kyrgyzstani Military seized Tesis’ plane, confiscated AEY, Inc.’s cargo, and arrested the crew. They grounded the plane at the Bishkek Airport, unloaded our ammunition into a storage hanger, and kept the crew in a grungy holding cell at the base.

When Milne explains that the Kyrgyzstanis had seized AEY, Inc.’s cargo, my first question was, “Why is my fucking cargo in Kyrgyzstan!”

“Well...” He never really had a good explanation for that, but what he did say was, “They’re saying we don’t have the correct license - but we do.” It was a straight shakedown by the organized crime group known as “the Kyrgyzstani government.”

I had to get Rock Island involved. “Kim,” I said, “one of Task Order Two’s shipments was detained in Kyrgyzstan, they arrested the crew and…”

“How many rounds was it?” she interrupted.

“God Kim,” I half laughed in shock, “there are five Tesis crew members locked away in a Kyrgyzstani prison somewhere...” Not that I was all that concerned with Tesis employees, but she didn’t even ask about them.

“Sorry, sorry... That’s horrible,” she said, but it lacked sincerity. In Kim’s defense, the Army was putting a tremendous amount of pressure on all of us to complete the Task Orders as quickly as possible. “How much did they get?”

Seriously? “Roughly six million rounds,” I sighed. This was one tough chick. “Look, I need you to call the U.S. Embassy in Bishkek. Tell them this shipment is vital to the war against terrorism - all that shit, you know what to say.”

Tesis’ legal department and the Defense Attaché with the U.S. Embassy in Bishkek got in touch with the “GKNB” (State Security Organization) - the Kyrgyzstani equivalent of the old Soviet Union’s “KGB” (Committee on State Security) - and within a week they negotiated the release of Tesis’ aircraft and its crew, but the Kyrgyzstanis kept AEY, Inc.’s Hungarian ammunition. So I called Rock Island back and Kim told me, “They want you to call them to negotiate airfreight fees...”

It took me and Doudnick - my Russian-speaking deputy - months to negotiate with the Kyrgyzstani government; not directly of course, but through a third party. They’re not stupid enough to talk openly about bribery when it pertains to the U.S. Government’s cargo. Instead they said, “Talk to this guy about that. He can probably help you.” So that’s what happened.

Doudnick and I were directed to speak with AES Cargo, a freight logistics and airport services company. We were told they were the only company allowed to ship the ammunition from Bishkek to its final destination in Kabul. AES Cargo then proceeded to charge AEY, Inc. outrageous usurious rates for labor, packaging munitions, and use of forklifts and pallet jacks, sticking our cargo on two Ilyushins and flying it to Kabul. They were charging us $160,000 for this, roughly $120,000 more than it should have cost. It was extortion, but I didn’t have a choice. When it was all said and done, I still cleared over $200,000 on that shipment.

Unfortunately I didn’t have a choice but to keep dealing with Milne - we were working together on a potentially massive munitions purchase from UKRSPETZ (Ukrainian Exports). I didn’t trust the “wanker” anymore, but I was becoming more desperate for large stockpiles of inexpensive munitions. In the end we traveled to Ukraine, but the negotiations broke down. They were unreasonable and we never made a deal - Milne was a waste of time.

ON NOVEMBER 19TH OF 2007, Nick Wood with the New York Times contacted the Albanian Defense Minister, Fatmir Mediu. “I’m arriving tomorrow morning to visit Rinas Airport,” said the reporter. “According to my source, Ylli Pinari, head of MEICO, is repackaging Chinese ammo for a U.S. company called AEY Incorporated; that ammo is being shipped to Afghanistan.” Wood let it sink in and he continued, “It’s my understanding that you’re involved in some way. Would you care to comment on the…”

“I have no comment on dis matter,” snapped Mediu and he ended the call.

Within a few hours of that conversation, Mediu was at the U.S. Embassy where he met with the Ambassador, John L. Withers II, and Attaché, Major Larry D. Harris of the U.S. Army. Mediu pled with the Ambassador to somehow stop the reporter from arriving in Albania or restrict him from Rinas Airport, saying, “My fear is I’ll be implicated in some type of scheme to defraud the Albanian government...”

“I can’t do that,” said Withers. “Why not just deny any involvement?”

The look on Mediu’s face said it wasn’t that simple. The relationship between the U.S. Embassy and the Albanian government was complicated and shadowed in shades of grey. “I’ve helped you in the past...”

“All right,” said Withers, “so far, the reporter only has a source he’s trying to verify... If you remove all evidence of the Chinese ammunition from the hanger where they’re doing the repackaging - ”

“Ambassador,” interrupted Major Harrison, visibly uncomfortable with the suggested cover-up, “I don’t think that’s…”

Withers held up his hand silencing the Major, he turned to Mediu and continued, “That’s the solution to your problem.”

Mediu called the commanding General of the Albanian Armed Forces and ordered him to have the hanger cleared of all the Chinese ammunition. The following morning - hours after the ammunition had been carted off by Albanian soldiers - Wood arrived at the airport to find nothing but a bunch of trash.

Once the reporter left, the Albanian army returned the ammunition and the repackaging continued. It was one of several things that the U.S. Embassy and U.S. Army did to keep the pipeline of Chinese ammunition flowing into Afghanistan.

WHEN TASK ORDER FIVE CAME IN, on December 12th of 2007, I was actually relieved. It was roughly a $22.5 million order: slightly over 180,000 OG-7V antipersonnel grenades, nearly 320,000 GP30 HE grenades, and a minimal amount of 7.62 mm rounds - roughly 4.8 million. A very doable order.

A FEW DAYS AFTER THE ORDER came in I flew to Bulgaria with Mark Morales, a supplier with Allied Defense Group, of Baltimore, MD. Mark was a clean-cut Mexican-American in his late 30s - young for an experienced defense contractor, who started his career interestingly enough with General Dynamics. He had contacted AEY, Inc. after learning we had been awarded the Afghan contract, and offered to sell AEY, Inc. 10,000 S-5 and S-8 rockets. It was perfect timing, and helped to complete one of Task Order Four’s line items. We were in Bulgaria so I could inspect the product before shipping.

It took us about two hours - by Jeep - to get to the Air Force armory. The place was more like an Albanian bunker. It was an old Soviet-style aircraft maintenance depot, which had been carved into a mountain near the town of Pirdop. We met with a full Colonel in the Bulgarian Air Force. He was hard looking, in his late 50s with a short white crew cut. There were about a dozen soldiers standing around in weathered uniforms smoking cigarettes. The Colonel introduced himself to Mark and me. We shook hands and he gave me a long stare. “How old are you,” asked the Colonel, “Mister Diveroli?”

“Twenty-two,” I replied, “but this isn’t my first rodeo.”

The Colonel chuckled, and when he smiled I noticed he had a gold incisor. He motioned for us to follow him inside the bunker. There were two MiGs that looked like they had been stripped for parts, roughly 20 Mi-17 attack helicopters, and lots of air/craft munitions; missiles, bombs and rocket. There were old metal sheds, rusting steel beams, and munitions in various stages of corrosion stacked all over the interior. The Colonel had two soldiers pry open several wooden crates revealing multiple rockets. “These are the S-5’s and S-8s you’re buying,” said the Colonel. “Is good?”

Both the S-5 and the S-8 rockets were developed by the Soviet Air Force and used by the MiG-19 and MiG-23 jets. But they could also be used by attack helicopters against ground targets which was what the Afghan Security Forces needed them for. At the rear of the rockets are elongated exhaust nozzles and eight forward-folding fins that spring out the moment the rocket leaves the launch tube, providing stabilization until the high explosive warhead strikes its target, vaporizing everything within a 45-foot radius with shrapnel fragments... and I was staring at two of them. It was a True Lies moment, and in my best Arnold Schwarzenegger imitation I almost said, “I know what this is... this is an espresso machine. No, no wait. It’s a snow cone maker... is it a water heater?” but this wasn’t the right crowd, so I kept my mouth shut.

I inspected several of the four foot, six inch long cylindrical steel bodies for any signs of corrosion or damage, but the rockets looked like they had just come off the assembly line at Arcus. “They’re good, Colonel.”

What I didn’t know was that several of the wooden crates had extensive termite damage.

SEVERAL WEEKS LATER, all 10,000 were loaded onto two IL-76s and flown to Kabul. During the flight the vibration of one of the birds caused several of the crates to break apart and their contents - multiple S-5 and S-8 rockets - to slip out into the cargo bay. For hours a dozen live rockets rolled around the belly of the Ilyushin - not something you want decades-old Soviet surplus air-to-ground rockets doing: bouncing around inside an ancient Russian-made cargo jet at 30,000 feet.

THE FOLLOWING DAY, I was walking through the terminal at Miami International Airport when I got a call from Kabul. “Diveroli!” barked the Commander I’d been dealing with in Afghanistan - I recognized his voice immediately. “Do you have any idea what would’ve happened if one of those things had gone off?”

“Excuse me...” I said, “What are you talking about, Commander?”

Apparently, after the aircraft landed at Kabul International Airport and the ground crew lowered the rear cargo ramp, several of the S-8s rolled out of the plane’s belly, down the ramp, and onto the asphalt with the Ping! Ping! Ping! of metal bouncing on asphalt; and they landed at the feet of the ground crew. “Run!” screamed the crew leader. The rockets caused an evacuation of the area - virtually shutting down two landing strips.

They had to bring in an EOD (Explosive Ordinance Disposal) robot to determine if the plane and its highly explosive cargo were safe to unload, and the Commander was pissed. “Diveroli, do you have any idea of how much danger you put my guys in... If I ever get my hands on you…”

“Commander,” I interrupted, “keep in mind, I didn’t pack the fucking things myself.”

This guy was pissed! He threatened all kinds of stuff, but once he calmed down the Commander realized there was no way I could have known about the termites. “Sir, it’s not like it’s in my best interest to have a plane go down... This stuff’s not insured.”

IN LATE DECEMBER of 2007, I located several of the line items on two of AEY, Inc.’s Iraq contracts in Serbia. I contacted Dusan - my buddy, the Serb from Serbia, now living in Serbia - and told him to pick me up at the Belgrade International Airport, which he did, in a 20-year-old rusted out Yugo.

“Are you kidding me?” I said, to Dusan when I saw the two-door compact. I had sent him money to rent a car, “a decent car. I specifically said to rent a decent car.” My oversized suitcase barely fit in the hatchback. We had to force it closed. On the way to the Hyatt - the nicest hotel in Serbia - the rear door actually popped open and we had to pull over on the interstate. I yanked my suitcase out of the back, emptied the contents into the hatchback and left the case on the side of the road.

When we pulled up to the hotel, the valet looked horrified - he didn’t even want to park it. We had to threaten to abandon the Yugo in front of the hotel.

The next morning I met with Branko Djuric (no relation to Dejan Djuric) the director of Middle East markets for Yugoimport (no relation to Yugo Motors). Yugoimport was the state-owned company in charge of liquidating the “excess” Serbian Military armaments. Branko was a big bear of a guy in his late 50s, who always seemed to be wearing a bad suit.

At their offices in Belgrade, we were sitting in a makeshift conference room with water stains on the ceiling tiles and boxes of manuals lying around the room. Dusan and I were looking over an updated list of available weapons and munitions. I glanced around at the mess in the room and couldn’t believe that Yugoimport didn’t have better accommodations. Branko grunted, “You see dis building?” He pointed to a six story burnt-out structure roughly a hundred meters outside the room’s window. “That was our [Yugoimport’s] old office... The U.S. bombed it in May of 1999.”

In early 1998, Serbian military and police forces began “ethnic cleansing” attacks in Kosovo province of Serbia on alleged strongholds of Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA), an ethnically Albanian guerrilla movement fighting to end Serbian control of the province.

On March 24th of 1999 - after failed negotiations - NATO began an intensive bombing campaign - spearheaded by the U.S. Air Force - directed at Serbian military targets and later at civilian infrastructure and government buildings.

The bombing came to an end in June after then-president Milosevic agreed to withdraw Serbian forces from Kosovo and allow the deployment of NATO peacekeeping troops. “It was nicer building...” he chuckled, and then he made a “Kaboom!” sound. “Smart bomb.”

“Why Yugoimport?” I asked. It didn’t seem like one of the first things NATO would have bombed, certainly not an essential target.

“Aw,” he gave me an exaggerated shrug, “We might have been helping to supply Serbian brigades in Kosovo... and refurbishing military aircraft and tanks for Saddam Hussein...” In violation of the U.N. embargo placed on Iraq. “Dis is what they said.”

I was stunned. I thought about saying, Well gee Mister Branko, now you know that NATO takes two things very seriously - supplying its enemies with weapons and countries killing off their own citizens, but I didn’t. Instead I said, “So... you got my stuff here or…?”

On our way to the military depot, while driving on a cracked asphalt road littered with potholes and lined with garbage, Branko pointed out several buildings bombed in early to mid-1999. “Dis used to be government building,” he said as we drove by a charred hollowed out concrete shell. “And dis one... dis Chinese Embassy, U.S. smart bomb, it killed three in early May of 1999; injured twenty.” He chuckled as we passed the Chinese Embassy’s gated complex, “U.S. say, ‘accident’...” The guy just wouldn’t let up on the U.S. bombs.

“You see dis, here?” he motioned to the twisted steel skeletal structure of what used to be a bridge lying in the Danube River. “Stealth fighter do dis... Is still not rebuilt.”

“Damn shame,” I said, “looks like it was a nice bridge.” A couple of miles down the road, part of the street had collapsed. It was more than a pothole - half the road had been washed away. As Branko maneuvered our vehicle around the missing asphalt, I glanced at the Serb. “Don’t tell me...” I said, sarcastically, “U.S. smart bomb, May of 1999.”

He looked sideways at me - very serious - and then he burst into laughter, “No, dis rain.” Branko chuckled, “No smart bomb. Serbian rain.”

“So,” I asked,” how do you know it was U.S. planes; the British and several other NATO nations have bombers...”

He got this big grin on his face, “Because we shot down a stealth fighter with a 1960 Soviet made SA-3 Goa surface-to-air-missile.” Apparently, on a moonless night on March 7th of 1999, after dropping its 2,000-pound laser guided bomb, an F-117 “Nighthawk” was struck by an SA-3 missile, fired from an improvised network of Serbian SAM radars. The pilot ejected behind enemy lines and was snatched up by a commando team hours later. “Forty-three million dollar plane... Kaboom!” Branko glanced at me and said, “Months later we shot down F-16 fighter... Serbians are dee best.”

Then from the back seat Dusan said, “Da best.” And the two Serbs nodded at one another in national solidarity. It made me smile.

The warehouse was on a Serbian Army base near Smadervo - not much to look at, just some chain-link fences and a few soldiers guarding the contents of a dozen large aluminum storage units.

The interiors were stacked with wooden crates; half of them weren’t even labeled. Dusan and I spent an hour randomly prying open crates containing DShKs (Degtyaryov-Shpagin Krupnokaliberny Large-Calibre’), a Soviet-designed heavy infantry machinegun, and half a dozen crates containing the DShK’s U.S. equivalent, the M2 50 cal. Browning. How Yugoimport got ahold of the U.S. machine guns I don’t know, but AEY, Inc. needed 24 of them. Dusan pulled one of the five-foot hunks of iron out of its crate to get a better look; it must have weighted over 80 pounds - empty.

“That...” I said, pointing to the cumbersome weapon “is a recoil-operated, belt-fed, air-cooled heavy machinegun designed by John Moses Browning and affectionately known as... ‘The Ma Deuce’.”

“Very nice,” he laughed, placing the weapon back in the crate and glancing at AEY, Inc.’s list of munitions.

“We need a bunch of ‘em.”

Once I was satisfied the weapons were in good condition, I called to have the balance of my purchase transferred to Yugoimport’s account. AEY, Inc. purchased 300 DShK machine guns, nearly 500 RPK (Ruchnoy Pulemyot Kalashnikova’) light machine guns, and over twenty M2 50 cal. Brownings at a cost of $500K and sold them to the Army for nearly $1 million. Nice.

A COUPLE MONTHS AFTER I RETURNED TO MIAMI, I went out clubbing. I had been out most of the night, and I was drunk and coked up. It was around five o’clock in the morning on March 3rd of 2008, and I was driving my new silver-on-black S550 Mercedes-Benz home when I decided to stop by AEY, Inc.’s office to check on the third shift employees - I was running around the clock shifts.

I stumbled into the office thinking I might catch someone sleeping or looking at Internet porn, but everyone was on the phone. All four employees were hard at work tracking down weapons and munitions.

I was suddenly proud of my third shift employees. Everyone acknowledged me as I stomped into the middle of the office and started telling them all how “awesome” they all were. “Soldiers. That’s what you are... Soldiers,” I slurred, and pointed to them. “You’re on the front lines.”

They all nodded their understanding, but I’m sure they were all wondering what I was on and if I had anymore. “Thanks, Boss,” said one of them.

They all started to turn back to their work, but I wasn’t finished. “You!” I almost yelled. “You… guys are the lifeblood of this company... Soldiers.”

“Soldiers. We got it,” mumbled a staff member. “Soldiers. Frontlines. Lifeblood. Got it.”

They were all being polite, but I got the distinct impression they wanted me to leave. I slowly made my way out of the office and into the parking lot. I managed to start my car and pull out of the parking lot - without my lights on - directly in front of a Miami Beach police cruiser. I might have even swerved; I was that fucked up. The police hit the cruiser’s siren, Whoop! Whoop! and turned on their bright blue and white strobe lights.

I pulled my vehicle to the curb and tried to compose myself as the officers approached the vehicle, “License and registration,” said Officer Shimko. A minute later he asked me if I had been drinking and said, “Would you mind stepping out of the vehicle?”

“Sure,” I replied, exiting the long body Benz, “but I haven’t been drunk... drinking.” I’m sure I reeked of alcohol.

“I understand,” grunted Shimko, and the second officer shined his Mag light in my face - my eyes were bloodshot and my pupils were dilated from the cocaine. The blinding light caused me to squint. Shimko then asked that I try walking a straight line, toe to heel.” The officer then demonstrated the sobriety test on the curbside yellow line - it didn’t look so difficult.

I took the first step and immediately stumbled off the line. “Shh... shit,” I slurred and looked at the officers, expectantly. “Lemme… try it again... Let me try again.”

Shimko nodded, as if everyone stumbled the first time. “No problem, Mister Diveroli... take your time.” The two officers smiled at each other.

I placed one foot in front of the other and almost tripped over the curb, “Sorry, sorry.” I looked at the officers, “Let me try again.”

“Sometimes that happens, not a problem,” snickered the second officer. “Give it another try.” The two lawmen glanced at one another again and grinned. I realized they were fucking with me, but I really thought I could pass the test. The third time I stumbled Officer Shimko told me not to worry about walking the line. “It’s a tough test.”

“You... you sure?” I stammered, “’cause I can... do it.”

“Of course you can,” he agreed. Then he asked me to close my eyes, lean my head backward and touch my index finger to the tip of my nose. After multiple tries I still couldn’t do it. “That’s not a big deal,” chuckled Shimko. “You’re doing real good Mister Diveroli... Let’s try one last test and we’ll wrap this up. Touch your thumbs together behind your back... Think you can do that?”

I nodded, shuffled around and touched my thumbs together. Shimko slapped a pair of stainless steel Smith and Wesson brand handcuffs on my wrists.

“Aw, man...” I said, as they placed me in the back of the cruiser for the drive to the City of Miami Beach Police Department. When I got to the booking station the officer asked if I would take a Breathalyzer, “You might be under the limit,” he said. “Give it a try.”

I was so drunk that I thought, maybe I’ve sobered up enough to pass it and they won’t charge me and I can go home, so like an idiot I blew and it was way over the limit. I was charged with DUI, fingerprinted and photographed. The next morning I didn’t want to wait for a hearing and bonded out - for the full $10,000. That day I called Shapiro and told him about the DUI.

“Well,” he said, “I’ve got a guy that’s very good, his name is Robert Rief. He’s a DUI specialist.”

“You’re not going to represent me?”

“Well, no...” said Shapiro, seemingly offended at the idea. “It’s a state misdemeanor.” Of course not, I’d only paid him $100,000! What was I thinking?! Rief charged me $15,000. His entire strategy was to delay the proceedings. Postpone. Stall. Impede. He was so good at it that I almost forgot I even had a pending DUI charge.

A COUPLE WEEKS LATER - in early 2008 - I was in Bulgaria, when Shapiro told me he had been contacted by Eric Schmitt, a reporter with the New York Times, regarding a shipment of corroded ammunition AEY, Inc. had delivered to Kabul. ISD, a supplier out of Bulgaria, had stuck us with 821,000 rounds, some of which was heavily tarnished, poorly packaged, and mislabeled. We were so overwhelmed then that we hadn’t had enough time to inspect the shipment before takeoff. We were, however, in the middle of fixing the problem. I had received an email from the Army regarding the ammunition, and I had hired Dynamic Logistic International Ltd. to correct it.

Shapiro was very worried. “This is an issue Efraim,” he whined into the phone. “You don’t need this right now.”

“We’re fixing it; relax, it’s just some heavy tarnishing on the casings - it’s cosmetic.” AEY, Inc.’s contract allowed for two-percent nonconforming or nonfunctioning product, which this didn’t even come close to, considering the Army - by this point - had ordered well over 100 million rounds of small caliber ammunition. But to stay in the good graces of my best client - the U.S. Army - I was still going to correct or replace the ammunition.

“This is the New York Times,” grumbled Shapiro. “It’s going to get a lot of attention and probably trigger an indictment. If there’s one thing the government doesn’t like, its bad press.”

I WAS SKIING WITH GEORGI FROM ARCUS - we had become close, and I considered him a friend. AEY, Inc. was buying roughly $5 million a month in munitions from Arcus, and I wanted to explain about the potential bad press. We were at a Swiss style resort in a quaint mountain town in Bansko, Bulgaria. It was straight out of the Nut Cracker; everything was frosted with gold and red accents and covered in snow. It was a perfect day for skiing - clear blue skies and six inches of powder on the slopes. Georgi and I were on the chair lift slowly gliding up the face of the mountain. “I’m just saying, this might create some issues, Georgi.”

“So why don’t you meet with this reporter or send your lawyer to talk with him…”

I chuckled nervously, “No, the U.S. takes freedom of the press very seriously. Besides that would only make things worse - nothing’s going to stop them from running an article.”

“Well,” he sighed, “it probably won’t be that bad my friend.” He was wrong.

AROUND THE SAME TIME Agent Mentavlos and Perez showed up at Yugoimport and asked to speak with Banko Djuric. They met in the lobby.

It’s my understanding Mentavlos asked Djuric if they could speak in private. “No,” replied the Serbian. “We had nice private conference room...” He pointed to the burnt-out shell 100 meters beyond their parking lot. “Your government bombed it in May of 1999... So no, we talk here.”

The two agents shifted slightly and Mentavlos asked, “We understand you [Yugoimport] recently sold AEY nearly one thousand DShKs and RPKs...” The agent stared at Djuric, but the Serbian didn’t say anything. “You do know Mister Diveroli... We know you’ve met him.”

“What do you want?” asked Djuric, folding his big meaty arms. “Why is criminal investigator asking questions about this man?”

“We can’t say precisely. We’re wondering though, has Mister Diveroli ever asked you to re-stamp anything from China... Maybe AK-47s or anything.” Given Djuric’s past relationship to the previous President of Iraq, it was a fair question.

“Aw, I see...” said the Serbian, as he opened the lobby’s exterior door. “Are you familiar with the American phrase; go fuck yourself?” Both the agents nodded, and Djuric continued. “Go fuck yourself.” And the meeting was over.

He then called me and said, “There were two U.S. investigators here - Mentavlos and Perez - asking questions about you and Chinese Kalashnikovs...” In a thick Slavic accent he grumbled, “I tell them... nothing. I know where these men stay. What would you like me to do?”

“I’ll call you right back.”

I immediately called Shapiro and asked him if I should have them followed or watched. “Don’t do either of those!” he screamed. “You’re gonna get yourself charged with obstruction of justice or endangering a federal agent or... something. Don’t do anything!”

God only knows what Djuric would have done had I asked.

Back then, I was fairly comfortable with a lot of terrible things - but endangering a couple of federal agents wasn’t one of them.

AT THE SAME TIME AGENT MENTAVLOS was attempting to gather evidence and question witnesses, Kim Jones was being bombarded by emails from the U.S. Army in Kabul:

[U]rgent requirement for 7.62X54 mm... In supporting its mission, the ANP (Afghan Nation Police) have severely depleted the 7.62X54 mm ball ammunition for the PKM Machine Gun...’ and ‘[R]equired schedules of ALL ammunition is not to be compromised.

They desperately needed ammunition, and the U.S. Army didn’t care how it was packaged or where it came from, ‘(Lieutenant Commander Moises M. Gutierrez) through Colonel Luigi Biever, Director, Regional Operations informs JMC Security Assistance that “CSTC-A would like delivery of ammunition to continue and they will accept the risk.”

It came down to the fact that AEY, Inc. was providing so much ammunition; the U.S. Army couldn’t and didn’t want to stop receiving the Chinese rounds. “CJ4 has not had sufficient time to analyze the impact of immediate suspension of the ... deliveries from AEY, Inc... Additionally, the ANSF (Afghan National Security Forces) are moving into the Spring fighting season and most ammunition is critically needed... As such, we are requesting... deliveries continue given criticality of need.”

As a result of the pressure being placed on Kim Jones, she spent a considerable amount of time calling me. “Efraim,” she would say, “we need as much ammo as you can get, as fast as you can get it,” or “You need to get three million 7.62 to Kabul by next week!” or “You’ve gotta move faster; we need an additional twenty-five million 7.62 by May.”

She probably had to stop herself from saying, before you’re indicted or worse, the Department of Defense suspends deliveries - which was all she or the Army really cared about.

DAVID BLACK WAS IN ALBANIA SUPERVISING THE REPACKAGING of the Chinese ammunition and verifying each shipment was properly secured for the flight to Kabul. In early December of 2007 he was walking into his hotel and the front desk clerk told him, “You need to go to the U.S. Embassy immediately.”

Ten minutes later he was sitting in a cramped manila interview room speaking with DCIS Agent Mentavlos. “Mister Black, what you’re doing here, is illegal,” said the agent. “Now you’re going to get on a plane with…”

“But Efraim said…”

“It... is... illegal,” he said through gritted teeth. “Now you’re going to get on a plane with me, we’re flying back to Miami, where the U.S. Attorney is going to give you immunity and you’re going to testify in front of the Grand Jury...” David was shaken. The agent let the seriousness of the situation sink in and Mentavlos wrapped up his speech with, “Or you’re going to be charged with Diveroli and others, for conspiracy...” He gave David another couple of seconds to think about his ultimatum and asked, “Well?”

David took a deep breath and replied, “Sounds like I’m going back to Miami to testify in front of the Grand Jury.” The following morning they were both on a plane bound for the States.

DAVID HAD BEEN MIA AND OUT OF “RADIO CONTACT” for about three days when one of his buddies, Yong Kwon, stepped into my office. “Efraim,” he said, looking uncomfortable, “I just got off the phone with David; an agent with the Defense Criminal Investigation Service flew him back to testify or something...” Mentavlos! “He told me not to tell you... and he said to get out of the office before I get indicted too.”

“If you want to leave, Kwon, I understand.” At this point I was worried. DCIS agents were snatching up my employees - not a good sign.

“I’m not going anywhere!” snapped Kwon, defiantly, “I just thought you should know.”

I CALLED UP HEINRICH AND TOLD HIM, “Wrap up what we’ve got in the pipeline. We’re closing up shop in Albania.” I explained that DCIS had grabbed David. “I know you think the Chinese ammo is legal, and based on my attorneys’ interpretation of the regulations I agree, but they’re grabbing my employees and... making threats. It’s just not worth it.”

“No, no... You are right,” he said, and it was the first time I can remember Heinrich sounding nervous. “Okay, I’ll tell Pinari it’s over. We are finished.”

AEY, INC. HAD BOUGHT AND SHIPPED nearly 102 million 7.62 mm rounds - over 11 million 7.62 Albanian and 91 million 7.62 Chinese - over 42 flights. Nearly $12 million worth of ammunition. Our last bird left Albania on December 7th of 2007.

WITHIN A FEW MONTHS, MEICO was awarded a contract to Southern Ammunition out of South Carolina. They worked with a local company known as Albademil, owned by several of Pinari’s cronies.

Albademil hired hundreds of inexperienced villagers from the town of Gerdec to pry open the ammunition so its components - e.g. brass, steel, lead, and powder - could be sold as commodities on the open market.

On March 15th of 2008, there was a catastrophic explosion at the Gerdec factory, killing 26 workers and injuring hundreds of others. The subsequent investigation led to Pinari, the head of MEICO, Sali Berisha, Albania’s Prime Minister, and two of the owners of Albademil, along with 19 government officials being charged. Pinari received an 18-year sentence.

ABOUT THE SAME TIME the last of the Albanian ammunition was arriving in Kabul, I received an email from Georgi with Arcus. They had the opportunity to buy 60 million Kalashnikov rounds from the Bulgarian Ministry of Defense. I called Georgi. “Buy it!” I said.

“How much of it do you…”

“All of it Georgi. All sixty million of it!” I paid roughly $36 per 1,000 rounds, because it was Arcus. I didn’t even inspect it because I knew their inspection would be even more thorough than mine.

IN JANUARY OF 2008, I traveled to Ukraine to speak with the Deputy Director of Ukrspetz Export, the state-owned military liquidation company.

I had completed Task Orders One and Two, but I was having a real problem obtaining the ammunition for Task Orders Three and Four. I’d depleted Albania’s surplus, and between my contracts in Iraq and Afghanistan, I had emptied or severely depleted most of the once seemingly endless surplus munitions stock in Eastern and Central Europe: Czech Republic, Romania, Slovakia, Bulgaria, Bosnia, and Serbia. I had bought everything Montenegro and Hungary had - I don’t mean a single Hungarian supplier or ammo depot, but the entire fucking country of Hungary - and they were almost out of 7.62 mm rounds. The Hungarian Colonel I was dealing with actually said, “Mister Diveroli, we’ve got to keep something...”

“Colonel,” I replied, “it’s not like a war is going to break out.”

“Still, I have an obligation to my country to keep something in reserve...” The guy was an alarmist.

I was in Kiev trying to acquire 60 million rounds, but I had been quoted a figure of $40 per 1,000 from Ukrspetz director, and AEY, Inc. needed to do better than that. The problem was AEY, Inc. was depleting the supply of inexpensive Kalashnikov rounds, and the Ukrspetz director knew my options were limited. So, prior to arriving at the Ukrspetz headquarters, I altered a written offer from MFS out of Hungary to show they had an availability of 60 million 7.62 rounds and were ready to ship at a price of $25 per 1,000 rounds, however there were actually only 16 million rounds in the whole country which AEY, Inc. had shipped to Kabul weeks earlier.

The Deputy Director’s office at Ukrspetz was less than impressive. There were piles of paperwork on his desk, the furniture, and the file cabinets. Boxes were stacked in the corner and everything in the office was nicotine-stained. He had a dozen ashtrays scattered around the place - all overflowing with grey ash.

The guy was extremely overweight - shut-in overweight - and squeezed into a shitty polyester suit. When I told him AEY, Inc. was buying them from the Hungarians for $25 per 1,000, he chuckled, “Yes, Mister Diveroli, but they don’t have sixty million rounds. We do; and our price is forty per one thousand,” and he shoved his chubby cigar into his mouth and clinched it between his yellow teeth.

“Really,” I scoffed, and pulled the doctored MFS offer out of my briefcase, and slid it across the director’s desk. “The Hungarians are ready to ship an additional sixty million rounds... Now I’m buying that sixty million from Ukrspetz or MFS - what’s it going to be?”

“Buy it from the Hungarians - we’re not dropping to twenty-five dollars... it’s too low for us. We get five times that selling them to our customers in Africa - sometimes more.” The Ukrainian picked up the Order Form and scrutinized it, looked at the 60 million figure and grumbled, “Sixty million... Where’d they get sixty million?” He sucked on his cigar and blew two streams of grey smoke out of his nostrils - like a cartoon bull. “Maybe we can do thirty per... Maybe.”

“Make it twenty-nine and we’ve got a deal.”

He leaned back in his chair and blew several grey smoke rings into the air; thought about the price for a few seconds and said, “I have to speak with... superior, but I think we can work something out.”

PRIOR TO ARRIVING IN KIEV, I had called Svetlana - the Ukrainian hooker I had met in Bulgaria - and asked her if she wanted to get together while I was in the city. When I got back to the hotel she was waiting for me in the bar, sitting prim and proper on a bar stool, looking statuesque and perfect. She saw me and smiled.

I looked her over from head to toe as I approached, and in my best Borat imitation I said, “Nice, nice, very nice, how much?” Before I realized what I’d done her eyes filled with tears; I couldn’t have hurt her worse if I had kneecapped her with a .45. I immediately grabbed her hand, “No, no, no,” I pled, “I didn’t mean it like that... It was supposed to be funny.” I explained about the movie, which she hadn’t seen, but she did know who the comedian Sasha Baron Cohen was. “It was stupid. I wasn’t thinking, I don’t think of you like that.”

“It’s just...” she sniffled and wiped the tears off her face, “You’re always going to think of me like that.”

That wasn’t true - I genuinely liked this girl and didn’t care what she had to do to survive. It was a hard country. I felt like a real shit. People were staring and it was obvious I had fucked up; just when I thought I’d ruined our night Svetlana looked up at me and said, “Buy me dinner, Efraim,” and she gave me this really great toothy smile.

We ate Norwegian salmon and drank Russian vodka in the hotel’s restaurant. Svetlana told me about the classes she was taking at the University, and she complained about her roommate. We flirted and laughed all through dinner. “No boyfriend?” I asked, and she reluctantly admitted there was someone. “Does he know where you are tonight?”

“No,” she grinned. “He works on an oil rig... He is gone for month, two month.” She sipped her water and said, “He doesn’t know about me... Or you.”

After dessert we went to my room, undressed one another and burned off some calories underneath the sheets. I woke up early the next morning as Svetlana was dressing to leave. “Where you going?”

“I have classes today,” she said, slipping into her bra. I remember glancing at my wallet on a heap of clothes in the chair near the bed; she caught my eye and snapped, “Don’t!”

“I wasn’t...”

“I have money,” she said, zipping up her skirt. “I’m not prostitute in Kiev.”

“I wasn’t gonna offer, I swear.”

She grinned at me, kissed me on the forehead and said, “Thank you for last night,” and left. We emailed a few times after that, but I never saw her again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

FREE PRESS

“A lie gets halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on.” - Sir Winston Churchill

AEY, INC. HAD BEEN HAVING ISSUES with shipping as a result of Silk Way Airlines’ effective monopoly on Azerbaijani airspace. The company was making it virtually impossible for other cargo carriers to fly over Azerbaijan, thereby forcing almost all airfreight coming into Afghanistan to be flown by Silk Way’s aircraft at outrageous fees. It was a shake down.

I had resisted using them for precisely that reason. It wasn’t just the money; it was the fact that they were forcing me to use them. Doudnick was constantly pleading, “Efraim, call Mustafa with Silk Way... Please!”

“Fuck them!” I would yell back. “I’m not contributing to their bullshit!”

But eventually shipping delays were causing us so many problems I didn’t have a choice. On March of 2008, I flew to Turkey to meet with Mustafa Azimov, the director of Silk Way Airlines based in Baku, Azerbaijan.

We met for drinks in the lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel in Istanbul, and I immediately started whittling away at Silk Way’s prices. That’s when I got the call from Eric Schmitt, with the New York Times. He told me the Department of Defense had suspended AEY, Inc. from bidding on further contracts because of the fraud allegations regarding the Afghan contract.

At first I thought he was fucking with me. I couldn’t believe it. I called my office to confirm - and it was true. It was devastating... I felt like my life was over, everything I had was in this company. It was my life. Still, in the torturous months that followed, the indomitably optimistic part of me believed that it was all due to some misunderstanding, and I’d be able to clear up.

I BOARDED THE NEXT AVAILABLE FLIGHT to the states on March 27TH, 2008 - which had a stop at Dulles Airport in Washington, DC before heading to Miami. I was sitting in business class next to this chesty brunette. She was a staffer for some DC senator, a typical Washington assistant type: prim and proper, but attractive in a hot librarian sort of way. I was about to chat her up, put on the charm, when I noticed she was reading an article in the New York Times - ‘Supplier Under Scrutiny on Aging Arms for Afghans.’ I remember feeling a sense of total despair wash over me. I was devastated about the suspension and terrified about what lay ahead. If I’m going to be completely honest, I was also a tad star-struck by seeing my name in the media.

It was a completely slanted article on my fledgling company and its procurement of munitions from the old communist bloc. The Times twisted the facts to make it sound like 100 percent of the ammunition purchased by AEY, Inc. was 40-years-old, corroded, unreliable, and obsolete, and delivered in decomposing packaging. That I worked exclusively with illegal arms traffickers and corrupt public officials to purchase tens of millions of rifle and machinegun cartridges manufactured in China - a possible violation of United States law.

The New York Times accused me of misleading the Army as to the origins of its products, which I had truthfully purchased precisely where I had told Rock Island AEY, Inc. would be procuring the goods. They discussed the current investigations into AEY, Inc. and my personal interactions with the police and my arrests.

They questioned how a 21-year-old with a staff of 20-somethings could land so much vital government work - more than a third of a billion dollars at that time.

The Times quoted half a dozen military officers that - at the time - had gladly signed off on DD250 Material Inspection and Receiving Reports for numerous deliveries under AEY contracts, but were now suddenly unsatisfied with AEY, Inc.’s performance and the quality of the ammunition and the products it had provided. But they didn’t offer an explanation as to why they kept ordering the hardware, equipment, and ammunitions.

Amazingly, not one person stated that the ammunition didn’t work - not one! The whole article was based on one shipment of heavily tarnished, but technically serviceable and thus compliant ammunition, which I was voluntarily in the process of replacing.

When the DC aid turned to the second page she saw my DUI mug shot staring back at her. “Ohmigod,” she asked half horrified, half amused. “Is that you?”

“Yeah,” I sighed. “That was a rough night.”

THE FOLLOWING DAY in Miami, I received an email from Robert Kittel, an official with the U.S. Army’s Suspension and Debarment Office, who officially notified me that AEY, Inc. had been suspended by the Department of Defense:

You are hereby suspended from future contracting with any agency in the executive branch... under Section 9.407 of Federal Acquisition

Regulation... Suspension is a temporary measure... status will continue until I terminate or until you are proposed for debarment.

However, they hadn’t suspended deliveries on existing contracts, which included the Afghanistan contract. So I said, “Fuck it!” and kept on shipping ammunition.

Keep in mind, AEY, Inc. still had multiple multi-million dollar Iraq orders to fill: 25 million 7.62 rounds for nearly $2.9 million, nearly 4,000 AK-47 assault rifles, roughly 500 light machine guns, over 50 60 mm mortar base plates with tripods, 60 sniper rifles with scopes, almost 50 sight unit (M64 series) and military accessories for almost $1.2 million, 30,100 AK-47 assault rifles, over 800 DShK machine guns, almost 50 sniper rifles, and over a dozen small arms tool kits and laser sights for $4.7 million, and 39 million 5.56 rounds for roughly $12.3 million.

AFTER READING THE NEW YORK TIMES article, Heinrich was furious. There were excerpts of my conversation with Trebicka, saying things like, “What goes on in the Albanian Ministry of Defense? Who’s clean? Who’s dirty? Don’t want to know about it,” and “Pinari needs a guy like Henri [Heinrich] in the middle to take care of him and his buddies, which is none of my business. I don’t want to know about that business. I want to know about legitimate business.” Heinrich had a real thing about anonymity and he felt I had jeopardized that.

“You never should have mentioned my name Efraim. Don’t ever use my name.”

“How was I supposed to know the fucking guy [Trebicka] was recording me,” I snapped back. “Keep in mind it was your fuckup, not mine, that got me into this position in the first place.”

“Don’t use my name or Pinari’s name again... or we’ll have a problem.” Now, I’m not saying it was a real threat, but I didn’t like the way that sounded. People have disappeared or had “accidents” for much less.

IN EARLY APRIL, JLM AVIATION, the freight company I’d hired to fly 25 million rounds of 7.62 out of the Czech Republic into Baghdad, was quickly approaching the deadline set by the Army for delivery, and they hadn’t received the flight permits yet.

I called the JLM’s director. “What do you mean you haven’t got ‘em yet?”

“We’re working on it... these things take time.”

“Well you’re gonna have to fly without them.” Sometimes freight carriers would actually fly over countries without obtaining the flight permit, depending on the country. But JLM refused. I called the contracting officer I was dealing with in Iraq - a guy I had been really friendly with - and asked him for an extension. “I just need a couple’a weeks...”

“Absolutely not,” said the Army rep. “You have ten days.”

I had a legitimate claim for an extension, but after the New York Times’ article the Army was looking for an excuse to suspend AEY, Inc.’s contract, and raising the bar. I begged and pleaded: “Everyone gets extensions for flight permits... You know that.”

“Not you, Diveroli. Not anymore,” said the contracting officer.

A couple of days before the contract deadline, JLM got the permit, and I really thought we were going to make it. Then we found out that the Czech Republic’s Pardubice Airport was closed for maintenance for a week. I couldn’t fucking believe it! AEY, Inc. missed the contractual deadline by a couple of days and the Army didn’t want to hear any excuses. They used the missed deadline to cancel the contract - all of my remaining contracts, simultaneously.

ON APRIL 16TH OF 2008, the Army’s Suspension and Debarment Office sent me a Show Cause letter asking AEY, Inc. to dispute suspension. In a response submitted by my attorney, Claude Goddard, we argued that the contract should be reinstated:

AEY Accurately Represented the Source of Chinese-Manufactured Ammunition. A substantial amount of ammunition delivered under Task Order 2 was originally manufactured in China in the early 1960s. This ammunition was provided by China to the government of Albania in the early 1960s, and... sold by the Ministry of Defense of Albania, MEICO Military Export and Import Company (MEICO), to AEY. The sale and purchase of this ammunition involved AEY, and MEICO. No Communist Chinese Military Company or any other PRC entity or person was involved in the transaction, directly or indirectly, and no funds were remitted to any such Communist Chinese entity or person.

[T]he point of origin for all such ammunition was appropriately shown as Albania, and appropriate export licenses were obtained from the Albanian government. The CoC form does not require the identification of either the original manufacturer of the ammunition or its place of manufacture. The CoCs do have a line entry for “Manufacturer (point of origin).” This line entry, however, requests information related to the originating shipping point (point of origin) of the ammunition. The same information shown in this entry is used in preparation of End User Certificates (EUCs) and directly corresponds to the Delivery Verification Certificate (DVC) issued by the U.S. Army Sustainment Command; Rock Island… the CoCs for the Albanian shipments accurately reflected the point of origin for the Chinese-manufactured ammunition as Albania.

AEY Did Not Violate DFARS 252.225-7707... “Prohibition on Acquisition of United States Munitions List Items from Communist Chinese Military Companies.” ... the purpose of the regulation is to prohibit DoD from acquiring munitions items “through a contract or subcontract with a Communist Chinese military company.”... AEY, [acquired the Chinese-manufactured ammunition] through a contract with MEICO of Albania. The ammunition was originally manufactured in China and was furnished to the Government of Albania in the early 1960s about 40 years before the provision of DFARS 252.225-7007 came into effect.

AEY, Inc. had not committed fraud by stating the shipments “point of origin” was Albania, and the Army had no evidence that AEY, Inc. had purchased the Chinese ammunition “directly or indirectly, from a Communist Chinese Military Company” or that it had been acquired “through a contract or subcontract with a Communist Chinese Military Company.” Unfortunately my attorney didn’t offer to have the issue resolved by allowing AEY, Inc. to simply replace the “nonconforming” Chinese ammo with conforming ammunition, just in case they disagreed with our argument - that’s what screwed me. Making the argument would have made it nearly impossible for the Army to move forward with the termination of my contract based on breach when AEY, Inc. was offering to remedy the breach at no cost. Besides, the Army couldn’t actually have allowed AEY, Inc. to replace the ammunition, because they had already used it, despite their knowledge of its origin!

I WAS DOING EVERYTHING I COULD DO to quell the avalanche of problems coming down on me because of the suspension - contacting suppliers and manufacturers to hold product and extend deadlines.

IN LATE APRIL of 2008, Dejan and I boarded a plane to Kuala Lumpur’s Malaysia Defense Service Asian Exhibition & Conference. Malaysia is in Southeast Asia, and the whole coastal country is covered by dense tropical rain forests - I’d never seen anyplace that green. The capital is a combination of bamboo huts and modern skyscrapers, heavily populated by Malays and Chinese.

The Malaysia Defense Service Asian Exhibition and Conference was the Asian equivalent of Paris’ Eurosatory defense show. There were suppliers, manufacturers and distributors from Europe to Africa, displaying standard military products to the latest high-tech surveillance gadgets. Beautiful Malaysian waitresses were walking around in skimpy sarong skirts and jackets, serving meat and fish skewers of satay.

We met up with Georgi at Arcus’ booth; they had inert samples of GP25 and GP30 grenades along with OG-7V fragmentation grenades and 82 mm mortars. I told Georgi that I appreciated him and his father working with me, and that my attorney would have everything worked out within a few days. “A week tops,” I said. “That Times article has everyone covering their asses, but that’s not enough to cancel the contract.” Especially, when there was no legal basis to do so.

“Efraim, Arcus and AEY, Inc. are partners, but you and I are friends,” he said. “I’m praying for you... my father’s praying for you.” Damn right they were praying for me. AEY, Inc. was purchasing roughly $5 million a month in munitions from Arcus, and looking to do more. They had a vested interest in my survival. Their warehouse was packed with GP30 grenades and 7.62 rounds AEY, Inc. had bought and ready to ship. “We are friends.”

Within weeks my good friends at Arcus would begin making excuses to return my multiple multimillion-dollar deposits.

That night Dejan and I were drinking at a Hookah bar near our hotel, when two Malaysian women approached us. Rosie Something was five foot, six inches and 120 pounds with dark Asian features and a tight little body. I glanced sideways at Dejan and hissed, “Dibs.” Her friend looked good, but in comparison to Rosie she was a dog. They both spoke English. We sipped Singapore slings, just like in the movie Fear and Loathing, and I found out Rosie was college educated and worked as a senior financial advisor at a local bank.

We danced for a couple hours and by the end of the night we ended up in my hotel room raiding the mini bar. Rosie and I were making out on the bed while Dejan and his girl were screwing around on the couch. Things were heating up and I whispered, “Let’s get rid of them.”

“What,” she said, unbuttoning my shirt, “you’ve never had sex in front of your friend before?” She climbed on top of me, pulled her top off and unbuttoned her bra. I quickly finished unbuttoning my shirt while Rosie slid out of her skirt and panties.

A minute later when Dejan turned to see what all the heavy breathing was about; Rosie was rhythmically riding me and moaning something in Bahasa Malaysian. She had beautiful bronze skin and perfect petite breasts.

“That’s crazy, Efraim,” laughed Dejan. “Crazy.”

Over the next couple of days Rosie and I hung out with each other on and off while I tried to put together a deal with SME Ordinance. I wanted to import 5.56 and 7.62 NATO rounds for the U.S. commercial market. The deal never came together, but Rosie was worth the trip.

The day we were supposed to leave for Jordan, I called my aunt Julie and told her I was extending my trip three days.

“But... you have meetings,” she said.

“Push ‘em back. I’m in the middle of something here.” I couldn’t pull myself away. After I left, Rosie and I emailed for a while, but it faded out.

WHEN DEJAN AND I EVENTUALLY GOT TO AMMAN, THE CAPITAL OF JORDAN, we met with Aref Rteameh, a Senator with the National Assembly, who owned JLM Aviation - the airfreight company that got AEY, Inc.’s Iraq contracts cancelled. Jordan is an Arab kingdom on the East Bank in the heart of the Middle East. We could see Israel from the restaurant where we met Aref - one of those glass and aluminum monstrosities at the airport. Microwave TV dinners and cheap Champagne.

I needed Aref to refund the payment AEY, Inc. had made to his company. “You missed the deadline and they cancelled my contract... It’s pretty simple.”

“Yes, yes, but we’re ready to deliver now,” he said with an air of superiority, as if that made everything better.

“It’s too late for that,” I growled. “The Army cancelled the contract, Aref... I need my money back.”

“Yes, I called a... contact in Iraq, with the U.S. Army, he said he could help, if it were not for the political pressure on your company,” Aref sighed. “You need to call the Army, speak to whoever you deal with... have them let you complete the contract,” he rubbed his index finger and thumb together in the universal sign of money. “I’m sure you know who to call,” he said, and gave me a wink.

“This is the United States Government; it doesn’t work like that in the states.”

Aref laughed - not a forced laugh, but an uncontrollable, gut-wrenching laugh. “Oh Mister Diveroli, trust me, America is as corrupt a government as anyplace on the planet... they just package it better. I’ve been dealing with contract officers in Iraq and U.S. officials for over four years now. It’s all corrupt.” I remember thinking, this isn’t Jordan jackass, and the U.S. plays it straight. What a fool I was.

“Well, not the people I deal with.” Aref never did give my deposit back, and I eventually was forced to sue him and his U.S. agent - the litigation is still pending.

WE GOT TO BUDAPEST on May 23rd of 2008. We met with Igor Something Russian, one of the partners in Somoskoi at a sushi bar around the corner from our hotel. “Everything is going to be okay. My attorney’s got it under control.”

He nodded his understanding and shoved a rice and tuna roll in his mouth. “You have to get dis contract back.”

“I’m working on it,” I said. Somoskoi, through their contact, the Hungarian Air Force Colonel, had a military depot filled with S-5 and S-8 rockets, 82 mm and 120 mm mortars waiting to be shipped to Afghanistan. “But if it doesn’t happen I’m gonna need AEY, Inc.’s deposit back.”

Igor didn’t even acknowledge the request. “You must get dis contract back... Very important.”

It was my understanding that he and the other partners of Somoskoi were getting the Hungarian munitions for next to nothing; therefore what AEY, Inc. was paying for them was mostly profit, and I could see the greed in his eyes. I knew the feeling, and I knew he couldn’t bring himself to even think about the possibility of it not happening. He wouldn’t even acknowledge that the contract might not get reinstated. “Just hold ‘em for me, Igor... I’ll know something in a couple’a days.”

When I got back to the hotel, I opened my computer... and there it was, an email from Kim Jones notifying me that the Army was terminating the Afghan contract.

This letter constitutes the final decision of the Contracting Officer regarding the Termination for Default of Contract W52P1J-07-D-0004... failure to deliver items in conformance with the terms and conditions of the contract... Prohibition on Acquisition of United States Munitions List Items from Communist Chinese Military Companies is not excusable.

Not that I had expected anything less, but I was still shocked by the finality of it. I genuinely felt I hadn’t done anything wrong, and what little I might have done, certainly, wasn’t done maliciously.

MY FLIGHT ARRIVED IN MIAMI around 2:00 am. I’d had half a dozen mini-vodkas on the plane coupled with some Ambien, and a huge joint the minute I got in the car. I could barely get my keys in the front door.

I dropped my luggage at the door and climbed into bed with Jenna. She rolled toward me and whispered, “I’m moving in with Elyse [one of Jenna’s friends]; it’s not working anymore... we need a break.” She still wanted to date, but she just couldn’t live with me.

I immediately felt sick to my stomach. It might have been the alcohol and weed, but I have my doubts. Jenna had been complaining for months about my hours, the travelling, and the drugs. She wanted me to be the same shaggy-haired stoner kid she had fallen in love with, making a couple million a year working out of her apartment. But things had changed. She needed me to be around more, and I couldn’t be that guy - not anymore. Things had gotten way too complicated. I was in over my head and struggling to keep it all together.

She packed up all her stuff the following morning, and when I got home she was gone. I was sick about it. Jenna was the only person I had ever truly been in love with. I was losing her and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

A COUPLE WEEKS AFTER JENNA MOVED OUT, I was at the office, and I had been a little depressed about her leaving. We were still dating - the serial breakups never seemed to end - but this time felt different. I think she was even dating other people by this point; not that I had ever stopped. But it still bothered me.

To cheer me up, Boz Kramer, one of my salesmen asked if I wanted to go out with him and his girlfriend - this knockout from Belarus. “She’s got a friend; we want you to meet... a Russian chick, here on a student visa.”

I learned back and raised my brow, “Well?”

“She’s hot.”

WE ALL MET AT CLUB MANSION around ten o’clock, and Boz was right, she was “hot.” Julia Amasova was from Itzcheusk, Russia, the city where Russia’s AK-47 assault rifles are manufactured. She was five foot eight inches and 125 pounds with golden blonde hair, snow-white skin and the slightly Asian features of a Northern Russian. The club was a madhouse; packed with loud music and silver-spoon party kids, dancing to Paul Van Dyk and Ferry Corsten.

When Boz introduced me to Julia, she said, with a very sexy Russian accent, “I’m from Kalashnikov’s city.” The chemistry between us was instantaneous, and I knew she was coming home with me that night. I started buying rounds of vodka tonic and tequila for the four of us, and she could really put it down. “You want something stronger?” I asked. “Do you party?”

Her face lit up, “You have any coke?”

We did several lines in the restroom and had a few more shots at the bar. We were dancing and Julia yelled over Armin Van Buuren’s Burn with Desire blaring, “Boz says you’re an arms dealer...” and unlike Jenna, Julia thought, “That is so cool.”

Our faces were only inches apart and the sexual tension was so obvious I said, “I want to kiss you.”

“So kiss me.” I melted into her soft sweet lips, right on the hardwood floor, surrounded by dozens of thrashing dancers.

“Let’s get outta here,” I said, and 15 minutes later we were in my apartment’s living room, frantically pulling each other’s clothes off; yanking at zippers and popping buttons in an alcohol and cocaine charged sexual frenzy. We fell onto the couch did it right there - couldn’t even make it to the bedroom.

By the time the sun came up Julia had established that she could out-snort me, out-drink me, and out-fuck me. I liked her, but I didn’t like like her, if that makes sense.

IT TURNED OUT JULIA had paid $10,000 for a sham marriage to a Cuban guy. We were in her apartment when she told me about it. “I have papers... I’m a U.S. citizen,” she said proudly. Julia worked at a name-brand clothing store on South Beach, and the whole sham marriage thing had been arranged by her Lebanese boss. “Very real... Immigration is no fool; you have to know what you’re doing. I had a wedding and everything.”

“No way,” I laughed. Okay, I liked this girl more and more by the minute.

She pulled out a photo album and started pointing to her wedding photos, “Dis is the church and... dis is the husband,” she pointed to an unattractive dark-haired guy in a black tuxedo. Everyone was smiling and laughing - at Immigration I guessed. “We are very much in love, Efraim... We’ve never had sex and he lives in North Carolina,” Julia laughed. “Dis is perfect marriage for me.”

WHEN MY MOTHER FOUND OUT I was dating Julia I got “the call” I was dreading. “Why Efraim!? Why!?” she cried. “Why!? The Chinese whore wasn’t enough, you had to go out and get a Russian one... Why can’t you just find a nice Jewish girl?”

“Mom, I’m not getting married, I’m just dating her,” I said. As much as I laughed off my mother’s disappointment, it sometimes got to be too much. By this point even I knew I was a borderline hard-core semi-functioning alcoholic and drug addict. “Let’s be honest here, mom, what nice Jewish girl is gonna date me... I’m probably going to prison! Besides, nice Jewish girls don’t do the kinda things I’m interested in - for sure, not before marriage.”

“So you’re looking for whores? You date whores?” Occasionally.

WHEN JENNA FOUND OUT ABOUT THE RUSSIAN, she wanted to get back together immediately - started sleeping over almost every night and calling all the time. I was sleeping with both of them, but Jenna eventually said, “Julia’s gotta go.”

I guess I didn’t realize how much Julia liked me, because she didn’t take it well. She cried and cried, started coming by the office and calling all the time. As a result Jenna started questioning, “Have you even told her it’s over?” I finally had to put Julia on speakerphone so Jenna could hear the conversation.

“What did I do, Efraim?” cried Julia out of the speaker, “I thought you had a good time with me... liked me.” It was a horrible conversation.

“It’s not you, Julia. I do like you, but I got back together with my girlfriend...” I remember Jenna giving me this look that said you need to be a little more specific. “And I love her very much... I just can’t see you anymore. I’m sorry.”

That satisfied Jenna, but Julia wasn’t taking no for an answer. She was always in the wings waiting for me, and we never stopped sleeping together. Hotel rooms, my office or her apartment; this chick was hooked on me like I was hooked on Jenna.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

THE TICKING

“History suggests that capitalism is a necessary condition for political freedom.” - Milton Friedman

AFTER THE NEW YORK TIMES ARTICLE, Chairman Henry A. Waxman (D-CA) initiated an investigation by the Congressional Committee on Oversight and Government Reform into AEY, Inc. I received multiple subpoenas for all of my records, and everyone I knew was being interviewed by the Assistant U.S. Attorneys’ Office and the DCIS and ICE agents assigned to my case. Virtually everyone was cooperating against me: my childhood friends - now employees - with the exception of my Operations Manager, Ronald Ledain Didier... he was the last one to jump ship and even then he didn’t try to sink me.

SHAPIRO SPOKE WITH THE ASSISTANT U.S. ATTORNEY, Eloisa Fernandez, who laid out the government’s case for him. “They admitted purchasing the Chinese ammunition wasn’t a crime, but merely a breach of your Army contract,” said Shapiro, “however they feel misrepresenting and concealing the origins of the manufacturer on the COCs (Certificate of Conformance) was a crime.”

“Are you fucking with me?” I snapped, when he told me that. “Concealing the fact that I wasn’t committing a crime, makes it a crime?”

“Exactly,” responded Shapiro. “Essentially, they’re manufacturing a case against you... Packouz, Podrizki, and half a dozen of your ex-employees are willing to testify that you instructed them to conceal the fact that the ammo was Chinese, and that you intentionally made false statements on the COC (Certificate of Conformance) forms in order to get the Army to pay you monies for which you weren’t entitled.”

“That’s total bullshit! Besides, buying it wasn’t illegal!”

“Yes, but the government’s position is that the ammo falls under the prohibition, therefore your attempts to conceal the origin of the ammo and your misrepresentation on the COC forms amounts to fraud and material false statements... therefore you misled the government.”

The government was twisting the conspiracy statutes to make what I had done meet the definition of conspiracy. I had once heard one of my Eastern European contacts say, the old Soviet Union’s Committee on State Security’s (the KGB) policy was, give me a crime and I’ll fit it with a man; it seemed the United States’ Department of Justice’s policy was, give me a man and I’ll fit him with a crime. “It’s like they’re making it up as they go along.”

“It’s the government, Efraim... they do that, that’s how they win ninety-eight percent of the time. It’s not by accident. Trust me.”

My mother had been hounding me about hiring this hotshot attorney Howard Srebnick with Black, Srebnick, Kornspan, and Stumpf. Apparently, Srebnick had gotten off a jeweler that went to our - my mother’s - synagogue on money laundering charges. “What about bringing in a big gun like Srebnick or Black?” Roy Black runs a world-renowned federal criminal defense law firm out of downtown Miami.

“At this point,” said Shapiro, “it might be a good idea. Black’s law firm... if anyone can stop this, it’s them.”

SHAPIRO WORKED OUT THE DETAILS, made a couple of calls to Srebnick - they were friends - and set up a couple meetings. I met Howard Srebnick at the downtown Miami offices of Black, Srebnick, Kornspan, and Stumpf. We were in the conference room. It was small but elegant, in an old-world European sort of way: rustic leather and dark wood, with a view of the city. Srebnick was in his early 40s, good-looking with brown shaggy hair, tall, slender, and cocky - the typical GQ type lawyer you see on Law & Order.

Shapiro said, “We’re hoping to head off the indictment or get it dismissed, if it comes.”

“There’s not much here,” agreed Srebnick. “I think it’s possible we can put the brakes on this.” I later heard this was a common tactic they used, as since then I’ve met several ex-clients of Black’s law firm, and it seems we all got the same spiel. They suggest the client’s case is trial-worthy and winnable, saying something like, “I definitely think we can stop it from happening” - whether they actually believe that or not, who knows? Then they get the big upfront non-refundable retainer money. “We’re each going to need a two hundred and fifty thousand dollar pre-indictment fee, so we can get to work on stopping this thing... But if you are indicted - we’ll need an additional fee for trial.”

“Just so we’re clear here,” I said. “I haven’t done anything illegal... and if I’m indicted I’m going to trial?”

“Hopefully it won’t come to that,” said Srebnick. “Even if you’re indicted I believe we can squash this with a motion to dismiss.”

I hired them in May of 2008 for $250,000. Apparently, I got off easy - one guy I’ve met since then said he paid them $13 million, another paid over a million, and yet another forked out over $300,000 pre-indictment and was quickly dropped by the firm once the government froze his assets and he no longer could afford subsequent payments. All of them received lengthy prison sentences between 13 and 25 years. Shapiro sat there like a bobble-head doll nodding the whole time.

Srebnick drafted a “white paper” letter, which is essentially a last ditch effort to convince the government not to indict for one reason or another… or a roadmap to an indictment and a heads-up to the government about what our defenses will be, so they could do their very best to get around them, depending on how you look at it. They spelled out AEY, Inc.’s position regarding the facts. Mainly that AEY, INC.’s actions and mine didn’t actually violate any federal law; therefore any indictment would be a fruitless waste of government judicial time and resources.

THE U.S. ATTORNEY CONVENED A FEDERAL GRAND JURY in early June of 2008 and started subpoenaing my employees and family members to testify: Daniel Doudnick, Levey Meyer, Ronald Ledain Didier, my aunt Julie Diveroli, and my father Michael Diveroli. The funny thing is, they only questioned my father to get him on record saying he had nothing to do with AEY, Inc.; essentially they wanted to clear him of any involvement. The U.S. Attorney’s fear was that some parents get on the stand during their children’s trials and say, “It was all me,” swearing their child had done nothing wrong - trying to spare their children prison time.

Well, the U.S. Attorney had nothing to worry about; my father and I didn’t have that type of relationship, besides he wasn’t the type of guy to fall on his sword - for me, or anyone.

IN LATE JUNE, Srebnick and Shapiro contacted the Assistant U.S. Attorney and got her to agree that if I was indicted, the U.S. Attorney’s Office would allow me to self-surrender - you can’t trust the government.

ON JUNE 19TH OF 2008, I was leaving Shapiro’s office, talking on my cell phone ordering sushi for Jenna and me; I climbed into my Benz and hit the ignition button. The engine purred to life, and that’s when I heard the screeching tires of several black SUV’s skidding to a stop behind my car. I spun around to see a dozen DCIS and ICE agents approaching - weapons raised high. As stunned as I was to see them, I remember immediately identifying the weapons they were pointing at me - they had Steyr AUG automatic rifles, and H&K MP-5 and UMP sub-machine guns - nice pieces.

“Outta the vehicle! Get outta the vehicle!” screamed one of the agents pointing a full-size H&K .40 cal USP pistol. “Put your hands on your head!”

I was yanked out of my sedan, handcuffed, and asked if I had any weapons. “No sir,” I replied.

The agents told me, “You’re under arrest, Mister Diveroli; we’re taking you to the Hotel” - which is what they call the Federal Detention Center in Miami.

I remember saying, “Okay so... I won’t be having sushi tonight, is that it?”

“Yeah,” he laughed, “no sushi for you tonight.”

I later found out that Ralph Merrill, Alex Podrizki, David Packouz, and AEY, Inc. had been indicted that morning as well. Packouz had told the Assistant U.S. Attorney on my case that I always had a weapon and that I planned to flee the country if I was indicted - that’s why they came in hard and fast.

I WAS TAKEN TO THE FEDERAL DETENTION CENTER in Miami, fingerprinted and photographed. I swapped out my Versace jeans and Burberry shirt and suit jacket for a pair of jailhouse khaki pants and a tan shirt. They handcuffed me to a steel loop on the bench I was sitting on. While I was waiting to be brought to my cell, I read the inmate handbook - which was more like a pamphlet - and it said that you were allowed to smoke in the unit’s recreation areas. It had been three hours since I’d had a cigarette, and I asked this overweight female correctional officer with a bad wig and a gold canine, “How long till they move me upstairs? I really need a cigarette.”

She saw me holding the handbook and snickered, “Shit, we stopped allowing the inmates to smoke years ago, they just ain’t never changed the handbook.” She smiled and that’s when I noticed the gold tooth. “You ain’t gonna have another cigarette for a long time sugar.”

I spent that night in the SHU (Special Housing Unit) - ”Special” is code for solitary confinement - going through nicotine, alcohol, and cocaine withdrawals.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I was walked into court for my bond hearing, wearing my rumpled prison garbs, a pair of handcuffs and ankle shackles. Shapiro and Srebnick were waiting for me at the defense table. Packouz and Podrizki were already in the courtroom, wearing suits; they were given a signature bond because they were cooperating with the government against me.

Srebnick leaned into me and said, “We worked out your bond with the Assistant U.S. Attorney...” I had to surrender my passport and agree not to leave the Southern District of Florida. Not a problem. Because I had told my probation officer I was taking medication for depression and they knew about my DUI, I was ordered to see a court appointed psychiatrist for mental health and substance abuse counseling. Not a problem. “They’re going to recommend an individual bond of one million for you and another one million dollar corporate bond... for AEY, Inc.”

“Fuck,” I grumbled. “Two million dollars?”

“It’s that or you stay in the detention center.” I remember turning around and seeing my father in the gallery, looking embarrassed and uncomfortable. He hadn’t even wanted to come, but my mother - his ex-wife - was in Israel visiting family and working with this charity she raises money for, Jewish orphans or something. She couldn’t get back in time, so she badgered him into being there, telling my dad that one of them needed to be there for me. I wished it had been her. I would have done anything at that moment to see her face. “You’re already out on state bond for the DUI...” griped Srebnick. “It’s the best we could do.”

“I’ll pay it, just get me outta here.” I needed a cigarette and a shot of... anything.

The judge looked down from the bench and said, “I’ll go along with the bond conditions.” He slammed his gavel on the bench and I was released a few hours later.

Marko Cerenko, an attorney I had hired as corporate counsel, picked me up. Cerenko was in his late 20s, tall and athletic. I met him through my cousin Joe. He wasn’t exactly a slick talker or a hustler, but he seemed sharp enough and he worked relatively cheap. The best thing I can say about him is he had a really great head of hair.

Cerenko showed up at the Federal Courthouse with a suit for me to change into because there was press outside. I wanted out of there so bad I said, “Fuck the suit,” and walked out of the Courthouse in my prison issue Khakis.

There were several reporters standing around the front doors of the courthouse waiting for us, and they started screaming, “Mister Diveroli! Mister Diveroli, can we get a comment?” and “Just one question!”

“No comment,” said Cerenko. “No comment.” We pushed through them and jumped into Cerenko’s Black Range Rover. He drove me home to Jenna. She had her own apartment, but was still spending most nights at my place. We spent the night eating sushi and talking about what the future held. I still believed I hadn’t committed a federal crime, but the possibilities weren’t looking good.

THE NEXT MORNING, Cerenko drove me to meet Shapiro and Srebnick at the Intercontinental Hotel - next-door to the offices of Black, Srebnick, Kornspan and Stumpf. They said, “This is beatable,” and “The government doesn’t have a strong case here. If we need to go to trial, we have plenty to argue to a jury, but that shouldn’t even be necessary... we can get this thing dismissed.”

After we finished eating, we went up to Srebnick’s office and met with Roy Black. He was a thin distinguished lawyer type in his early 60s, with glasses and grey brownish hair. I’ll never forget when Black walked in and said, “If you’re looking to negotiate a plea... you’ve got the wrong law firm, we’re trial attorneys.” He took a seat at the cramped conference table and looked me straight in the face, “We beat the government.” And then they asked for $800,000 and over $1 million if we needed to proceed to trial.

“That’s uh... That’s a pretty big fee.”

“Well there’s going to be a lot of media attention on this case and obviously the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District, Alexander Acosta, has shown an interest... As a matter of fact,” said Black, “we may need to move for a change of venue; Acosta’s already trying to taint the potential jury pool in Miami. He said you put the troops in harm’s way in his press release.” He showed it to me:

Defense contractors are responsible for the effectiveness and safety of munitions they provide to our troops and allies. When these contractors intentionally cut corners to line their own pockets, they risk the safety and lives of our men and women in uniform. Such callousness and disregard for the lives of our soldiers and our allies will not be tolerated, and will be vigorously prosecuted.

“Clearly,” said Black, “that’s not true, as it is beyond dispute that all the ammunition in question works.”

“Absolutely,” I said, “there hasn’t been one report of a Chinese manufactured round not going off... Not one.” God knows the Army couldn’t get enough of them.

Before Black walked out of the meeting he said, “I’ll be working closely with Shapiro and Srebnick on this... We still believe we’ll be able to get the indictment dismissed.” I never saw him again, and I have my doubts whether he ever worked one second on my case.

ON THE WAY HOME I called my mother and complained about the attorneys’ fee. She begged me to hire them, saying, “Rabbi Lipskar and everybody in the [Jewish] community says they’re the best.” She said, “Don’t play with your freedom.”

“These attorneys from the community want nearly two million dollars ma!”

“They got Raffie Aduth (the jeweler from the Bal Harbour Shul) off. Pay ‘em for God sake; this is your life!” I hired them the following day and wired the $1,550,000. Shapiro got $600,000, Srebnick got $800,000 and they brought in an attorney named Richard Straffer to do the actual legal writing work on my case; he got $150,000. I felt like I’d been scammed.

JENNA WAS WAITING AT MY APARTMENT when I got home. I told her what the attorneys had said - that the case was winnable - and Jenna started to cry, “I’m sure they’re right... but if they’re not, I’ll be here for you Bear.” She hugged me. “I love you so much... We’ll get through this together.”

She said all the right things, but they sounded like canned disingenuous responses she had seen in a movie or something - I doubt she realized it. Jenna had had enough - my work schedule, the search warrant, the media attention, the arrests, the drugs... even the other women - whether she knew about all of them or not - had taken a toll on our relationship. I can’t blame her for distancing herself. It wasn’t cute anymore; it was just over.

The following morning Jenna was getting dressed for work, and she glanced at the diamond crusted Michelle watch I had bought her. “Efraim,” she called out from the bathroom, “come look at this...” I climbed out of bed to see what she was talking about. Her watch had frozen. Jenna looked up at me and said, “It just stopped ticking.”

Just like our relationship, I thought. It just stopped working... We kept sleeping with each other for a few more weeks, but that was the moment I knew it was over. Jenna started slowly removing her stuff until there was no sign she had ever been there.

I started seeing Julia - the Russian girl - again, and this time when Jenna found out, she didn’t come running back.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

THE LOONEY-BIN, INFORMANTS, AND SPIES

“Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.” - Benjamin Franklin

I STARTED FEELING LIKE I DIDN’T HAVE A PURPOSE in life. I began gambling at the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino all the time. Poor Dejan tried to stop me on dozens of occasions. He would plead with me not to go, but I didn’t listen. I would call him almost every night about seven or eight o’clock and say, “I’m going to the Hard Rock... you comin’?”

“No!” he would say, defiantly. “You mother fuck! You’re wasting your money. I can’t watch you do dis anymore. I won’t go.”

“Yeah?” I would ask, feigning shock, like I hadn’t heard it all before. “Suit yourself, I’m goin’...” Five or ten minutes later he would call back and ask if I had left yet. “I’m walking out the door right now,” I would tell him. “You coming?”

“Fine,” he would gripe. “I meet you there.” Dejan would stand behind me with his arms folded like a bodyguard and wince every time I lost $500 or $1,000 on a hand. I remember one night I lost roughly $20,000 - swear to God, I thought he was going to cry. On average I was losing between five and ten grand a night, but I couldn’t stop. I needed the rush.

I was a high roller, my suites and drinks were comped, and I was sleeping with two cocktail waitresses and hanging around the bar getting wasted with Hard Rock employees after work. I was getting more and more reckless and everyone could see it, but no one could stop it.

My mother was regularly leaving ten- and fifteen-minute messages on my cell phone, “You’re ruining your life! You’re killing yourself...” she said repeatedly. “You need to go to Temple! Come back to God and religion! Don’t forget your roots...” Eventually I just stopped checking my voice mail.

BY AUGUST OF 2008, my drug use had become all-consuming. I was suffering from depression and mood swings, drinking, swallowing and snorting a toxic cocktail of prescription and illegal drugs. I was spiraling toward the abyss.

One morning I woke up in an especially dark mood. I had been out all night partying at Studio Karaoke bar with my childhood friend, Jon Berney, drinking shot after shot of vodka and tequila while snorting coke. I don’t want to say I was suicidal, but I was definitely weighing my options. I knew the thoughts I was having weren’t rational, but I also couldn’t stop having them. So I called my aunt Julie and asked her to drive me to Mount Sinai Hospital. They took urine at the Emergency Room, which was positive for cocaine amongst other substances. Big surprise. An hour later, I was seen by a female doctor. After a brief exam she asked me, “Are you thinking about hurting yourself Mister Diveroli?” while looking over my test results.

“I’m just feeling really...” I knew enough not to use the word suicidal, “hopeless... Life is getting to be too much.”

“Well it beats the alternative.”

“How do you know?” I sighed and glanced at her. “Seriously, are you sure about that, doc?”

She told me they needed to admit me to the hospital overnight, “To keep an eye on you.” Then the doctor looked at the nurse and instructed her to give me a strong dose of Adovan. When the nurse pushed the plunger down on the syringe - flooding my vein with Adovan - I took a long cleansing breath and everything melted away.

“Now that feels better,” said the nurse, as I slipped into an incredibly blissful state of semi-consciousness, “doesn’t it?”

I WOKE UP A DAY LATER strapped down, with my mother sitting next to the bed. She told me I had tried to leave, had become belligerent and lashed out at the staff. I didn’t remember any of it. “They Baker Acted you,” she admitted. The Baker Act is a Florida law that allows for involuntary commitment of an individual that is deemed to be a danger to themselves or others. “It was probably for the best Efraim.”

She begged me to get treatment for my addiction. “Please,” she pled, “you need help... You’re killing yourself with all the drugs and alcohol.” I shook my head, and she took a deep breath and said, “I could have you Marchman Acted.” The Marchman Act is the equivalent of the Baker Act for individuals endangering themselves through substance abuse, forcing them into long-term residential treatment as opposed to short-term hospitalization. Based on my current forced hospitalization, I thought she might have a chance. “I’d rather it be voluntary.”

“For how long?”

“I think a few months, maybe even six months would do you some…”

“Six months!” I snapped. “No, no, no...” We went back and forth for a while and I got her to agree to 28 days of drug treatment at a residential facility of my choice. The doctor at Mount Sinai discharged me on September 5th of 2008.

A FEW DAYS LATER on September 10th of 2008, I admitted myself to The Holistic Health Center. It was like the Ritz-Carlton of rehabs: spacious grounds with manicured gardens. Pools, spas, and mud baths. Massage and acupuncture. It was a 28-day program that cost me $21,000. As nice as it was there was one problem - the staff was insisting I couldn’t get drunk on the premises and I couldn’t leave to get high, not to mention we were prohibited from being intimate with members of the opposite sex… and there were some cuties there too. It was a deal breaker. I called my aunt Julie and told her, “Come pick me up.”

“From the rehab?” she said, unsure of what to do. “Aw, I don’t know, Efraim. Maybe you…”

“Now!!” I screamed into the phone; she was there within ten minutes. When I checked out, I specifically told the staff, “I’m a grown man, an adult... Don’t call my mother.” I walked out five days into Holistic Health Center’s 28-day program - and yes, they called my mom immediately after I left the facility. Unfuckingbelievable!

MY MOTHER WAS FURIOUS with me. “Five days!” she yelled, when I eventually answered her call. “If you don’t check back in there I swear to God Almighty I’m going to Marchman Act you.”

“Listen,” I told her, “I think the five days did me some good... give me a chance. I’m feeling much better, mom.” I’m still not sure how she bought it, but for some reason my mother said she would give me a chance to prove I had cleaned up my act. I think I made it a week before someone told her they had seen me drunk and coked up at a club on South Beach.

This time she insisted I admit myself to Torah and Twelve Steps, a residential program. It was run out of a grimy residential house in a crummy neighborhood, by Rabbi Israel Burns. He had filled the place with bunk beds and mixed the Torah’s teachings with AA’s twelve steps. It felt like kind of a scam, but my mother wouldn’t let up about it.

I walked in on September 18th, took a good look around at the conditions, and told the Rabbi, “I don’t want to take your residential program, but I’m willing to work something out with you.” I convinced him to allow me to attend three AA meetings per week and then have a private counseling session directly afterward with the Rabbi. “And of course, I’ll pay full price.” Needless to say, he went for it.

I attended my North Miami Beach AA meetings with a 12-ounce cup of Patron Silver in a Starbucks coffee cup. Not a shot of vodka in a coffee cup - I’d walk in with a full cup of liquor - no orange juice, no cranberry juice, no Red Bull. Keep in mind AA meetings are supposed to be sacred places of acceptance and honesty, and I’m dozing off and slurring my words. The actual recovering alcoholics that suspected I was drunk or getting there would stare and shake their heads, but I just ignored them and kept drinking.

I convinced the Rabbi to sign off on my treatment about three weeks later - October 8th of 2008. I called my mother and said, “God and Bill W. cured me; I’m all better now... I’ve got a letter from Rabbi Burns and everything. It’s all official.”

IN EARLY OCTOBER of 2008, Kosta Trebicka blew his last whistle. After testifying at the Congressional hearings and the Albanian criminal inquiries of Yilli Pinari, the director of MEICO, the Defense Minister, Fatmir Mediu, and Prime Minister Sali Berisha, among others, Trebicka had an “accident” while waiting to testify at the trials of Pinari, Mediu, Berisha, and quite possibly myself.

Trebicka somehow managed to flip his vehicle while driving on a flat deserted paved road, throwing him out of the car. It turned out that a police friend of Berisha - the ex-Prime Minster by this point - conducted the investigation and signed off on the police and autopsy reports. Apparently, it doesn’t pay to testify against corrupt Albanian officials with known ties to organized crime, who would’ve thought? No one ever believed it was an accident.

I HAD MY PROFILE ON “JDATE,” a social networking site for Jewish singles, and the truth is, it was like fishing with dynamite. There were so many Jewish girls on “JDate” looking for a Jewish husband, that it almost wasn’t fair.

Unfortunately, the media attention my case generated seriously cramped several of my dates. I met one girl - a gorgeous college student - for dinner and clubbing. Things were going great so I asked her, “You wanna come back to my place?”

“Umm...” she thought about it for a couple of seconds and shot me a shy smile, “yeah, I think I do.”

Things were looking good. She was following my Mercedes back to my apartment when suddenly her Toyota swerved down the wrong off ramp. I called her cell asked College Girl if she had had “a change of heart.”

“Yeah,” she said, “you could say that... I Googled you.” Fucking Google! “You’re a criminal... you ripped off the government! I’m not going home with you.”

“Technically, I’ve only got pending charges and you shouldn’t believe everything you read,” Then I thought about it from her perspective and said, “But you’re probably making the right call.” It wasn’t going to work out anyway; she seemed too judgmental.

I met another girl - an attractive medical student - for dinner at Tuscan Steak - an upscale steak house - and about halfway through our meal she started in with what I think of as the “husband grooming” questions: “Do you like kids?” and “Are you close with your family?” and of course, “What do you do for a living?” None of which I had good answers for, so I gave her some vague nonspecific responses like; “Kids are great,” or “My mom and I talk all the time,” and “I’m a procurement specialist.”

Then I flagged down the waitress and asked, “Can we get another round here?”

Obviously my answers or behavior sent up some red flags because when I excused myself to use the restroom she Googled me. By the time I returned, she had read the New York Times article, glimpsed the Miami Herald’s and a few others - none of them glowing endorsements.

When I sat down, the med student was staring at her iPhone with her mouth open, not slightly ajar - this chick could have caught flies. “Everything okay?” I asked, and she held her cell out - screen facing me - so I could see my DUI mug shot. Fucking Google!

“Who are you?” she asked, in an extremely snobbish tone, and then looked at her iPhone. “A restraining order, battery, domestic violence, two DUIs... and... international gun running???”

“The restraining order and battery charges were dropped; I was never charged with domestic violence, and I’m gonna beat both those DUI charges… or… at least one of ‘em anyway.” Even as I said it, it sounded horrible. “And don’t believe everything you read... I’m a defense contractor not an international gun runner.” She just stared at me slack-jawed. I stopped the waitress and said, “Seriously, we’re gonna need another round - ASAP!”

I actually dated her for a little while - the med student, not the waitress.

PACKOUZ KNEW I HAD A PROFILE ON “JDATE.” In December of 2008, I was checking my “JDate” account while talking to a Russian “business man” who wanted me to invest his money in ammunition deals. “Look,” I said, “I’m looking to buy forty million South Korean .30 carbine rounds to import to the U.S. for commercial sale... I’m pretty sure I can make a fifty percent profit on ‘em. It’s two million, and I’ll give you thirty percent of the profit.”

I was sifting through some profiles when I received an IM (Instant Message) - ”Hi!” - from a “JDate” member. Now, I should have known something was wrong because even in the cyber world of Jewish online dating the guy usually makes the first move. I rarely got approached.

I quickly checked out the IM’s profile and found out she was a five foot seven inch modelesque leggy blonde with store-bought tits and a perfect smile - drop dead beautiful. We swapped IMs for about 20 minutes, and she suggested we get together for dinner the following night. Unheard of!

WE MET AT DEVITO’S (Danny Devito’s restaurant) on South Beach, a trendy New York stylish Italian bistro. Yvonne Salha was half Bulgarian, half Lebanese, and twice as hot in person.

Over cocktails and tequila shots she told me she worked as a model, “Occasionally.” By the time my steak and her gnocchi pasta came, we were on our second round and I knew Yvonne was an addict; she had been to the restroom twice in the last 30 minutes, hadn’t touched her food, and her nose was pink.

“You got any more of that?” I asked, after her third trip to the ladies room.

“What are you talking about?” She denied having any powder on her, but after some cajoling she pulled a glass vial of coke out of her purse. By the end of our meal we were both fucked up.

She asked me to come back to her apartment and by midnight I was hip deep into Yvonne. We started hanging out, going to clubs, and gambling. One night at the Hard Rock, after one of my real winning streaks - I was up roughly $20,000 - she said, “Aren’t you going to throw your good luck charm something?”

I was a little taken back, but I slipped her two orange chips - $2,000. Over the next few weeks, two things became obvious. Yvonne’s “modeling gigs” were actually “dates.” She wasn’t an aspiring model, she was a high priced escort and for the right money, I’m pretty sure she was an expensive hooker too. The second thing was, she wanted me to be her boyfriend - ”her sponsor.” Regardless of the fact that Yvonne insisted she was half Jewish, my mother wouldn’t have approved - it was never going to happen.

One morning I woke up in my apartment and she was lying beside me crying. Now this isn’t the kind of chick that cries - this is the type of chick that would eat her young - so the crying was unexpected. “I’ve gotta tell you something...” Please dear God please don’t let her be pregnant. “A couple of weeks ago, I was getting a massage from a guy named David Packouz... and he, he asked me to hook up with you.”

“Holy shit...” I muttered, “Packouz?” Apparently he had asked her to get close to me and place some spyware on my computer, so they could steal my PIN number and drain my bank account. I couldn’t fucking believe it, not that I didn’t believe her. But I couldn’t believe Packouz thought he could pull off such an elaborate plan - he was no hacker. The guy was an idiot.

“After I got to know you...” she sniffled back some tears. “I can’t do it. I like you too much.” She couldn’t go through with Packouz’s plan. I’m sure she was hoping the confession would be endearing.

I discussed it with my attorneys, who had a private investigator - Richard Ashenoff - conduct a telephone-recorded interview:

Today is Wednesday, January 14, 2009... The reason for my call is to review with you [Yvonne Salha] some information and possibly you can shed some light too. Do you know a person by the name of Efraim Diveroli?

Answer: Yes.

Ashenoff: And could you tell me under what context his name came up?

Answer: From my masseuse [David Packouz]... Uh, [I told him] that I was looking for somebody around my age range, financially stable, and he [Packouz] said that he has a business - his ex-business partner - that would be very vulnerable for me to... date in terms that he would try to receive money from him... [Packouz] told me where I could find him [Efraim] on this JDate.com and my intentions were just to meet him and date, and his [Packouz] intentions were to over time try to make plan to take his money.

Ashenoff: Okay, and at some point did you in fact go into JDate...

Answer: (inaudible) Yes... I knew there was a vendetta... [Packouz said] I want you to get very close with Efraim... Then his plan was to put a keylogger on there, record all of his bank account information; everything that’s typed, passwords and then to do a transfer, which no way would I do... When he’s giving me the plan I told him that that’s ridiculous...

Ashenoff: Okay.

Answer: [A]re you going to contact him [Packouz] with my statement? Because of where I live, you know, he comes to my house... and he is definitely a criminal... END OF TAPE.

IN MARCH OF 2009, YVONNE JUST DISAPPEARED. I later found out that she had gone with an escort friend to some wealthy client’s house, named Ira Something. Yvonne’s friend, or probably both of them, apparently broke into the client’s place and were in the process of burglarizing the house when Ira Something came home and discovered the crime in progress. Either Yvonne or her friend attacked the guy or threatened him or something, and he called the police. They were both arrested for burglary in an occupied dwelling, battery, and possession of a controlled substance. Yvonne was sentenced to 30 days in the county jail.

A month later - after she was released - Yvonne called and told me all about it. “I feel like I’ve changed as a person,” she said. “I’m sober and drug free... and I’m not going to do anything anymore. What’d you think about that?”

“Really?” I said, “That sounds great, I’m still pretty much the same... So, good luck with that.” I hung up the phone and never answered or returned another one of her calls.

ABOUT THE SAME TIME Yvonne was finding sobriety, my mother was receiving regular reports about my inebriated escapades. She had so many informants watching me I couldn’t do anything without someone calling her. She had everyone snitching and ratting on me: my aunt, my secretary, employees, friends, people from the “community.” I was under 24-hour surveillance. My mother was worse than the government, and she had more spies than the director of the Mossad.

Sometime in early April of 2009, my mother was lecturing me about a call she had received. “Efraim!” she barked, “you have to get some help with the drugs and alcohol. I’m up all night worried sick about you; terrified I’m going to get a call saying you overdosed and - God forbid - you’re dead... It’s not fair to me!”

“Look!” I yelled, “All your little informants are lying to you. I’m not doing anything, so drop it!” She didn’t believe anything I said - for good reason.

MY MOTHER PETITIONED THE COURT TO MARCHMAN ACT ME. I fought it of course - had a court-appointed counsel and everything. The hearing took place on April 11th of 2009, in this dingy little Dade County courtroom. The prosecutor sat next to my counsel and I, coaching my mother on what to say - ”Make sure to mention the DUI, the drug rehabs, and his alcohol and cocaine addictions.”

My mother did a pretty good job of painting me as the lunatic junkie I had become. When she was finished with her testimony, the General Magistrate said, “I personally think sixty days in the county jail would do you some good...” I thought, holy shit, this guy is about to throw me in jail, but instead he ordered me to serve, “Sixty days in an inpatient treatment facility.”

I was re-admitted to The Holistic Center - the posh residential drug treatment facility I had dropped out of six months earlier. Around a week after being admitted, Shapiro and Srebnick showed up at the facility to speak with me; the staff arranged for the attorneys to use a conference room. After all their bolstering about how the government didn’t have a “strong case,” they suddenly wanted me to consider taking a plea deal.

“Here’s the offer,” said Shapiro, “the U.S. Attorney will allow you to plead to one count of conspiracy to defraud the U.S. Government... per the United States Sentencing guidelines, you’ll score out to fifty-six months, but we’ll argue for a lot less and I think we’ll get it.”

“But I didn’t defraud them...” I said. “You said this was beatable; what happened to getting this dismissed... or going to trial?”

“You go to trial and lose... you’re looking at fifteen years with Judge Lenard.” I couldn’t believe this was happening; 15 years for repackaging ammunition that I had been given permission to repackage and conspiring to cover up something that wasn’t a crime. “I need to think about this.”

And in the midst of this drama I had to deal with drug counseling and group therapy sessions. It was horrible. We had to sit around in a circle holding hands and talking about our feelings, our childhoods, and our addictions. It was a bunch of rich kids complaining, “Mommy didn’t hug me enough” I was facing a 15-year federal prison sentence and they were crying, “Daddy won’t pay my Beemer payment anymore.” If I didn’t want to use before, I did after four weeks of that shit.

I started feeling really thirsty. I walked out of the lobby the receptionist said, “Mister Diveroli? Mister Diveroli... Mister Diveroli!”

I headed to a local gas station and bought a few Coronas - 28 days into the 60-day program.

My mother called about 20 minutes later. “Efraim,” she said in a strained voice, “turn around and go back... now.”

“No,” I said, downing my second Corona.

“Go back,” she said, a little more forcefully.

“Not gonna happen.”

“Oh my Lord, you’re out of control.”

SHE CALLED ANOTHER HEARING and the Judge ordered me to an additional 60 days. This time I was admitted to Alternative Treatment Center, a boot camp style program that took a tough love approach to treatment. I checked in drunk and coked up. I was in the middle of sleeping it off when they woke me up at five o’fuckingclock in the morning. The drug treatment coach was walking around kicking the patients’ beds and yelling something about calisthenics and a five-mile run. “Come on, Diveroli,” said the treatment coach, “early bird gets the worm.”

The only worm I was interested in was in the bottom of a tequila bottle. “Fuck off, I’m hung over!”

He kicked my bed again and yelled, “First day of the rest of your life, Diveroli!”

“Kick my bed again,” I snapped back, “and it’s gonna be your last. I shit you not!” I was allowed to sleep a few hours and asked to leave, promptly after I awoke - something about threatening the staff. I didn’t even make it a full day.

They had a staff member drop me off at the local convenience store on 203rd Street in North Miami Beach, next to a strip mall where an AA meeting was being held. I had attended meetings there several times before. When I got out of the car I turned to the staff member and specifically said, “Don’t call my mother.” I’m pretty sure the guy was on the phone with her before he drove out of the convenience store’s parking lot.

I went into the store, bought two 32 oz. Heinekens, and started drinking them while sitting on the curb. When the AA meeting ended the members started exiting the strip mall; one of the older recovering alcoholics recognized me. “So,” he asked, “fall off the wagon again?”

“Not sure I was ever on it,” I laughed, and took another swig of the fine Dutch brew - it felt so good going down.

My mother was not pleased with my expulsion from Alternative Treatment Center. She started making calls: my probation officer, the attorneys, and even my shrink. She was desperate to get me help. To get me fixed.

AS PART OF MY FEDERAL BOND I was forced to meet with a psychologist at least twice a week. Dr. Strumwasser was generally condescending - I hated the guy and I couldn’t stand the unnecessary process. As a result, I was constantly late for our appointments or just wouldn’t show up at all. He consistently made comments about my family and my parents in particular. Strumwasser was of the school of thought that you are 100 percent a product of your environment; therefore I was rebellious and disliked authority, and had a drug and alcohol problem, because of my parents. “Poor parenting,” he used to mutter underneath his breath.

“Bullshit,” I told him on more than one occasion. “No parent out there would have been able to handle me as a teenager.”

“Efraim,” he grunted, “my teenage children have shown signs of rebellion on some occasions, but my wife and I have always managed to keep them in line. They’re not perfect, but they are exceptional children.”

Keep in mind that unbeknownst to Strumwasser, I knew a Persian kid from the neighborhood named Bubba - yeah that’s his real name - he told me in no uncertain terms that he was fucking Strumwasser’s daughter on a regular basis. Bubba said she was an absolute nymphomaniac, a total freak in bed, and loved it in the ass - obviously she was seeking attention or suffering from poor self-esteem issues, but Strumwasser sat there session after session and told me my parents had raised me wrong.

“Doc, listen, your theory is way wrong.”

“You don’t have a medical degree in psychology,” he smirked, “or the experience to base that on, do you?”

“No, no... I don’t,” I smiled, mischievously, “but I know your daughter, and from what I’ve heard, you’re right about one thing... she is exceptional.” I never told him why, but from that moment on Strumwasser absolutely hated me too.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

DRUG FREE URINE

“To alcohol! The cause of - and solution to - all of life’s problems.” - Homer Simpson, The Simpsons (TV)

IN MID MARCH my mother called another hearing and got me court ordered to another 60-day program. This time it was the Wellness Resource Center facility - another ritzy treatment facility, but you couldn’t have cell phones or laptops. It was killing me. On May 21st of 2009, one of my attorneys, Marko Cerenko, checked me out of the facility and brought me to Shapiro’s office for a “client meeting.” No big deal.

They tried softening me up with croissants and coffee, but it was an ambush. Srebnick and Shapiro were there and they made sure to have Dr. Strumwasser - my shrink - there too. Strumwasser was there to attest that I was mentally competent enough to make a decision regarding my case. Keep in mind Wellness Recourse Center was not only an addiction treatment center; it was also a mental hospital. So they were covering all the bases. Shapiro immediately began laying out all the reasons they thought I should take the government’s offer. Not what I wanted to hear after spending nearly $2 million on a bunch of hot shot “trial” attorneys.

Shapiro pulled out the Federal Sentencing Guidelines, turned to the fraud section and pointed to a paragraph that was written in legalese. “Based on the loss amount of eleven million dollars, you’re facing fifteen years... That’s the loss the government will seek, and I’m sure Judge Lenard will agree with.” I know now that was only true if the U.S. Army had lost or even had the potential to lose $11 million, which they hadn’t.

“But the ammunition was all good,” I said, terrified at the possibility of 15 years in a federal prison. “They received the Chinese ammo... and... and they used it. All of it.”

“That’s not how it works, Efraim.” That was precisely how it worked. The Army’s actual loss (by their own self-serving calculations) was only $149,279 and I believe even that number was artificial; a creation of the inflated administrative costs the Army supposedly incurred when they were “forced” to re-procure the ammunition AEY, Inc. had not yet delivered. But they didn’t charge me what I charged them, no, the Army charged me full retail price. Regardless, at the $149,279 loss amount I was only facing 33 to 41 months in a worst-case scenario... not 15 years. Unfortunately, I didn’t know anything about the law and I was too busy with my addictions and the insane ideas they spawned to look into it. “I’m not saying you’re guilty... I’m saying they’re stacking the deck against you.” They made it sound like I didn’t have a prayer at trial - under threat of prosecution, people were lining up to testify against me.

“The Assistant U.S. Attorney is still willing to give you a good plea,” said Srebnick, “but you’ve got to make a decision.” I’d been indicted on 85 counts of fraud and making false statements to a government agency, but if I would accept a plea deal the AUSA would allow me to plead guilty to one count of conspiracy to defraud the U.S. Government. They made it sound like dropping the other 84 counts would have a huge impact on my ultimate sentence, when in fact that wasn’t the case; the sentence was driven by the Federal Sentencing Guidelines, based on the underlying conduct, regardless of the amount of counts. However, it did limit my exposure to a statutory maximum of only five years, but per the guidelines (which are almost always followed) I was facing less than that anyway.

“Efraim,” said Shapiro, “we’re confident we can convince the Judge to give you some type of very lenient sentence and possibly even house arrest and probation.”

“Well... I guess I’ll take the deal.”

Srebnick placed his hand between my shoulder blades and patted my back. To this day, I felt like he was trying to push the knife in deeper. “You’re making the right decision,” He said. Here is my opinion about the Shapiros, Srebnicks, and Blacks out there: They tell their client what they want them to know in order to manipulate them into making the choices they want them to make. Their legal strategy seems to be based on what is financially beneficial to them, not their clients.

A COUPLE DAYS BEFORE I COMPLETED MY 60 DAYS in rehab I was taken to the U.S. Attorney’s Office to meet with Assistant U.S. Attorneys’ Fernandez, a subtly attractive latin woman in a federal prosecutor sorta way, and Koukois, a skinny, nerdy, bookish type guy with glasses. The two of them were chattering away with DCIS Agent Robert Koones - he had taken over the case from Agent Mentavlos. Koones was around six foot tall and muscular - your typical jarhead Federal Agent. The three of them looked pretty pleased with themselves when Srebnick and I walked into the room. But that all faded away after I signed my plea.

As part of my agreement I was required to explain how I had passed the DCAA audits and what weapons and munitions I had purchased from China. In return, the U.S. Attorney’s Office agreed to recommend I be given leniency, but they refused to commit to any specifics.

They were hoping for stories about fraudulent bank statements and forgeries, nefarious international arms deals, crooked politicians and illegal weapons and munitions purchases. But I hadn’t done any of that.

“All I did was provided the documentation requested by the auditors,” I told them. “There was no fraud involved.” The “subject-to” appraisal that Ralph pledged was still worth roughly a million dollars whether it had been rezoned or not. Hell… with the credit terms we received from our suppliers, that would have been enough to qualify AEY anyway.

“What about Blane’s allegation?” Asked the DCIS agent.

“I’ve never bought AK-47s or any assault rifles from the Chinese.” I had bought tens of thousands of ballistic helmets and bulletproof vests there, but that wasn’t illegal. “Everything I’ve purchased was from legitimate suppliers and all of it was sold to the U.S. Government.”

They wanted clandestine meetings, secret rendezvous, international spies, and cloak and dagger stuff - stuff I didn’t have. “And Kosta Trebicka?” asked Assistant U.S. Attorney Fernandez.

“I don’t know anything more than you do... But if I had to venture a guess, I’d say the Albanians murdered him.”

The U.S. Government thought they had the “Lord of War,” but I was just a kid with a drug problem who had excelled at this one thing. When I left, they looked so disappointed.

ON JULY 21ST OF 2009, I was released from the Wellness Resource Center. As part of my release I had to attend drug classes, take scheduled piss tests, and meet with a treatment specialist at another drug rehab called The Village. The first thing I did was call Dejan. “I’m goin’ to the Hard Rock. You comin’?”

“No, Efraim...” he said. “You are in rehab...”

“They let me out. You coming or not?”

I could feel him struggling with it. Keep in mind: Over the last year he had watched me lose roughly $250,000 playing blackjack. “I meet you there...” Dejan sighed. “No drinking.” I’m not sure what he was thinking. I’d been locked up in a rehab for 60 days - there was nothing I wanted more than a shot of alcohol, coke, and some ass. And I could get it all at the Hard Rock.

By the time Dejan got to the casino I was already drunk, and Julia and I were in one of the high-limit rooms - there’s like 20 of them. The casino is huge, roughly 140,000 square feet of table games and slot machines. Nearly 100 tables, from Three Card Poker to Mini-Baccarat. It’s got all the bells and whistles - posh decor with touches of classic rock art and musical accents. It’s not Vegas, but I loved the place.

I was playing blackjack for $1,000 a hand and doubling down. I had run $5,000 up to $60,000 within the first hour. Julia and I were doing lines in the restroom every twenty minutes, and I was on a roll. Over the next few hours, with Julia and Dejan rooting me on, I ran the $60,000 up to over $210,000.

It was after midnight and despite the casino being climate controlled, I was sweaty and sticky from adrenalin and cocaine. I handed both Julia and Dejan around $2,000 in orange chips and told them, “I’m going up to the room for a quick shower. I’ll be back.”

“Efraim,” said Dejan, “you should quit...” But I wasn’t about to quit.

I remember walking into the spacious and luxurious suite the hotel had comped me. I had almost forty brown (five-thousand dollar) chips and a couple dozen one-thousand dollar orange chips in my hands. I had just won back nearly everything I’d lost over the last year. I was on half a dozen medications, drunk as a skunk, and coked out of my mind. I stared into the mirror through blood shot eyes and thought, I’m a monster. And just like the arms business, I couldn’t walk away... I couldn’t leave the casino.

Over the next three days I lost every orange and brown chip I had won that night.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING JULIA AND I WERE LYING IN BED waiting for room service. I had been up all night gambling - and losing - and she said, “I’ve met someone...”

“Okay,” I said. We weren’t exclusive or anything, but I was a little shocked. I’m not sure why - I didn’t treat her bad, but I didn’t treat her great either. No Jewelry, no romantic dinners, no flowers, no expensive vacations - just a lot of partying and fucking. I knew she was looking for more and I didn’t want to give her the wrong impression.

“He’s forty-years-old...” she rolled onto her side and looked at me; maybe she was hoping I would talk her out of it, but I wasn’t going to. “He wants to marry me and have children. He’s a doctor.”

“Sounds like a catch...” And just like that - it was over.

AFTER JULIA AND I STOPPED SEEING EACH OTHER I started playing blackjack pretty much every night. I could do anything I wanted at the Hard Rock: kick over chairs, throw drinks - anything. That’s how much money I was losing.

Dejan had become such a buzz-kill that half the time I didn’t even ask him to come. I was sitting at a high-roller table, doubling down and losing $10,000 a hand and lit up on coke. I’d been dealt a King of Spades and a 3 of Hearts - 13. The dealer had a Queen of Diamonds, so the likelihood I’d win was low. I tapped the table and drew an Ace - 14. Shit! I tapped again and the dealer turned over a 10 of Spades - bust.

“Oh my God!” I yelled. “I just lost ten thousand dollars!” I started to laugh uncontrollably. I was that fucked up.

My cell phone rang and I yanked it out of my jacket pocket... along with a bag of cocaine, which flew through the air and landed on the blackjack table, its contents spilling out onto the felt. Powder was everywhere.

The dealer glanced at Nick, the Casino Manager and I thought Holy shit! This time they’re going to throw me out for sure. Nick immediately grabbed two playing cards and quickly scooped up the contents of the Ziploc, slipping it all back into the bag and handed it to me.

Nick leaned into me and whispered, “Please, Mister Diveroli, in the restroom.” I could get away with anything I wanted to in the casino.

A COUPLE OF WEEKS LATER I was putting together a domestic ammunition deal at my apartment when I got a call from Jenny Something and her friend Kaitlan; two girls that I had met at Holistic Health Center. Jenny was okay looking, but Kaitlan was a straight ten, a real dime piece. A trashy little five foot, seven inch, 120 pound southern bell with blonde hair and green eyes and a couple of super sexy tattoos. She had been dating a teen meth-head during her stay at Holistic, but that relationship was over. The first minute or two of the conversation I was wondering if they were in recovery. I wasn’t sure if they were calling to party, or if they had been successfully brainwashed by the counselors and “recovery coaches” at Holistic Health and called to invite me to an AA meeting where I’d have to stand around, hold hands and sing kumbaya.

“So...” asked Kaitlan. “You wanna hang out; think you can get some blow and xanies?”

I struggled with it for a few seconds; I really didn’t want to get fucked up, but I really wanted to nail Kaitlan. “Yeah, I can make a few calls.”

ALBI A LONGTIME FRIEND FROM THE NEIGHBORHOOD, and I met the girls at Studio, a karaoke bar below the Shelbourne Hotel; it was mostly 20-somethings hooking up and embarrassing themselves. Within 20 minutes we were all drunk and lit up. I was on stage singing Matchbox 20s Unwell and Bobby Pinson’s Don’t Ask Me How I Know. Within an hour Albi and I were snorting coke off Kaitlan’s tits in the restroom. A few hours later we were at the bar doing kamikaze shots, when Packouz and a couple of his buddies came up to me.

“You better pay me, bro!” yelled Packouz, over some bad karaoke.

“Fuck you!” I replied. “I was about to give you more money then you’ve ever seen in your life and then you got us all fucked up by running to the U.S. Attorney... including yourself. You ain’t gettin’ shit!” Packouz is still waiting for that check.

AROUND FOUR O’CLOCK in the morning, all four of us piled into a minivan taxi. Kaitlan and I were making out in the back of the van; she slid her hand down my pants and grabbed me - it was on. I yanked up her mini skirt - she wasn’t wearing panties - frantically unzipped my jeans, pushed her flat on the bench and slid inside her. We went at it like two dogs in the park, like porn stars, like her ex-teen boyfriend never could.

She was doing all the right things - biting my neck and breathing hard, like she had never had it so good. “Give it to me baby!” she squealed. “Give it to me!” While the Pakistani taxi driver was yelling, “What is going on back there? What are you doing? Stop that!”

Kaitlan slid her tongue into my mouth and she tasted like Captain Morgan and the Marlboro Man. I was hammering away at the sweet spot and she moaned, “Let it go baby,” and I released.

The following morning Albi was gone, but Jenny and Kaitlan were both lying next to me in bed - naked. They pretty much never left after that. They moved in that day. We spent the next few weeks partying at dance clubs and gambling at the Hard Rock. The two of them were 100 percent dependent on me. They didn’t have jobs and their families had all but given up on them, and I needed them to hang out with me: your typical symbiotic junkie relationship.

I HAD TO DO SCHEDULED PISS TESTS for my outpatient treatment with The Village. The scheduled drug tests weren’t all that hard to beat. I had worked something out with my secretary to supply me with her drug free urine for a small fee. There wasn’t much she wouldn’t do for a small fee. I would keep it in my refrigerator and microwave it just before I was scheduled to take a urinalysis.

On August 10th of 2009, Jenny, Kaitlan, and I had been up most of the night doing coke and pills - Ecstasy, Xanax, Percocet and Oxytocin. Then we crashed around four or five in the morning, slept for a couple hours, and started over again. This was our typical routine.

At around five in the afternoon I was driving to my outpatient counseling session at The Village, which included a scheduled drug test. Obviously, I couldn’t pass a piss test, so I was driving to my substance abuse meeting with a jar of my secretary’s boiling hot drug free urine rolling around on the floorboard - the sound was really starting to irritate me. I leaned over to grab the jar, taking my eyes off the road for a couple of seconds too long, and when I looked up, Bam! I rear-ended a taxi - a Crown Vic. I was only doing about 15 to 20 miles an hour, so it wasn’t that bad. The people in the cab were pissed, but uninjured.

My first thought was to run, but I hadn’t taken anything for several hours and I felt sober. I thought I looked okay and was in good enough shape to talk to the cops - I was wrong. When the police arrived the officer took one look at me - disheveled and red eyed - and said, “I’m gonna need you to take a field sobriety test.”

“No problem,” I replied. I really thought I could pass it.

The test was harder than I recalled, and I was more under the influence than I thought. Somewhere between trying to walk a straight line and touching my nose, I failed it.

I was arrested for Driving Under the Influence; booked, fingerprinted, and photographed. I wasn’t actually drunk, but the urinalysis listed cocaine, Benzos, and a slew of artificial street drugs I had never even heard of couldn’t even remember how they had gotten in me.

Kaitlan and Albi posted my $1,000 bond the following day. Then, Kaitlan managed to crash Albi’s car - in the jail’s parking lot! That cost me another $1,000; not that I’m counting, I’m just saying. I hired Robert Rief, the same “DUI specialist” that was currently delaying my first DUI charge. “Another one?” said Rief, when I called him. “Well, it’s going to be another fifteen thousand.”

“What? You don’t have a repeat customer discount?”

“No, no, I don’t. And this one’s going to be even harder to beat then your last one.” He hadn’t beat my last first DUI charge yet; Rief had only managed to delay it, which was precisely what he did with this one.

I was now out on two state bonds and one federal bond; Marchman Act court ordered treatment and juggling two junkie house guests - one of which I was carrying on a very sexually explicit relationship with, while the other pretended not to watch. This was my life.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

HARD ROCK

“Success is how high you bounce when you hit bottom.” - General George Patton

IN AUGUST OF 2009 I WENT TO MY RULE 11 hearing to change my plea from “not guilty” to “guilty.” The gallery was filled with press. I’m pretty sure there were reporters from the New York Times, Miami Herald, and Details magazine. I’m sure Guy Lawson with Rolling Stone magazine was there. I had been crucified in the media, from CNN to the Orlando Sentinel - bashed for providing a service and product the U.S. Army wanted and needed.

I wasn’t even all that nervous standing in court. I was surrounded by my lawyers, and everyone seemed relaxed. There was no tension. It was just a routine appearance.

Part of my new bond conditions stated that due to my multiple DUIs I couldn’t drive anymore and I had to now take bi-weekly scheduled drug tests at the U.S. Probation Office. Not that any of this stopped me from using or driving.

I remember the judge saying, “Mister Diveroli, you understand by pleading guilty you’re never allowed to own a firearm.”

“Yes, your Honor,” I said. According to my attorneys, I wasn’t personally allowed to own a firearm, but I was allowed to buy and sell weapons and munitions through a corporation, provided I wasn’t ever personally in physical possession of them. My understanding was that the government pretty much just didn’t want me - a felon - to have a weapon in my home, or on my person. No big deal.

ROUGHLY A WEEK LATER, Jenny, Kaitlan, and I were at the Hard Rock hotel. We had been gambling and drinking all night. My mother had been looking for me since my plea hearing, leaving messages on my cell phone, calling my friends and employees. Kaitlan and I had just finished having the usual wild sex when someone knocked on the front door and said, “Room service!”

We were both lying in bed naked. Kaitlan got up and answered the door, but left the chain hooked; from the other room I heard her say, “Hey, you’re not room service...”

“Efraim!” screamed my mother from the hallway. “Get out here!” My mother and her sister, Aunt Sara, had tracked me down through a member of our family’s synagogue that worked at the hotel. An informant had ratted me out. “I’m your mother! Open the door Efraim!”

Kaitlan tried to push the door closed, but Aunt Sara put her sizable weight into it and the door wouldn’t budge. “Stop it!” yelled Kaitlan. “Back off bitch, he’s not leaving!”

“You’re only with him for his money!” screamed my mother, from behind the doorway. “You’re nothing but whores!”

“We’re not whores,” Kaitlan yelled into the door. “We fuck him for free!”

I knew security was coming and they would cart my mother and aunt off any minute, so I pulled on my Adidas track pants and went to the door. “Mom, just go. Get outta here!”

We began screaming at one another until two Hard Rock security guards showed up, took my mother by the arm and dragged her away. As she was being pulled down the hall she screamed, “I’m calling your probation officer and I’m having you Marchman Acted again, and you’re going to jail this time!”

And I knew she would do it. She had done it before... Plus, she had my probation officer’s cell number. So for all I knew, she was on the phone at that very minute.

I grabbed my cell phone and raced out of the room half dressed, ran down the hallway, and jumped into the elevator. I caught up to them at my mother’s car. “Mom,” I panted, out of breath. “Don’t call anyone. I’m going home, okay...”

She wasn’t convinced. “You get in the car right now so we can talk, Efraim!” she screamed, “or I’m calling!” Her face was red with rage and wet with tears. Her smart talented entrepreneur son had turned into a degenerate gambling whoring junkie, and every time she thought I had hit bottom it only got worse. “Now, Efraim!”

I didn’t see that I had a choice, so I climbed into the car. The following morning my mother was still threatening to have me Marchman Acted. Most people don’t know this, but casinos have a policy that allows gamblers to voluntarily ban themselves from the gaming floor, in intervals of one, five, ten years, or life. Unfortunately for me, my mother knew this. She wanted me to ban myself for life!

“Are you fucking with me?” I snapped. “Life!” Over the next few hours I negotiated with my mother. I had never negotiated harder, not with the greedy Hungarians, not with the corrupt Albanians, and not with the thuggish Ukrainians. She didn’t have a chance. When I got her to five years she wouldn’t budge. “Not gonna happen.”

“Five years,” she said. “Or I call the judge and probation officer today.”

I leaned into her, our sweaty faces only inches apart, “Listen up,” I growled through clenched teeth, “there’s no fucking way I’m walking into that casino and signing for five years... Marchman Act me!”

She cracked, and agreed on a one-year ban. I actually snuck in three times using disguises, and was caught twice. The same guys - Hard Rock employees - who I thought were my friends had me thrown out by security. I felt betrayed.

IN SEPTEMBER OF 2009 I had a meeting with Laura Estevill, my federal probation officer, and Cerenko. I was being interviewed for a report that the Judge would use to decide my sentence - a Pre-Sentence Report. I had been up most of the night drinking and doing coke with Kaitlan and Jenny. I had a suit on, but I knew I looked rough; no one looks good after a coke binge. But I wasn’t worried - the lawyers had told me it was only an interview, no urinalysis required, plus Code-A-Phone hadn’t ordered a drug test - it was all good.

I walked in and my probation officer got a strange look on her face. She stepped back, glanced at me from head to toe and scoffed, “I’m gonna need you to take a drug test.” Fuck!

“Not a problem,” I replied calmly. She handed me the urinalysis test cup and pointed to the restroom. I did the deed, sat down and was interviewed as if everything was fine, but the whole time I was thinking about the results of that test.

THE NEXT WEEK Estevill asked me to come to the probation office, and when I got there - you’re not going to believe this - she told me, “You failed the drug test.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she said, sarcastically, “really.”

She called a hearing to have my bond revoked and to have me detained. A couple of weeks later, on October 7th of 2009, I was ordered to appear before Magistrate Judge Patrick White. My attorneys, Srebnick, Shapiro, and Cerenko, along with Dr. Strumwasser and me, marched into court ready to duke it out with U.S. Attorney Fernandez and Probation Officer Estevill.

Judge White wasn’t pleased when she heard Fernandez’s testimony: “Your Honor... on September 8th of ‘09, [Mister Diveroli] submitted a urine specimen that tested positive for cocaine... and in August of ‘09, he was arrested for a DUI by the Miami Beach Police Department. That case is pending... [And there are] two instances that he failed to use Code-A-Phone.”

“Cocaine while out on bond,” said the Judge, shaking his head. “What do you want me to do with him?”

My attorneys had discussed modifying my bond conditions with Fernandez, and she had “semi-agreed” to request the Court to consider the modifications as an alternative to remanding me to custody. “Your Honor,” said the U.S. Attorney, “[the Government is willing to accept] more reporting to the U.S. Probation Office... basically go every day Monday through Saturday to continue his psychotherapy... attended NA and AA meetings four times a week... out-patient therapy for three evenings a week and providing urine during those three visits. In addition, we would also request a curfew of seven days a week from 10:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. [on electric monitoring].”

The fact that I was still on federal bond while out on two state bonds was already unheard of.

“I’m troubled by this,” growled Judge White. “This guy, this gentleman, has been given a great opportunity... and still broke the law on bond [he needs to go to jail].” He ran a hand through his thinning hair, and took a cleansing breath. “I want to hear from the probation department...”

Estevill jumped to her feet. “Laura Estevill, U.S. Probation... I agree with the Court,” she wanted me remanded. “[Misted Diveroli] violated the law while out on bond.” She didn’t believe additional sanctions would stop me from using alcohol or drugs. “My position is to ask for him to be remanded pending sentencing.”

The Judge asked Srebnick why I should be treated any different than someone without money.

“[First] he admitted from day one... he had a history of addiction... [He] is only a twenty-two-year-old person... who went for twenty-one years untreated for his psychiatric issues... He has basically raised himself since the age of fourteen-years-old.” Srebnick told the Court I was paying for everything myself - the outpatient treatment program and my psychiatrist appointments. He came up with some good stuff, which happened to be all true. “He needs to be prescribed amphetamines, sleep medication. All sorts of chemicals need to be pumped into his body to create an equilibrium that doctors are satisfied with...”

“[W]e have a man who is waiting for punishment,” said the Judge. “And while waiting for punishment... he broke the law again... Perhaps the thing that will make him better is for him to understand that the system ain’t playing with him...” he looked at me and said, “I don’t see how or why this gentleman deserves another chance... having said that, I don’t think I have a choice...”

I could see where this was headed, so I stood abruptly, cutting off the Judge. “Your Honor, can I address the Court please?” He was within seconds of throwing me in jail. “I had one dirty urine in a year and a half, and I swear to you at this moment that you will not see me in this courtroom again.” I told him I was under a tremendous amount of stress as a result of the fact that I might end up getting sentenced to prison. “I beg the Court to please reconsider and give me one last opportunity... that’s all I have to say.”

The judge grunted, “Anybody else?” and Srebnick asked if Dr. Strumwasser could address the court.

Strumwasser started by telling the Judge that he had 29 years’ experience and was an expert in the field of addiction counseling. “To incarcerate Mister Diveroli at this particular time would be extremely deleterious... I do not believe that Mister Diveroli is going to step out of line at this particular time. If he does... the appropriate authorities will be informed immediately.”

“[A]t some point in time,” the Judge pointed at me, “he is going to have to... pay the price.”

Strumwasser started talking about my family “abandoning” me at the age of 14-years-old; he really laid it on thick, talking about preparing me for the prison experience. “[T]he earlier that [individuals] are incarcerated leaves such a horrific scar that it stays with them for the rest of their life... [O]ne positive urine test in sixteen months’ [shows progress].”

Judge White sighed, “Initially for me this is not a difficult question... you violated. You have to go.” He glared down at me from his bench, “...but there is something about this case that may warrant some additional consideration... [T]he conditions are going to be burdensome.” He looked at the draft of suggested modified conditions to my bond and approved them. I couldn’t believe it!

I was ordered to attend NA and AA four times a week, to be drug tested three times a week by The Village, twice a week by U.S. Probation, and to attend counseling sessions with Strumwasser Monday through Saturday. I was placed on house arrest between the hours of 10:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. and fitted with an electronic ankle monitor. It was pretty bad.

IN OCTOBER OF 2009 things started to go wrong with my relationship with Kaitlan. I had already cut Jenny loose; one day she started talking about cleaning up her act, maybe going back to rehab. I encouraged her to go, and within a couple of days she had convinced her family to put her back in rehab.

Kaitlan was a different story - she loved the life she was living. Look, I liked her, she was a lot of fun, but in any drug-fueled, sexually charged relationship, there comes a point of diminishing returns; eventually Kaitlan and I got to the stage where she just wasn’t fun anymore. We were around each other 24 hours a day, and other than a mutual love of drugs, sex, and my money, we had nothing in common. I once asked Kaitlan what she liked to do for fun and she told me, “I totally love to travel.”

“Really?” I asked. “Where have you been?”

She thought about it for a couple of seconds and said, “Mexico... and Canada... and Europe...” I interrupted her and asked where in Europe? She gave me a quizzical look and said, “Europe.”

“Yeah,” I smiled. “I got that part, but where?”

She snapped back, sarcastically, “The country of Europe, da...” I started looking for ways out - just in case I got to the point where I couldn’t take it anymore. Her father was some rich pharmaceutical manufacturer; ironically his company made a generic version of Oxycotin. So one day I started looking for an exit strategy. I knew she hadn’t spoken to her parents in months and I thought I’d start there. I called Kaitlan’s father to discuss sending her home. I introduced myself as Kaitlan’s boyfriend, and he said, “So, you having fun fucking my daughter?”

I couldn’t believe it. “Um... I don’t even know how to respond to that, sir. I’m calling about - ”

“Let me save us both some time,” he grumbled. “I’m not sending you any money; you’re probably a junkie, just like her. Between the private schools, psychiatrists, and the rehabs, we’ve spent a fortune on Kaitlan. She’s a junkie whore and we’re not giving her another dime.”

The guy was talking down to me and I didn’t appreciate that. “Sir, I don’t need your money, hell, I’m willing to incur the cost of shipping her home... but I’ve gotta know you’ll accept her.” I didn’t want this particular cargo sitting around at a bus station or airport.

“No,” he snapped. “Don’t send her back here. We’re through with her; you don’t want her... throw her out.”

Kaitlan was a straight junkie, the type of girl who would do anything for drugs - anything. Left to her own devices, she wouldn’t survive long on the streets; within a week she would run out of friends and money. She would probably start shoplifting and God knows what else. That’s how bad she was. “I can’t kick her out; you know what’ll happen... You’ve gotta take her.”

“I can’t help you,” he said, and slammed down the phone. I couldn’t fucking believe it! I was stuck with her. It wasn’t really a big deal, I didn’t hate Kaitlan or anything, but I knew eventually she was going to have to go.

A COUPLE OF WEEKS AFTER I TRIED TO DUMP KAITLAN on her parents she started stealing from me - that’s never a good sign. Because I couldn’t drive, occasionally I would ask her to drive to the local ATM and get me some cash - she had my card and PIN number. One morning my aunt Julie - she had online access to my personal account to do the books - called and said, “So, you got five hundred out last night? You’ve gotta tell me when you do that, Efraim.”

“I didn’t...” I replied. “Why?” but I already knew the answer.

Kaitlan denied it. “I didn’t; I swear on everything I love,” she said. “You’ve been good to me, Efraim; I’m not stupid enough to steal from you... God.” When I picked up the phone she asked, “What’re you doing?”

“I’m calling the bank,” I started pretending to dial. “I’m gonna have them fax me the still photos from the ATM... and if it’s you, I’m going to have you arrested.”

Kaitlan cried, “Stop! It was me, I’m sorry... Please put down the phone.” She pleaded with me not to have her arrested and thrown in jail. “Please, Efraim...” Not that I was going to.

“It’s okay, Kaitlan,” I threw her a couple hundred dollars and said, “I was done with you anyway. You need to go back to Virginia... Talk to your parents; I’d start with your mom.” I bought her a plane ticket and put her in a cab. She’d had a pretty good run. She was a real trooper that one.

AFTER THE CANCELLATION OF THE AFGHANISTAN CONTRACT, AEY, Inc. ceased to exist as a defense contractor. Most of the employees had left and the few remaining ones, along with me, were actively trying to recover the capital AEY, Inc. had in deposits and product.

Because I couldn’t bid on government contracts anymore I started looking for other business opportunities and investments. I tried my hand at something called placer gold mining. Not hard rock mining. I partnered with a contract miner, bought 129 acres in Yreka, Northern California for over $550,000, where several geologists insisted there was an ancient tertiary channel of alluvial gravel. “According to the ground samples we took and assays we did,” they said, “by our calculations it should be peppered with microscopic gold particles.”

I bought over $1 million of mining equipment and applied for the permits, which should have cost around $100,000, but because of some rare endangered three eyed butterfly or something they cost me over $300,000. We dug into the “ancient tertiary channel” and processed the contents, and dug and processed, and dug and processed... nothing. Not a fucking thing. I spent over $2 million digging in the dirt. I couldn’t make it work.

I turned to trading commodities, hooked up with a broker named Tom Feeney, and opened an account with Archer, Daniels, Midland Investment Services. I was trading large lots of gold futures and for a while I was up $50,000 to $100,000 a day sometimes, and other times I was down, but overall I was ahead. At one point I was up over $250,000.

Then I stopped listening to Tom and lost my ass - roughly $250,000. It just wasn’t for me.

I desperately wanted to find something, but nothing seemed to work out for me. Sitting in front of a computer watching numbers all day just wasn’t for me. There was really only one thing I knew how to make money at.

I WENT FULL BLAST INTO COMMERCIAL AMMUNITION sales through my corporation, AmmoWorks. It was just me and a small staff working out of a 700 square foot office. My sales team consisted of a couple of guys in their late 20s. First there was Jake Shprecher, a friend of my cousin Joe. He quit his job with a property management company to come work with AmmoWorks.

My second salesman, Aaron, was an ex-marine who used to sell kitchens for Home Depot or something - I got him off Craigslist. I used to drag him with me to bars and strip clubs after work. Aaron’s wife would call and yell, “When’re you coming home?”

“Honey,” he would whine, while sliding a folded greenback into a stripper’s thong, “I’m with the boss... it’s gonna be awhile.” I got this guy into so much trouble it’s not even funny.

AmmoWorks started buying up massive amounts of ammunition stock and selling it to dealers across the country. Drop shipping roughly a quarter of a million dollars a month. I was doing what I do, and AmmoWorks started to make a monthly profit of forty to fifty thousand dollars - not a lot of money, but it was growing fast.

We supplied dealers and retailers like the Sportsman’s Guide and Widener’s Shooting and Reloading. We would buy ammunition from a manufacturer in Montana and drop ship it directly to a dealer in Minnesota, or buy stock from a distributor in Texas and sell it to a retailer in Georgia.

At one point I imported 13 million rounds of Lithuanian ammunition to the U.S. for sporting and hunting use. I stored the product in a New York warehouse and sold it off over several months. That was a sweet lick; I literally tripled my money on that deal - made over $2 million on roughly a million dollar investment, and didn’t have to drop a single bird into a war zone. This was back in 2007-2008.

EVENTUALLY LAURA ESTEVILL, my probation officer, was reassigned or promoted, and my probation was transferred to Jim Higby. He was seriously on my ass - constantly stopping by my apartment, ordering random drug tests, questioning my monthly finances. The guy was actually doing his job, and putting a serious cramp in my lifestyle.

One day Higby stopped by my apartment to do a random probation visit. I sat at my desk as he meandered around; he noticed a box of 33 round magazines for the Glock 9 mm, “What’s this?” he asked. “You don’t have any weapons do you? You’re not allowed to have a weapon on the premises.”

“It’s a South Korean high capacity magazine for a 9 mm Glock. It’s not a weapon, it’s only a clip.” AmmoWorks was buying them for five dollars per clip and selling them for $10 to $15. Between the retailers, gun boards, and our website we were moving several hundred per month. “Take it.”

“Nah,” he said, dropping the clip back into the box. “I can’t accept it... Besides I’ve got a .40 Glock 23.”

“We’ve got ‘em for the 23 model,” I yanked one out of a box sitting on the credenza behind my desk and handed it to him. “It only holds twenty-nine rounds... I guess that’s not enough for you, huh?” I said, sarcastically.

He looked at the magazine and asked, “Are these legal?”

“Depends on what state you’re in,” I laughed. “You saw it in my apartment - wasn’t sure if it was legal in Florida and confiscated it... Take it, I’ve got plenty.”

I didn’t notice if Higby slid the magazine in his pocket or not when he walked by to grab a Diet Coke out of my refrigerator. We had a pretty good talk about guns and ammo; he wasn’t a bad guy, really.

I WAS WORKING OUT OF MY APARTMENT and lonely as hell, so I bought a 12-week-old Siberian husky and named him “Arkan” after the Serbian Warlord. He was a fuzzy little ball of fun. I used to walk him along Lincoln Road and South Beach, wearing flip-flops, Bermuda shorts, and a wife beater. Kids would run up to me and say, “Mister, Mister can we pet your puppy?”

“Sure,” I grunted, sucking on a Parliament.

Eventually their parents would wander over and see the black box strapped to my ankle and drag their kids off, muttering underneath their breath, “That man’s a criminal.” I still laugh thinking about it. Good times. Good times.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

KNIGHT AND THE BETA DRUM

“Cops or criminals... When you’re facing a loaded gun, what’s the difference?” - Frank Costello, The Departed (Movie)

IN MAY OF 2010, I sat down with Cerenko, now AmmoWorks’ corporate counsel, and YK Leigh, the owner of Red White and Blue, at Emeril’s restaurant in Miami Beach - very art deco with a highbrow clientele, excellent cocktails and gourmet dishes. We were seated at a table by the pool, overlooking the ocean.

Leigh was pitching me a South Korean copy - by KCI - of the venerable Beta drum magazine, manufactured out of Atlanta, Georgia, by the Beta Company.

The Beta magazine was a twin drum with a capacity of 100 rounds of ammunition, while increasing firing stability and lowering the weapon’s overall profile, and with the capability to store ammunition in the full loaded magazine indefinitely. But in 2009, Beta’s patent had expired. Leigh stated that his company had an exclusive on the Korean magazine, and he wanted to work out a deal with me, transferring to AmmoWorks the exclusive rights to the magazine, at $51 per drum - not a bad deal. But the whole time Leigh kept hiccupping - he had some type of condition - and it got worse and worse as the night went on. We tried to be sympathetic to his problem/disability, but it was a real struggle to keep from laughing. In addition to the hiccupping Korean salesman, it was 9:45 pm, and if my ankle monitor weren’t within 50 yards of the black box in my apartment within the next 15 minutes, I would be in violation of my bond - again!

At ten minutes till, half way through one of Leigh’s chopped up sentences, I stood up abruptly and said, “Mr. Leigh, I’ve gotta go... I’ve gotta be home by ten o’clock.” I didn’t give him an explanation, but I did offer to continue the meeting at my place.

“Oka... ok... okay,” Leigh chirped out.

By the time we got back to my apartment Leigh was a cacophony of hiccups. The guy was completely unintelligible, it got so bad he had to leave, and we never could finalize the deal that night. Once he was gone I called Buk Seong Nam, my long time contact and trading partner in South Korea, regarding the cost of the magazine. Nam was the same guy I had bought the Iraqi helmets from, and roughly 500 K3 machine guns, ammunition, and other items. “I just want to know if it’s a fair price Mister Nam, and if Leigh really has an exclusive with the factory in Korea.” Because if he didn’t have an exclusive, there was no reason to be talking to him. Nam said he would investigate the matter and get back to me within 24 hours.

THE NEXT DAY he called me back. “Mister Efraim, this guy Leigh is lying to you.” The expiration of Beta’s patent opened up the design to anyone that wanted to manufacture it. “No one owns it... and I’m sure I can beat his price.” Buk Seong Nam and several partners had formed their own export consulting company out of South Korea. “I know someone at KCI... give you good price, it’s a great product, excellent quality, precision craftsmanship... Same as Beta’s drum.”

The Beta drum consisted of two components; the drum storage housing, which retailed for around $190, and the complete system with interchangeable feeder clip speed loader and pouch, which sold for roughly $250. Nam got KCI to manufacture the whole setup for $42 under an exclusive long-term contract with AmmoWorks. The Beta drums were being used by military forces and law enforcement agencies worldwide and highly sought after by many regular civilians looking for the G.I. Joe experience on the weekends. I was thinking I could undercut Beta and easily sell 10,000 South Korean drums a month - at a profit of $50 each, that’s $500,000. “Can you get me ten thousand a month?”

“Yes,” said Nam. “We can do ten thousand a month.” They claimed they could also manufacture the drum in 9 mm for MP-5s along with a variety of other weapon systems and would begin working on it immediately.

I IMMEDIATELY signed a contract with KCI and locked in the price, and then wired 30 percent ($184,000) for the first order of 10,000. I wanted to attach a brand name to the product in order to maximize marketing potential, volume, and price. My sales team started looking for a licensing deal with a prominent firearms manufacturer. Bushmaster, Remington, DPMS, and Rock River ARMS didn’t want anything to do with it - it seemed like no one wanted to back a South Korean product, regardless of the fact that it had proven itself in the field. I shot off emails and left voicemails with manufacturers across the country... and that’s when everything went wrong.

ON JULY 14TH OF 2010, I spoke with a dealer in Orlando - we’ll refer to him as Richard Banks. I was hoping to sell him some ammunition and weapons on a strictly drop-ship basis. I also asked him if he had any contacts that could or would potentially license the South Korean drum. Unfortunately, once the call ended, Banks Googled me and got multiple articles, none of them favorable to me... That’s when he called Kevin McCann, a Special Agent with the ATF (Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms).

McCann did a little bit of searching on “Efraim Diveroli” and read the New York Times article and the Southern District’s U.S. Attorney’s press release, which stated I had “intentionally cut corners to line [my] own pocket, risking the safety and lives of our men and women in uniform. Such callousness and disregard for the lives of our soldiers... will not be tolerated.”

There is a distinct possibility he called the Southern District, or simply read my plea agreement and found out I was only facing a few years of incarceration at most, and possibly only probation or house arrest. McCann made the decision to start an investigation. Not because I was doing anything illegal, but because - I can only assume - he felt I wouldn’t be getting serious prison time for the fraud charges in Miami. I suppose that was unacceptable to him.

The ATF agent asked Banks to introduce me to a “colleague” of his. “I might know someone with good contacts in the manufacturing industry...” Banks told me, “Better contacts than me; I’ll have ‘em call you.”

McCann then had undercover ATF Agent Daniel O’Kelly - going by the name Dan Flannery - contact me, stating he was “a colleague of Banks.”

Because of my felony charge I had let my FFL license expire. I told the undercover agent I was looking for two things, an importer to bring in the drums, and a respected manufacturer to brand them. “I’m ready to import ten thousand a month - right now.”

Flannery said, “I’ve got contacts with several manufacturers.”

“It’s got to be a reputable company,” I told him. “All I’m looking for is them to license their brand name for the product.”

Initially the manufacturers Flannery gave me were nobodies, certainly not “name brands” worthy of paying a brand-licensing fee too. I was starting to think Flannery wasn’t going to be of any use. Then on August 9th of 2010, he called and said, “I spoke with my buddy Reed Knight a couple hours ago, he owns Knight’s Armament... and he’s interested.”

“Knight?” The name was synonymous in the industry with quality. Knight’s Armament Company was a manufacturer of firearms and firearm parts for the United States military, as well as armed forces and police around the world. I couldn’t have asked for a better brand name. I was so excited. I put Flannery on hold, turned to Aaron and said, “Holy shit! Knight... he’s got Knight.”

Keep in mind: I had heard from multiple industry insiders that Knight had issues with me. I’d swapped out his SR-25 sniper rifle for less expensive DPMS 308 Panthers on multiple contracts and under bid his company’s rail systems for years. But I told myself that those issues were a few years old, and maybe he hadn’t even put it together - I was using a different company after all. Who knows?

I was in the process of selling AmmoWorks to Advanced Munitions in order to completely remove my name from the operation, although I would maintain a consulting role and ownership stake with Advanced Munitions.

I explained to the agent that my company, along with its millions of dollars in ammunition stock, was being purchased by Advanced Munitions. ATF taped the conversation. “I don’t want to be in the ammunition [business] directly anymore...” I said. “I’m more interested in financing [arms and munitions deals], consulting. The last couple of years [I’ve] been trying to get out of that business, [but] I’ve been getting drawn back into it, when I see something good like this drum.” I laughed, “Once a gun runner, always a gun runner... No, I’m kidding.”

“Yeah,” chuckled the undercover agent, “nothing wrong with that.”

“I had an issue with the Federal Government... I pled guilty to a felony.” I told him I was a convicted felon and that was why I didn’t have an FFL license anymore. All I was doing was buying and drop shipping ammunition, which was legal according to my corporate attorney and my criminal attorneys, as long as I didn’t take personal physical possession of it. And they defined “possession” as me not keeping any firearms on my person or in my house. “That’s the God’s honest truth about us... Everything is one hundred percent legal.”

“So, we are still online with the magazine, with the drums?”

Of course we were. I talked to him about several things related to importing, and then the undercover agent asked, “Are these... going to say Made in South Korea on them, or can we pass them off as American made?” Which would be a violation of Federal law.

“No,” I said, “they have to say Made in South Korea... This product is proudly made in South Korea... I’ve had my fair lick of run-ins with the law. I’m not looking for any more.” Not long after that I told him I would fly whoever needed to be flown in to Miami for the deal.

“Well, how about you come to [us]?”

“I can go as far as Fort Pierce... How critical do you think it is that we come to him?”

“He wants you to come up to him. So can we still do this?” I was out on bond and prohibited from leaving the Southern District, so I asked Flannery to call Knight and see if he would come to Miami. A couple hours later the undercover agent called back, “...I think he’s gonna make you [come up to him].” I didn’t want to go. I shouldn’t have gone, but it was - potentially - a huge deal. “This is a ten million dollar deal...” said the agent. “If you don’t come up here you’re not going to get the deal.”

“All right.” What was the worst that could happen?

Flannery set up an appointment with Reed Knight or “Trey,” for August 12th of 2010.

JAKE, DEJAN, AARON, FLANNERY, TREY KNIGHT, AND ME, met at Knight’s facility in Brevard County - one county outside the southern district of Florida. Flannery was a skinny, white, bald guy with a goatee in his 40s; nothing about him screamed undercover cop, which was probably the point.

Knight’s offices were average at best, to be honest. I had expected something more from such a prestigious manufacturer’s corporate headquarters. Knight was in his late 60s, tall and lean with thinning grey hair. A nice enough guy.

We sat in the conference room with the South Korean drum sitting on the table and went over the basic terms of the contract. The whole time we were talking, making small talk and going over the specifics of the contract, I was sweating like a whore in church. I was on two state bonds and a federal one, and I was currently outside the permissible district. “Essentially Mister Knight,” I said, looking around at my colleagues - including Flannery, “we’re offering Knight’s Armaments ten dollars per magazine, or ten percent of the sales price, whichever is greater.”

“Sounds good to me,” He replied. Knight just needed to have the drums tested, and he would get back with us. It couldn’t have gone better.

Roughly a week later Flannery called to let me know Knight wanted to meet to do some final live fire testing of the magazine with us present and sign the contract - he had already conducted the initial testing of the drum and all went well; Knight was ready to make a deal.

ON AUGUST 20TH OF 2010, Aaron, Jake, Dejan, and I drove to Brevard County in my Audi A5 and Jake’s BMW 650 to meet with Flannery and Knight - both the cars were convertibles. We were hauling ass with the tops down, hair blowing, music blaring, headed to a meeting that could potentially make me half a million dollars a month profit.

We met Flannery in the parking lot of a Quizno’s restaurant down the street from Knight’s factory and office. When we exited the vehicle Flannery asked me, “Did you bring anything to shoot with?”

I hadn’t. I knew as a convicted felon I was prohibited from owning or carrying a firearm, “No, I...”

“Don’t worry about it,” said the undercover agent, he motioned for us to follow him and he led our group to his vehicle. “I brought some. Check these out.” He popped open the suicide door of his older model red pick-up truck, revealing a 9 mm Glock, an FMAP 7.62 mm semi-automatic rifle and a Steyr .223 semi-auto rifle. Before I knew it Flannery slapped the Glock into my hand; I held it, felt the weight of it in my hand... it felt powerful. Dangerous. Safe. I thought about the first time I held a Glock 9 mm, in the aisle of Toys ‘R’ Us. I smiled cleared the chamber and said, “Once a gun runner... always a gun runner.”

The undercover laughed, “You bring any ammo?”

“No.” No one in our group had ammunition. Flannery suggested we shouldn’t show up without ammunition, and since he had brought weapons I offered to buy the ammunition. “Sure,” I told the undercover agent, “I’ll buy the ammo.” I didn’t want to show up to the meeting with Knight empty handed.

Aaron, Jake, Dejan, and I went to the local Wal-Mart and purchased nearly $1,000 in ammunition - around 5,000 rounds. I was figuratively bringing the beer to the party, so I bought an abundance of it. We loaded up the vehicles and headed back to the restaurant’s parking lot to meet Flannery.

AS THE AUDI PULLED TO A STOP in the lot, I heard the familiar screeching of half a dozen unmarked Suburbans and sedans surrounding the convertible and noticed another dozen Sheriff’s cruisers swarming into the area, converging on our location. My first thought was, all this for a bond violation. As the agents poured out of the vehicles they yelled, “Get outta the vehicle! Hands in the air!”

I got out of the Audi hands held high - I had been through it all before. An ATF agent ran up behind me and spat, “On the ground!” and slammed me to the pavement, yanked my arms behind my back and cuffed me.

A second later, Agent McCann, a late 40s Irish-looking military-type with beady eyes and a receding hairline pulled me to my feet and pushed me up against a cruiser, “Did you think you weren’t going to prison?” asked the agent. I stared at him blankly - stunned. “For the Miami thing?”

“I... ah...” I stammered, confused. “I guess so?” My attorneys had been saying they hoped I would get house arrest or a very short prison sentence, but I didn’t know for sure.

“Well,” McCann gave me a sadistic grin and snapped, “I’m gonna make sure of it! You’re a convicted felon in possession of a firearm - you’re fucked now!” My first thought was, is that illegal? I had been told by the Judge and my probation officer I wasn’t allowed to own a gun, or keep one in my home, but no one had mentioned holding or even firing one; not the court, not probation, not even my attorneys who knew I was handling and shooting weapons on a regular basis. McCann shoved me into the back of an unmarked vehicle and grumbled, “This is what you get for selling junk ammo to our troops.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

SENTENCING

“You are remembered for the rules you break.” - General Douglas MacArthur

I WAS BOOKED AT THE ORANGE COUNTY Sheriff’s Department - a grungy, well-used building with dirt-stained walls, covered in wanted posters. An ATF Agent printed and photographed me. When he cut off my ankle monitor the officer shook his head and said, “God, you’re in a lot of trouble Diveroli.” A minute later he showed me a copy of my arrest warrant, and for the first time I realized what I was facing: my statutory maximum was ten years. When I saw that I almost puked.

An hour later I was led into a shitty little courtroom for my first (initial) appearance. I was appointed a public defender who said, “Don’t talk.” But I was so certain that the arrest was a mistake I stood up and said to the Magistrate judge, “Your honor, I don’t know why I’m here. This is obviously a mistake - I don’t own a gun, I only held one... I didn’t know that was a crime.”

“Mister Diveroli,” responded the Magistrate, “Listen to your attorney and stop talking.” She remanded me to federal custody and I was led back to the Orange County holding facility.

I CALLED SHAPIRO and told him I’d been arrested, “Again.” He recommended Cynthia Hawkins, a former federal prosecutor turned criminal defense attorney - big mistake.

“You’re not going to represent me?”

“Well no,” he said. “You’re all the way up there in Orlando.” Of course not, I’d only paid him over $700,000! What was I thinking! Orlando was a whole four-hour drive from Miami. “Cynthia’s very good, Efraim.”

For as much good as Cynthia Hawkins did me, in my opinion she might as well have been an acting U.S. Attorney. When we met in the visitation room, Hawkins said, “Doesn’t look good for bond,” before she even sat down. Of course I was already out on federal bond in Miami and the two state bonds for my DUIs. “We can try.”

“Look,” I said, “I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to hold a gun.”

Hawkins smirked, “Uh huh,” and scribbled ‘Didn’t know he couldn’t hold a gun’ on her yellow legal pad.

AT THE BOND HEARING, the following day, my federal probation officer told the Magistrate, “If you give Mister Diveroli bond we’re just going to re-arrest him for violation of his bond conditions in South Florida anyway.” Needless to say, I didn’t get a fourth bond.

WHEN MY MOTHER FOUND OUT, she was so angry she wouldn’t talk to me, she wouldn’t even come to the jail to visit me. In any other situation I’d have laughed it off, taken a shot, snorted another line, or popped a Xanax and told myself, she’ll get over it. But sitting in that jail cell, thinking about all her calls, my mother’s pleas and warnings, and all the times I had ignored her... all I wanted at that moment was to hug my mother, to hear her tell me she loved me.

It took her two weeks to break down and visit me; it was horrible. The Orange County jail didn’t have contact visits; we had to talk via closed circuit monitor. All I wanted to do was hug her, and all I could do was cry on the phone and weep into the monitor screen. I was in this sterile individual visitation room - not much bigger than a closet. She didn’t scream at me, she seemed so defeated, so tired, so disappointed; that was worst of it - my biggest fear - that she would abandon me. “I know this isn’t what you want,” she said, wiping tears out of her eyes, “but it’s probably for the best that you’re in here.”

“I’m in jail, mom!” I shouted into the phone. “How can you say that?”

“At least you’re safe.”

“Safe?” I was surrounded by gang members, drug kingpins, bank robbers, kidnappers, and even murderers. “This place is filled with violent criminals... I wouldn’t exactly say I’m safe.”

At a subsequent visit I started to soften my stance, my tone, and I started to understand her position, to see more clearly. She had been struggling to get me off drugs for so long that she saw this as her chance. “I’d rather visit you here than in a graveyard...” she said, “cause that’s where you were headed.”

“Maybe... maybe.” My childhood friends, my employees, my business associates... none of them had come to see me. Just my family and the attorneys. I called my ex-girlfriend, Jenna, who I’ve never stopped thinking about. When she heard the automatic prison system say, “You have a call from Efraim Diveroli,” she screamed, “Ohmigod!” and hung-up the phone. Not a good sign. I recently heard she gained 30 pounds and married a fat guy who owns a gym, so I’m probably better off she didn’t answer the call.

THERE WERE SEVERAL MEETINGS WITH HAWKINS, lots of discussions about my options, but in the end she said, “Entrapment is your only real defense and it’s virtually impossible to prove, considering you were clearly predisposed to handling a weapon... You don’t really have a choice; they’ve got video and multiple witnesses. You plead guilty or lose at trial and get slammed.”

I signed a guilty plea in October of 2010, and several months later, I was transported to the Miami Federal Detention Center for my sentencing in the Miami fraud case.

ON JANUARY 3RD OF 2011, I was led into the court. It was packed with press, my parents and siblings, and my extended family, Shapiro, Srebnick, Hawkins, and several of my other attorneys. Oh yeah, there were also a couple Assistant U.S. Attorneys that wanted my head.

The Judge, Joan A. Lenard, peered out at the army of attorneys and said, “We are here for the sentencing of both the corporation AEY, Inc. and... Mister Diveroli... there’s an objection regarding acceptance of responsibility.” Because I had been arrested in the Middle District of Florida by the ATF and received an additional charge while on bond, the Southern District’s U.S. Attorney’s Office refused to recommend a lenient sentence. On top of that they wouldn’t grant me two levels off my sentencing calculation for “acceptance of responsibility,” which they basically give to everybody who agrees to plead guilty and doesn’t opt for trial. Those two levels represented eight to 12 additional months of incarceration.

However, Shapiro was allowed to argue the Government’s refusal, “Your Honor, AEY, through its president, Mister Diveroli... has fully cooperated with the Government and, indeed, accepted responsibility for his actions... [H]e told them how he first found out that the ammunition [was Chinese]. He sent e-mails... to the State Department to find out whether or not it was permissible.” And after they told me it wasn’t, I had two choices. “[H]e chose the wrong one... And he chose to violate the law, and he admitted that to the Government. But Mister Diveroli did not want to fail himself... He didn’t want to fail in being able to provide what the Government had asked him for.”

When Shapiro was finished, Hawkins asked to address the Court; she felt she could shed some light on the acceptance of responsibility issue. “I was an AUSA for twenty years plus in the Orlando office... In that case [the Middle District of Florida arrest] it was an undercover sting case and there were many recordings made... [T]he undercover agent asked Mister Diveroli to do several things he declined to do.” The agent asked him to violate ITAR. He declined. He asked him to leave the Southern District. He declined. He asked him to bring a gun to the meeting. He declined. “Eventually,” said Hawkins, “the agent said, ‘If you don’t come up here - this is a ten million dollar deal - you’re not going to get the deal.’ [Your Honor] he was persuaded to leave... I just wanted the Court to know that he was trying to do a legal deal. And he did do something illegal, and he accepted responsibility for it. But that wasn’t his primary mission.”

Hawkins sat down and Shapiro called Rabbi Lipskar, an overweight gentleman in his late 60s with a long grey beard; Lipskar is one of the founders of Aleph, an organization that works with Jewish inmates on spiritual issues and re-entry into society. “In almost thirty years of working in the prison environment [this is] the first time I said to a defendant, ‘You need to go to jail,’” I remember thinking, Nice. “Efraim is one of those. Brilliant persons. A mind that far exceeded his maturity and extroversion that came from a... lack of security, deep sense of insecurity, a lack of personal pride. Had to prove himself, had to be the loudest voice, the biggest partier, the flashiest guy. It came easy to him.” The Rabbi looked back at me and gave me a weary smile. “I believe that we can save this person... I’m not talking about saving a Jew for Jewishness. We’re talking about saving a person for humanity. I think he needs to spend a little bit more time in prison. But five years…? There is a diminishing return, in my experience... you start becoming a prison person.” Lipskar sighed, “If I can be of any help or my organization can be of any help, we’re here to do so.”

My Uncle, Rabbi Shmuley Boteach - a celebrity Rabbi, successful author, and dynamic speaker known professionally as Rabbi Shmuley, in his late 40s with a tightly trimmed beard - spoke a little about his successes and failures, and of course mine. “Efraim is my nephew. He’s my flesh and blood... My sister was always the most selfless noble of the entire family. She is known as a saint in the community here in Miami Beach. On February the 6th, she will be honored by AMIT, an organization that raises money for orphan children in Israel.” He spoke about the elderly couple my mother took care of and several of her other charitable acts. “All she ever wanted him to do was honor the Sabbath... be respectful to his elders... lead a religious and spiritual life. She has been devastated beyond description by his actions.” He talked about the countless calls regarding my behavior; my father’s inability to support his family that my uncle believed led to my insecurity and excessive behavior; my greed and the lure of the amoral arms industry. “His mother used to badger him and berate him constantly to be better. She never cared for any of his success. There’s a famous Jewish expression that says that the difference between the wise man and the clever man is that the clever man can extricate himself from situations into which the wise man would never have gotten himself into. My nephew has discovered today that he is neither clever nor wise... [We fear] if the sentence... is excessive, your Honor will snuff out the light of a bright soul who might... truly contribute. Thank you for considering my petition for leniency, your Honor. May God bless you.”

Assistant U.S. Attorney Fernandez stood to speak on behalf of the Government, “[T]here’s a pattern of continuous violations of his conditions on release,” she said, “... positive testing of cocaine... numerous failures to report. [T]here’s continuous evasion and disregard for the law.” That pretty much covered it.

“Oh, okay...” grunted the Judge, “what Rabbi Lipskar said: [Mister Diveroli] had to go to jail. He needed to go to jail. He had to be in jail. [N]ow that he is in jail, he is accepting responsibility. So in the exercise of my discretion in considering all of the factors under 3E1.1, I’m going to grant him the two levels for acceptance of responsibility...” That gave me a level 24 and a criminal history of one: the advisory guidelines range of 51 to a statutory maximum of 60 months.

When my mother addressed the Court, I was truly worried; there was no predicting what she would say. “Hi, Judge Lenard... I’m Efraim’s mother.” She started by telling the judge she had taught me to be an upstanding citizen; she told her a little bit about herself and our family, and I thought, this is going pretty well. Then, from out of nowhere, my mother said, “I knew he was doing alcohol, drugs, gambling. I even called your office once... I wanted him to go to jail.” I couldn’t believe what she was saying, I wanted to scream for her to stop, but I had to sit there and take it. “...I know every time I say that he hates me for saying it, but I love my son more than anything in the world. And he needed to go to jail.” Nice.

She was really sobbing and I knew she meant well, but it still hurt. She talked about Marchman Acting me for my drug use. “[My sister and I] pulled him out of Hard Rock one night. I went back the next day and made him sign his name to not gamble anymore.”

She tried to clean up the damage by saying, “...Efraim really is a good boy with a good heart and he really needs another chance... he could really be a good member of society.”

After listening to my mother tell the court, I needed to go to jail, the judge looked down at me and asked, “Mister Diveroli, is there something you wish to add?”

My voice cracked a little when I addressed the Court. “[In my short life] I’ve probably done more things than most people would dream.” I told the Judge, if I had another chance I would have done things differently, and I was truly sorry for the things I’d done... my behavior... embarrassing my family. “The money, the notoriety in my industry, and the good times... and there were some... [They weren’t] worth the suffering that I’ve endured and my family has endured as a result of my actions.”

Srebnick talked about my mother’s anguish, about my drug use and my arrest, my time in jail and my realization that I had to change my behavior. “[W]e leave it to your wisdom, Judge... given what you’ve heard about him, the potential he has, we ask you to find that point for us so that his life will be better and so that we can have Efraim back with clarity of thought, health, and productivity. Thank you, Judge.”

When Fernandez made her summation, she wasn’t happy at all with the way things were going, “Your Honor,” she said, clearly frustrated, “[the Government asks you to] consider sentencing the Defendant within the context of the... guidelines range.”

The Judge asked Srebnick and Shapiro to stand with me for sentencing. “[T]he Defendant... participated with others to sell Chinese ammunition he and his Co-conspirators knew full well that such ammunition was prohibited by this large contract... a three hundred million-dollar contract. If it weren’t so amazing, you would laugh that such a young man would obtain such responsibilities... Mister Diveroli may have been clever, but not wise... [Then] he got involved in more criminal activity, more drugs, more alcohol, more gambling, more torture for his mother and family.” She wrestled with the decision for a minute and said, “I find that a sentence of incarceration of forty-eight months is sufficient for punishment and deterrence.” She ordered me to pay a $250,000 fine and restitution of $149,279.28. She ordered AEY, Inc. to pay a fine of $500,000 and restitution of $149,279.28 and a special assessment of $400. “Mister Diveroli...” said the Judge, just before the proceedings were over, “it is all up to you.”

WITHIN DAYS I WAS TRANSFERRED back to Orlando and on August 23rd of 2011, I was back in court for my Orlando sentencing. The courtroom was filled with my family and press. Hawkins was there with her legal pad and stacks of files. The U.S. Attorney for the Middle District, Bishop Ravenel, this tall country boy type with salt and pepper hair, and several other Assistant U.S. Attorneys were sitting around the defense table snickering and grinning. They all looked so pleased with themselves.

The first thing the U.S. Attorney did was put several of my “employees” on the stand to say derogatory things about me and smear my name. Aaron and Jacob Shprecher testified that they had gone with me to a gun range and fired several weapons. That I had asked them to purchase weapons on my behalf for companies I had asked them to open. They said I was actually running the companies, which to a degree was true, but I had the blessing of a prominent DC law firm to do so. The thing is - I understood Aaron and Jacob had been threatened with prosecution by the U.S. Attorney’s Office - for God knows what - so I understand what they did. They were scared. Hell, I was scared.

It was Dejan who bothered me. I really thought we were friends. When he got on the stand, Assistant U.S. Attorney Ravenel asked him several harmless questions, and one that disturbed me: “What consequence [have you] had personally as a result of being involved with Mister Diveroli?”

“Many things,” said Dejan, glancing at me. “My bank account was cancelled. Reporters are calling me every day, all day... I was trying to apply for a loan to do something. I didn’t get any loan because my name is, you know all around the news and Google.” There was no reason for him to testify or to be angry with me I had been a good friend to him, but when things went bad for me he abandoned our friendship.

Hawkins asked him, “Isn’t it true that you continued to work for Mister Diveroli long after the negative publicity?”

“Yes,” he admitted.

She looked at her notes, “Didn’t [Mister Diveroli] pay over ten thousand dollars for a family funeral in Bosnia? And help to support your family over there for years? And support your family because your father was in prison?”

“Yes...” he said, looking a little bit ashamed. Hawkins excused him and Dejan stepped off the stand. I had genuinely thought this guy was my friend. There was a time I would have done anything for him. I thought he would do anything for me.

Based on the Federal Sentencing Guidelines my base level offense level should have been 14 - roughly 15 to 21 months of imprisonment - but Assistant U.S. Attorney Ravenel added three levels because I was on federal bond at the time of the Orlando arrest, and an additional six levels because of the type of weapons used to “commit the crime,” and two more levels for the amount of weapons - which, of course the ATF agents chose and brought to the meeting in a no-holds-barred effort to manipulate my ultimate sentencing range upward! However, the judge had the option of running my sentence concurrently or consecutively with my 48 month Miami sentence, so it was possible I could end up with effectively no additional time. Unfortunately, after I received what the Orlando based U.S. Attorney felt was a light sentence in Miami, he and the agents decided to throw several enhancements into the mix. Suddenly, ATF agents Daniel O’Kelly and Kevin McCann remembered that they had brought high capacity magazines, which raised my offense level by six additional levels. That brought my offense level to 25, minus three levels for “acceptance of responsibility” and “pleading timely.” I ended up with a total offense level of 22 - roughly 41 to 51 months.

Luckily, or so I thought, my attorney had the right to argue the enhancements. She called the undercover ATF agent and asked him about the meeting place. “How many times did Efraim Diveroli tell you that he did not want to come to the Middle District of Florida... three times?”

“It could have been three times?”

I had told him I was out on bond on my Miami case, and he specifically went out of his way to get me to come to Brevard County in order to violate my bond and get me into his jurisdiction and to get me an additional enhancement. “...yet you still told him at least three times... to come to the Middle District of Florida, didn’t you?”

“Actually no... I told him if he wanted to meet [Mister Knight] ...he needed to come to see that man...”

“Did you ask Mister Knight whether or not he knew of AmmoWorks, or AEY, or Mister Diveroli?”

“The name was brought up and, as I recall, he had never heard of him.” I wasn’t sure how that was possible, since I had been taking business from Knight - sniper rifles and rail systems - for years… not to mention all the negative press and notoriety I had received within the industry as a result of the Chinese ammo debacle. I had even heard from several other defense contractors at two different trade shows that Knight had badmouthed me and mentioned my name on several occasions. I can’t imagine he didn’t know who I was.

“Isn’t it correct that [you needed] Mister Diveroli to travel to Brevard County [to] have venue [in the Middle District]?” I hadn’t broken any laws in the Middle District of Florida so the ATF and the U.S. Attorney in the Middle District had to create a crime in their jurisdiction to prosecute me.

“He said he was a felon in [possession of a firearm in the Southern District].” But that wasn’t enough to charge me with anything. They needed to get me to the Middle District.

“[You] actually arrested him for picking up two guns that you brought... correct?”

“I couldn’t tell you... [it] was being directed by the U.S. Attorney’s Office in correspondence with the case agent.” After some posturing, O’Kelly admitted, “I did have a discussion with Agent McCann that confirmed... [the case] would be prosecuted in the Middle District...” It was obvious to everyone in the courtroom that the U.S. Attorney and the agents wanted me arrested in their district so the Middle District U.S. Attorney could prosecute me.

“Actually,” said Hawkins, “[all] he was trying to do was set up a deal to have these magazines branded by Knight Armaments, correct?”

The agent sighed, “Correct.”

“[H]e told you several times... he didn’t care about this other stuff [firing the weapons]...” Agent O’Kelly was the one that actually suggested going to the range. “[Efraim Diveroli] said, ‘I’m not [going] there to play with toys; I’m [coming up there] to make a business deal.’ Do you not recall that conversation?”

“I do.”

She then switched to the high capacity magazines. “Where in your report does it say that you had the magazines... it’s not in there that you brought any magazines... you didn’t take any pictures either? [I]n fact, Mister Diveroli did not know you were bringing guns that day, did he? [In fact] he said, ‘I’m coming up there for a business deal’ right?”

“He made that statement at one point,” admitted the agent. Not only did I not want to travel to the Middle District, but I didn’t bring a weapon nor did anyone with me, and I specifically told the undercover agent I didn’t want to shoot. Hawkins excused him and the agent stepped off the witness stand. Hawkins reviewed her notes for a few seconds and asked to cross-examine Agent McCann, as well as the Lead Case Agent.

When the agent got on the stand, it was obvious he couldn’t stand me. Hawkins asked several questions, all of which he gave vague snide answers to. He testified that in his opinion the Southern District of Florida’s U.S. Attorney’s Office had downplayed the amount I had “defrauded” the government out of. “The government had paid out sixty-six million dollars, and Mister Diveroli defaulted on that contract,” he spat. “[T]o provide military items, firearms, ammunition, helmets, bulletproof vests to the U.S. military, Iraqi allies and the Afghan allies... and unjustly enriching himself.” I hadn’t done any of those things. Not one.

The guy not only started the investigation for all the wrong reasons, he clearly hated me for all the wrong reasons. He thought I was ripping off the Army and endangering the troops.

Hawkins asked the agent, “Now you’ve said that you thought there was a sixty-six million dollar loss in the Southern District of Florida... Are you aware that [based on the Southern District’s Pre-Sentence Report] there was no loss to the government?”

“I’m not sure...” he looked shocked, and immediately glanced at the Assistant U.S. Attorney for help or guidance, but Ravenel didn’t offer any. “I just have learned that sixty-six million dollars was paid on [the Afghanistan] contract.”

“...Mister Diveroli defaulted on five [Department of Defense] contracts out of 150 that he had... Of those five, are you aware that Mister Diveroli... was found not to be in default; that those were... ultimately terminated for the convenience of the government?”

“No...” he said, glancing around, like a child caught in a lie. McCann mumbled, “He was found guilty in the Southern District... for doing that.” Hawkins excused the agent and he slinked off the stand.

This guy had received a tip, read the New York Times article, and decided he was going to make sure I went to prison.

When my mother stood up, I thought, God help me. There are no atheist defendants. “Your Honor...” she said, and tears immediately started running down her cheeks, “[I raised Efraim] to stay close to God, to be honest, to be law-abiding, to be respectful... [Unfortunately], he was thrown out of private school for smoking marijuana and I sent him to my brother...” She told the Judge she didn’t approve of my friends and thought LA would do me some good, but it didn’t. Nothing would have. There was nothing she could have done; she had made all the right decisions. She had said all the right things. She had been as good of a mother as anyone could have had, and I’d been a shit of a son to her; for that alone I deserve every day I had been sentenced to. “[A]t a very young age, Efraim made a lot of money...” she sniffed back her tears and said, “that money just fueled [his] alcohol and drug addiction and gambling addiction... when Efraim was arrested in Orlando... I felt like God was on my side, because I knew the arrest saved his life.”

My mother looked back at me, gave me a weary tearful smile, turned to the Judge and said, “He was like a reckless train and nobody could help him because he had all that money,” she wept and sniffled. “His money was a curse... It’s not that I don’t think Efraim should take responsibility for his actions... I just hope you’re as lenient as possible, [Efraim can] be a productive citizen... [T]hank you very much for listening to me.”

Hawkins argued in front of the Judge, “[T]he defendant did not bring any weapons to the meeting. He brought none. These were brought by the... the federal agents.” She pushed up her glasses and made some comments about the ATF’s meticulous notes of all the items brought for the sting. “...I don’t know when somebody decided that there were [high capacity] magazines there, but... there’s no documentation of it... guns or magazines, to enhance his sentence, and this is six levels. ... [It’s] manipulative, and our position is that the Court should not enhance his sentence under this provision.”

The Judge disagreed and gave me the enhancement.

My attorney then argued that the agents unfairly encouraged and coerced - in my opinion, entrapped - me to leave the Southern District and get jurisdiction, in order to give me more time. But the judge was unconvinced.

“[Your Honor] ...I just can’t imagine charging the possession of the guns by picking it up and putting it down,” she said in my defense. “Was he selling guns? Was he trying to hurt anybody? No...”

Assistant U.S. Attorney Ravenel then vilified me by saying, “The supply officers said they received poor quality junk. They said it was hurting their mission... describing his way of doing business was bait and switch... entering into a contract to provide one thing, and then providing the cheapest, lowest quality substitute.” Yet, they signed off on everything and ordered more. Ravenel and the agents made the sentencing about everything but what I actually did. “He had several bond violations, and had been arrested twice... he put three people in harm’s way [Dejan Djric, Aaron, and Jacob Shprecher]. He picked them and he used them.” I’m still not sure how I used them. “... He’s manipulative and antisocial... I’m asking you to run [the sentence] consecutive to the other unrelated conduct in South Florida that’s already been imposed.” That would be a total of eight years.

When I stood up to speak my knees were weak. “I’m so ashamed that today is the most important day of [my] life... not a wedding or a child’s birth,” I really was upset, and I really did want to change. I do want to change. To be a better son. A better brother. A better person. I’m damn sure going to try. “I’ve got a mother who drives here every week to see me... I took everything for granted when I had it... I had everything in the world... And all those friends that I had... back then, a lot of those people that came up and testified today were at one point some of my closest friends... My mind is made up about how I want to lead my life going forward. I have no desire to slip back into that life that I lived. That person is dead... or he’s rapidly dying... Thank you, Your Honor.”

The Judge looked down at me and bobbed his head in understanding. “Mister Diveroli is a difficult case,” he said. “Yes, he was young at the time, but somewhat experienced as well. Yes he was addicted to drugs and gambling... [T]he real question to me comes down to, who is the real Efraim Diveroli?” He talked about my remorse and said, “The more serious the offense, the greater the need to deter others from committing similar conduct...” The Judge looked straight in my eyes. “I think he’s smart enough not to re-offend... smart enough to know better...” he took a deep breath and ordered, “[I]t’s the judgment of the Court that the defendant, Efraim Diveroli, is committed to the custody of the Bureau of Prisons to be imprisoned for a term of 48 months, 24 months of which are concurrent to the sentence imposed in Miami and 24 months to run consecutive to the sentence.” That’s at total of 72 months, or six years, in prison. When the Marshals walked me out of the courtroom I remember looking back and seeing my mother crying in the front row. My entire family was crying.

A FEW WEEKS LATER I was shackled, handcuffed, chained up, placed on a bus, and transported to the Federal Correctional Complex in Coleman, Florida. When we arrived at the prison, you would have thought the Marshals were transporting terrorists and serial killers. Six Marshals stood around the perimeter of the bus holding shotguns as we - me and seven other inmates - were walked into the Low security prison.

Having never been to a prison before, I had visions of being locked up with mobsters, bank robbers, terrorists, drug cartel members, and political prisoners. I couldn’t have been more wrong; the Low is populated with roughly 2,000 low-level drug dealers, pedophiles, and an assortment of white-collar criminals. There are few stabbings or riots at the Low, but there is violence here - fights and beatings are common.

THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF PRISONS comprises roughly 230,000 inmates, with a staff of nearly 42,000 employees - almost 20,000 of them are COs (Correctional Officers). Not all, but the majority of COs ended up working as prison guards because they couldn’t handle the discipline of the military or pass the county, state, or federal law enforcement civil servants’ exams. Essentially, if there weren’t prisons, these people wouldn’t have jobs.

The Federal prison system is currently at 130 percent capacity. They have us crammed in here like Kalashnikov rounds in a hermetically sealed spam can - roughly 180 inmates occupy units with a maximum capacity of 129, sleeping in three-man rooms designed for two. I spend most of my time waiting in lines - not being rehabilitated… but waiting in lines. Lines to be fed, lines to pickup and drop-off laundry, lines to use the restroom or the legal library... you name it, there’s a line for it.

THE FIRST NIGHT WAS THE WORST; once the incessant mindless chatter of my fellow inmates stopped, I lay on my filthy cot and took a long hard look at my situation. I’m in prison for making a “false statement,” or lying - which I didn’t do - regarding the Chinese ammunitions’ point of “origin” or departure point - Albania, which is precisely the answer every defense contractor in the industry would have given.

I was a high school dropout-turned-international arms dealer, and became a self-made multimillionaire by age 18. By 21-years-old I had landed nearly $400 million in weapons and munitions contracts for the U.S. Government. I may have been a rebellious kid, but I overcame my obstacles, worked hard, built my business, and enjoyed my accomplishments: an American success story. Life was good, until some self-righteous New York Times reporters manipulated the facts to embarrass the U.S. Army and the Bush Administration by stating “the American military has relied since early last year on a fledgling company led by a 22-year-old man whose vice president was a licensed masseur” and that AEY, Inc. was providing “[unreliable] decaying ammunition” procured from “scrap heaps of abandoned Soviet arms.” Not one fucking round didn’t fire! Not one!

The U.S. Army Memorandum read, “The ammunition (from AEY and others) received by the ANA [Afghan National Army] and ANP [Afghan National Police] has been of good quality... Afghanistan region reported they have not received any complaints from ANA or ANP concerning the quality of ammunition received.” Yet the Defense Criminal Investigation Services agents and the Southern District of Florida’s U.S. Attorney decided to pursue the case, even after learning the allegations were false, and the pre-embargo Chinese ammunition was legal to sell.

Shapiro once told me, “The government doesn’t like to be embarrassed” and “If they investigate you they’re going to find a crime... even if they have to manufacture it.”

At worst, I’m guilty of a civil violation of my Department of Defense contract - that’s not a criminal offense. There are numerous defense contractors who have committed much more egregious violations and received no more than a fine. Had the New York Times and the U.S. Government not twisted the facts, I simply wouldn’t be here. So instead, I’m held captive by the Federal Bureau of Prisons, for what should have merely amounted to a lawsuit - at best.

And possession of a firearm by a convicted felon? The ATF agents brought the weapons to the scene of “the crime” - come on, it was entrapment! I’m not suggesting my hands are clean, but I did not commit fraud against the U.S. Government. When “Big Brother” twists the facts to prosecute citizens that haven’t committed crimes just to save face, this isn’t the country I thought it was, and I doubt it’s the country you think it is either.

At one time, I was the U.S. Government’s go-to-guy for weapons and munitions for the Iraq and Afghanistan Security Forces - one of the largest suppliers of munitions in the war on terror - until the Pentagon turned on me and made me the fall guy. I love my country and I’m a proud American, but the government fucked me. They’ve stripped me of everything: my livelihood, money, youth, liberty, and my freedom. I found out the hard way that there’s a thin line between the American dream and the American nightmare. Land of the free, home of the brave? Not from where I’m sitting. Sometimes, late at night, I wish I’d had a clear head, the right advice, and the guts to go to trial.

Maybe in some odd way I deserve what’s happened. Maybe it’s my penance for not treating my family better or being respectful of my mother and father, for not being a better Jew and showing the proper humility to God. Maybe I’ll never know why; between the time I spent on bond and my six years of incarceration, this saga will have taken up the majority of my 20s. With time off for good behavior, I could be released in November of 2015 - I’ll be 29-years-old, older and wiser from the experience, but still young enough to make a comeback. I don’t know what the next adventure will be, but I’m keeping an open mind.

You know what they say, once a gun runner...

EPILOGUE

I was released to a federal halfway house in August 2014. It’s good to be back.

Ralph Merrill was a true soldier; he refused to take a deal and ended up going to trial on September 14th of 2010. On October 15th of 2010, a mistrial was declared after the jury was unable to reach a verdict. Unfortunately, on November 22nd of 2010, the government retried Ralph, but this time the jury convicted him on 33 counts of Major Fraud Against the United States - a damn shame. On March 22nd of 2011, Ralph was sentenced to 48 months of imprisonment.

David Packouz and Alexander Podrizki - both of whom pleaded guilty in May of 2009 - were sentenced on January 13th of 2011. For their cooperation in helping to convict me and Ralph, Packouz was sentenced to 14 months’ probation, and Alex was sentenced to 10 months’ probation.

It’s my understanding that Packouz is still struggling to make a living as a masseuse amongst other things; in November of 2012, he was arrested for prostitution after offering to have sex with an undercover Collier County, Florida deputy for $400 - a male undercover deputy. Now if Packouz is working as a part-time prostitute, God only knows what Alex is doing to make ends meet.

As for Milton Blane, owner of Blane International Group - the man who falsely accused me of buying Chinese AK-47 assault rifles, which sparked the DCIS and ICE investigation into AEY, Inc. - he recently sued Boeing for branding Blane as an illegal arms dealer, costing him millions of dollars in lost business - Blane was awarded $3.5 million in punitive damages. Unfuckingbelievable!

Reed Knight, the owner of Knight’s Armaments - the guy who helped the ATF set me up on the bullshit gun possession charge - was recently placed under investigation by DCIS and the FBI, believe it or not, for fraudulent business practices and allegations of bid rigging. Let’s hope the justice system is as fair to Knight as it’s been to me.

And Heinrich Thomet, using shell companies and proxies, is still working in the international defense industry, brokering weapons and munitions between the United States, Iraq, Zimbabwe, the Philippines, Serbia... the list goes on and on.

Heinrich is the arms business’s equivalent of “Typhoid Mary”: everyone around him manages to catch an indictment, yet Heinrich remains immune to prosecution. In 2013, Colonel Shmuel Avivi, the former Israeli Defense Minister, was convicted of Breach of Trust for accepting bribes from Heinrich in exchange for lucrative weapons exports and arranging favorable contracts.

Boro Vucinic, Montenegro’s Minister of Defense, is currently answering questions regarding “a gift of gratitude” for peddling NATO-standard assault rifles sold by one of Heinrich’s companies.

Hell, Heinrich’s old buddy, Victor Bout, “The Merchant of Death,” was arrested by the DEA - of all agencies - for conspiring to provide the Colombian terrorist organization FARC with 700 surface-to-air missiles, 5,000 AK-47 assault rifles, anti-personnel land mines and C-4 explosives, night-vision equipment, and several ultra-light airplanes and unmanned aerial vehicles. Bout was convicted in a Manhattan federal court for Conspiring to Kill U.S. Citizens and Officials, Delivering Anti-Aircraft Missiles, and Providing Aid to a Terrorist Organization. Yeah, Bout is doing a 25-year sentence in the Federal Bureau of Prisons for that one.

Heinrich, however, is still walking around creating potential future indictments for his conspirators, despite being on the State Department’s watch list for six years, and weathering investigations by the CIA (Central Intelligence Agency) and the DDIA (Defense Department Intelligence Agency). Nothing seems to stick to him - either the CIA and DDIA are incompetent, or Heinrich’s $7,000 custom tailored suits are made of Teflon... only time will tell.

I’ve heard that my uncle Bar Kochba Botach has grown Botach Tactical and that the business has become more organized, and a lot more successful. Looking back, even though he and I didn’t see eye to eye, my time in LA was instrumental in preparing me for successfully operating my own company... and after all - family is family.

As for me, on average, someone from my family comes to see me once a week; sometimes it’s my father or my brothers, but mostly it’s my sister and - of course - my mother. They wake up at four o’clock in the morning, drive for nearly five hours to this podunk town of Coleman, Florida, and go through the humiliation of being poked and prodded through security by the thuggish, inbred correctional officers that run this facility for the opportunity to see me.

My family has had numerous problems trying to visit me; once the COs accused my brother of being on drugs - which he wasn’t - after he fell asleep in the waiting area. He answered the rude COs questions - explained he was exhausted from the drive - but eventually my brother got frustrated and made sarcastic comments about anti-Semitism, so they suspended his visitation for six months. On several occasions my sister has been asked to change her clothes - once because she had on blue, once because she had on khakis, once she wore a skirt, which fell one inch below her knees - one of the COs said it was too short. She was forced to drive to Wal-Mart and buy a cheap dress, which fell three inches below her knees, in order to get into the prison visitation room to see me. The COs all find humiliating the inmates’ families funny. So, because my family still loves and supports me, the BOP subjects them to ridicule and abuse.

My sister Avigail and brother Aaron are heroes. I never had a connection with them growing up because they were young when I started getting into business (and trouble), but they - along with my mother - stepped up and visited their older brother in prison on a regular basis. It couldn’t have been easy.

It’s strange: the people I treated the best, my good buddies, girlfriends, and associates all evaporated the moment I was incarcerated, but my family - the people I treated the worst - are still around. God knows why, but for some reason they just won’t give up on me. I’m not complaining, I’m just sayin’.

EFRAIM DIVEROLI

Efraim Diveroli is an American businessman, entrepreneur, author, and former international arms dealer. As president and sole shareholder of AEY, Inc. he was a major weapons contractor for the Pentagon. Between 2003 and 2008 his company was awarded and executed on over 150 contracts with various branches of the United States Government.

For more information on Efraim Diveroli, including pictures, documents, and updates visit:

www.efraimdiveroli.com

www.onceagunrunner.com

©2012-2016 EFRAIM DIVEROLI

INCARCERATED ENTERTAINMENT, LLC

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Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

PICTURES

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

EPILOGUE

EFRAIM DIVEROLI