Dead Wrong (5 page)

“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 this to him?”

Cunningham suppressed a smile. She
was
listening.

“In this particular case the transplanted memory turned out to be an unpleasant one, which is an admittedly unfortunate outcome. Believe me, that wasn’t our intent. I wish to emphasize something I touched on earlier: This was only a feasibility study to explore
if
memory could be transferred. It is not the endpoint of this work, not even close. But because this is exploratory, we had no control over
which
memories might be transferred. My collaborator and I talked long and hard about whether or not to use this particular example for this demonstration. We decided to use it precisely because of one very compelling reason: It makes a very crucial point, and does it well. The man is so convincing. And this is specifically because of being so tormented by the memory. Even the Hollywood actors couldn’t match his sincerity. This fact alone should help persuade you the results are real, that these specific memories were embedded in him.”

Rasmussen shook her head in dismay. “Who is your collaborator?”

“Bertram Wyse. A neurosurgeon in Seattle. Have any of you heard of him?” It’d be a surprise if they had, but it was flattering to be asked. And sucking up to the person you were trying to sell to never hurt.

No one answered.

“PTSD has been his field of research for years. His focus is to find an effective treatment. He’s made quite a name for himself in the field, I might add.”

“Posttraumatic stress disorder?” Lawson seemed bewildered.

“As you know,” which, Cunningham figured, they didn’t, “there’s no effective treatment for it. Not only that, but an increasing number of vets are suffering from it. This is the reason the VA has supported his research. Two years ago, before leaving DARPA, I heard about this work, so I visited him in Seattle. In a nutshell, he believes PTSD is triggered by memories of the traumatic event. He contends that if he can pinpoint where the memory is stored in the brain and remove that area, the PTSD will vanish. No different from removing a bad appendix.”

He paused to let that point sink in before moving on to the next one. “I started wondering, if that little chunk of brain that’s removed still contains the memory, is it possible to somehow retrieve that memory? Like playing a DVD on a different device than it was recorded on.”

The room remained silent, all eyes on him now.

“You can see where this is going, can’t you?” Another dramatic pause. “Each one of you knows too well one of the biggest problems in intelligence work is evaluating the validity of information obtained during an interrogation. Especially when using stress-inducing techniques such as water boarding. How valuable would it be to have absolute faith about the validity of the information obtained from a terrorist?”

He let that percolate a moment before dropping the bomb.

“What if there were a way to physically pluck specific memories from a terrorist and read them with total accuracy?” He was on a roll now, his voice rising, reflecting his passion for his plan. “What a win-win that would be for us! Picture it—the insurgent no longer remembers the information because we have it. Not only that, but the validity of our newly obtained information is as good as it gets. Obtained directly from the terrorist’s mind. Think about it.”

Lawson shook his head. “Aw, Christ. Congress shit all over us for water boarding. I can just imagine how they’d react to—” He shook his head, at a loss for words. “These volunteers,” he said, making quotation marks in the air with his fingers, “how does Wyse recruit them?”

Cunningham said, “Keep in mind this work is still early stage, so like I said, what you see here doesn’t model the real situation as we envision it. At the moment, he obtains small bits of brain from trauma patients. The ones who, unfortunately, are not expected to survive.”

“Such as?” Lawson persisted.

“Severe motor vehicle accidents, gunshot wounds, cases like that.”

Rasmussen shook her head. “Hold on. Help me out here. If they’re going to die, why are they operated on?”

Cunningham smiled. He and Wyse had anticipated and prepped for this question. “That’s the beauty of Wyse’s setup. Picture this: Paramedics bring in a gangbanger with a gunshot through the center of his head. Wyse knows for sure he’s a goner, but only God knows exactly how long it’ll take before his heart stops and he’s officially declared dead. Hours? Days? When a case like this rolls in, Wyse has two options: Do nothing, parking the kid in the intensive care with an open wound that will become infected and start festering.
Or
, he can do the right thing and take him to surgery to clean up and close the wound. If we were talking about your wife or husband, what would you want done?”

Rhetorical, of course, but he and Wyse had chosen the example for maximal effect. Cunningham said, “While the poor kid is in surgery, Wyse collects a few pieces of brain. Brain that would otherwise be tossed in the trash. The boy will die anyway, so he’s no worse off for trying to help society by advancing science. Think of it this way: If a dying street thug can help thousands of our nation’s sons and daughters who have sacrificed everything for the freedom we all hold dear, isn’t it worth it? You bet it is.”

“I get that part,” Rasmussen conceded. “What I don’t understand is, okay, you have pieces of brain from the gangbanger, but who do you put them in? I mean, why would anyone in their right mind—no pun intended—allow you to do that?”

“Fair enough: Here’s where the PTSD tie-in comes into play. Like I said a few minutes ago, Wyse believes that traumatic memories—combat, rape, any number of heinous acts—trigger the symptoms. Removing that memory can stop the triggering events and, hence, abate the symptoms.” Scanning his audience, Cunningham was praying no one would ask how Wyse was able to locate the memories to begin with. Wyse had explained it had to do with MRI scans—a functional MRI scan, Wyse called it—but that was the extent of his knowledge.

“He implants the tissue during the operation to treat the PTSD.”

Rasmussen shook her head. “This is where I’m having a problem. Why would any patient agree to have a piece of someone else’s brain implanted in their own?”

Fucking Rasmussen. Precisely the questions he didn’t want to field. It was where things got a little sticky, depending upon your philosophical views. He and Wyse had no problem with it, but those fucking bleeding-heart ACLU types certainly would. Because each member of this handpicked audience had sworn to keep this information strictly confidential, he decided to divulge more than initially intended. He cleared his throat. “We don’t inform them of that part.”

“I see.” Rasmussen glanced at the others sitting around the table as if testing their degree of support should she raise objections. No one seemed willing to object, probably because they were all waiting for someone else to do so first. “In that case, should I assume there is no ethics committee oversight on Operation Cuckoo’s Nest?”

They were now entering political land mine territory: the issue of experimenting on human subjects without consent. “That would hardly be feasible considering the classified nature of the project.” However, if the press ever got wind of it …

Rasmussen muttered, “I see.”

“By now I’m sure every one of you can appreciate the huge potential Doctor Wyse’s work holds for the intelligence community. Presently he has stable DARPA funding and a solid clinical arena in which to continue the PTSD portion of his work. The intelligence-gathering application, however, is highly classified and cannot be continued in a municipal trauma center.”

Lawson bit. “Obviously this is a pitch. What is it?”

“With funding from, shall we say, sympathetic friends, Wyse can transfer his PTSD work to a small start-up company, RegenBiologic. Presently all the grants and money end up there. But as far as his other work, it will need to move to a facility that cannot be discovered by civilians. My proposal is for the CIA to establish a proprietary company to run in parallel within RegenBiologic. This is the only way to keep it secret.”

“I see. So you’re suggesting the proprietary is where Wyse will do his memory transfer work?”

Cunningham couldn’t suppress his grin. “Correct.”

Lawson frowned. “Seems to me this is a smoke screen to conceal work that, if the press ever got its hands on, would be a huge embarrassment to the U.S. intelligence community, to say nothing of the political blowback at a time when significant budget cuts are being made.”

Anticipating Lawson would be a pain in the ass, Cunningham had the answer ready to go. “I wouldn’t put it in those exact terms. The agency would serve as the review board.”

Lawson scoffed. “I’m not all that worried about the ethics, Clyde. My main concern is where he gets the donors and recipients. Not only that, but where could he possibly do the surgery and keep it classified? You have an answer to those questions?”

“You guys are masters at concealment, plus you have all the resources. I would leave those details up to you, but I think the goals would be best served by establishing a proprietary company. As to where the work might be done, well, look how many unaccounted prisoners you have scattered around the world.”

Lawson nodded. “Okay, so that accounts for the donors. Where would he get the recipients?”

“That’s the easy part. How many informants do you and other agencies place into witness protection programs each year? People who want to drop out of sight and never be found again? In other words, you have a plentiful supply of rats who, if they want to stay alive, don’t have any other choice but to agree.”

M
CCARTHY CAREFULLY PRESSED on the edges of the tiles where the steel struts gave them most support. Would they be strong enough to support him? So far this seemed to be the case, so he leaned forward, applying more weight. They held. He remained leery but saw no other option than to try.

After taking a deep breath, he pulled his entire body up onto the false ceiling and slithered forward into stifling stale air, thick dust, and mildewing duct tape. Amazingly, the tiles held. He curled around enough to replace the removed tile, cutting down the light to only shards of fluorescence from seams and pinholes in the light fixtures. On forearms and knees he crawled forward, navigating more by feel than by sight. Fear tingled up his spine, urging him to move faster while at the same time cautioning him to not make a sound. On top of that was the fear that the tiles would give way, dropping him through the ceiling.

He heard Washington yell, “What the fuck! Hey, Sikes, the doc out there?”

They had realized he was gone. In a moment they’d figure out he was up here. He began to panic but talked himself down—but he still increased his pace, concentrating on moving one limb at a time while panting from heat and adrenaline. Sweat rolled down his face and off his nose, his pulse hammering in both ears.

“Sikes! Man, get your ass in here, on the double.”

His eyes were adapting to the dim light, allowing him to move faster, his confidence growing as he got the hang of it. A wad of dust shot up his right nostril and lodged in the back of his throat. He gagged back a cough, paused to sniff and swallow, tears streaming down his cheeks. The urge to cough worsened, threatening to morph into a sneeze. He breathed through his mouth and tried to ignore it. It wasn’t working. In desperation, he buried his face in the crook of his elbow and sniffed, forcing the glob of mucus down his throat. He silently gagged and swallowed, and it was gone.

Sikes yelled, “Son of a mother bitch!”

McCarthy started moving again, pushing his luck, struggling to increase the distance from them, hoping to find a hiding place before they looked into the dropped ceiling. Yeah, but when they finally did look up here, then what?

He didn’t have an answer for that.

He could make out a narrow corridor formed by a sheet-metal duct on the right and an insulated hot air supply on the left. But the dim light rapidly disappeared into a black hole about five feet ahead. Was it a dead end? He stopped and glanced around, but the only other option would be to return the way he came, leaving him no choice but to move forward.

His chin slammed something hard and cold. He groped blindly and felt a pipe with a shut-off valve left of center. Too low to crawl under. Too high to climb over?

Sikes yelled, “Where the fuck is he?”

“The ceiling, man. That’s the only place he could’ve gone. Swear to God I was watching the door the whole time. He sure as hell didn’t come out.”

McCarthy reached over the pipe and explored by feel, founding nothing within an arm’s length to block him. He started crawling over, the valve scraping his skin. He was pulling his right leg over when his pants snagged. Without thinking, he jerked his leg forward, ripping his cuff.

He heard a metallic clink.

He froze, thinking he’d broken the valve, but he didn’t hear anything like running water or gas escaping. Then he realized he’d knocked his pager off his belt. He curled around to reach for it just as Sikes said, “Washington, get your ass on up there. Take a look-see.”