Jack Idema is dead.
I met this colorful character in the lobby of the Hotel Tajikistan in Dushanbe in November 2001. I was on my way into northern Afghanistan and the HT was the headquarters for reporters covering the Taliban’s last (ha–we thought) stand in north, around Kunduz.
Like all con men, he was vague about his affiliations. He claimed to be on deep cover, an unacknowledged member of U.S. Special Forces working with the Northern Alliance. It wasn’t implausible; he certainly did maintain contacts with both organizations and seemed to be able to pull a few strings here and there.
His interest in me was to try to get my paper, the Village Voice, to run a story about how the Pentagon was refusing to provide proper medical aid to America’s Afghan allies. Naturally I requested proof: people to interview, documents, whatever could help verify his story. All he did was talk. A lot of bluster, much of it including threats about how his Special Forces buddies would track me down and murder me and my family if I ever crossed him.
Having been bullied and beaten as a kid, I wasn’t impressed. And so, finally, the morning I headed for the border, Jack handed me a floppy disc. “Give this to anyone and you WILL die in pain,” he promised.
I carried it to Afghanistan with me. Kept it dry as I forded rivers. Kept it away from the pernicious Afghan dust. Got it back safe and sound to Tajikistan, then Turkey, then New York. Where I popped it into my Mac. And a friend’s PC.
It was blank.