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the place.”

    A S THE INTERVIEW continued, Cunningham studied his guests’ faces, their eyes riveted on the man’s story. But, could he sell it? Any brilliant concept has a downside. Would they accept this one?
    The interviewee finished his story, his eyes to the floor, face painted with disgust and self-loathing. Cunningham stopped the video, freezing the image on screen.
    Mike Lawson, the most senior agency official, flashed a what-the-hell-was-that-all-about look.
    “This discussion,” Cunningham began, “is highly classified. What I’m about to tell you will not leave this room. If any of you have a problem with this, leave now. Anyone?”
    No one moved.
    “Shall I continue?”
    All the CIA brass nodded in unison. Two shifted in their chairs, impatient.
    “This man,” Cunningham said with a nod at the screen, “describes murdering a prostitute. Okay, so what? We’ve all seen videotaped confessions. This one’s different. Because in spite of vividly describing his memory of the incident, he wasn’t there and he’s not the murderer. He doesn’t know, and has never met, the person who actually committed the crime. The man you see on screen is, instead, a volunteer in a small study code-named Operation Cuckoo’s Nest. The experiment is designed to test the feasibility of transferring memories from one person to another by transplanting small homogenates of the brain. As fantastic as this may sound, the experiment you just witnessed proves that memory transfer can be done.” He paused to sip water, allowing this last statement to sink in.
    Lawson started to say something but Cunningham raised a hand, cutting him off. “Before you ask how we know his story isn’t total fabrication—one that he drummed up from watching CSI: Miami or Dexter , or even hearing it from the real killer—let me finish.”
    Lawson wasn’t the only one who appeared to have doubts.
    “The man the police believe is the killer had a tiny bit of brain removed before he died. This brain matter was transplanted into the man in this interview.”
    Lawson started, “Still—”
    “Please, Mike, let me finish. His description contains information never released to the media. And,” raising his voice to emphasize the point, “there’s no evidence that the recipient ever met the murderer in person or via any other means of communication.”
    “If the facts were never released, how can you attest to their validity?” asked Tony Hennessey, the least senior agency member present.
    “Because I verified them with the King County police. King County, as in Washington state, that is.”
    Hennessey began drumming a ballpoint against his free hand. “Wouldn’t they be suspicious of someone verifying unpublicized details? I certainly would.”
    “I have a contact within their department.” Cunningham rubbed his thumb and fingers together in the universal sign of money. “He checked the case files to validate the details. Also, I emphasized this was a classified issue with national security implications.”
    Cunningham let Hennessey and the others chew on that a few seconds. “Granted, it’s impossible to prove my claim beyond any doubt—especially to a group of intelligence officers—but take my word for it: the memories he described were embedded in the man here,” he said, pointing to the screen, “from a small bit of brain tissue instead of any firsthand experience.”
    Lawson still appeared skeptical.
    Cunningham continued, “There are other facts that help validate this experiment. For example, the interviewee’s wife swears he never mentioned those memories prior to receiving the implant. And believe me, he would’ve. Why? Because, as I think, as you all appreciate, they’re extremely upsetting to him.”
    “I would hope so. If he were normal.” Frowning, Linda Rasmussen, a Middle East analyst, leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped tightly. “Which brings us to the next question. Why on earth would you do