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FORTY-ONE

A ll these concerns are rendered marginal when Alexander comes into my office the next morning. He has a laptop in his hand, and he’s scowling.

He’s not much of a scowler, so I ask, “What?”

He places the computer on my desk and turns it toward me.

It’s a new Facebook post from my account, which I haven’t used in years.

I stare at a photograph of me holding a mock-up of the packaging for Zymidline in one hand and a thick packet of data reports in the other.

Underneath, it reads: “This drug cannot be released in September as planned. Calliope Technologies of Boston, the company that developed Zymidline, provided the FDA with false data on its safety. I am the vice president of regulatory affairs at Calliope, and it is my duty to come forward with this information before anyone is harmed.”

“You didn’t do this, right?” he asks.

“Of course not. And that photo, it’s not real. Has to be AI. Hackers…” Furious, I look up at Alexander, who’s in his mid-twenties and probably knows a lot more about this kind of thing than I do. “How the hell does something like this happen?”

“Lots of mean-spirited assholes without a life. Leaky security.” He rests his hand on my shoulder. “This sucks. Do you have any idea why someone would want to screw you like that?”

I shake my head and hand him back his laptop. But I do know why.

When the door closes behind him, I try to tamp down my wrath, but it fights back. I call Wyatt. “Go to Facebook and check any new posts from me.”

“I thought you didn’t use Facebook. And I’m in the middle—”

“It’s Damien.”

There’s the sound of clicking, then silence, then, “Fuck.”

I want to scream and pound my desk. But there’s no pounding and screaming in biotech.

“Post a retraction ASAP,” he says. “Report it to Facebook and show it to your boss before he sees it from someone else.”

“How could Damien do such a thing?”

“Does look suspicious, but what’s his motive? Intimidation? Freaking you out? Making you look bad? I don’t see how any of those get him closer to the painting.”

“I don’t know, but it reeks of him. The leak to the press about Party being in my apartment, the threats, the hearing to get her to the Louvre—and now this. Who else would bother?”

“A business competitor? Someone with a grudge from the past? Your ex-husband? Nick?”

“It’s him. It—”

“We can talk about this later. Now it’s damage control before anything else.”

I comment on the post with FALSE, FALSE, FALSE , in all caps, followed by an explanation that I was hacked, the photo is fake, there has been no fudged data, and Zymidline is completely safe.

Then I create a new post that says the same thing.

I contact Facebook and follow the directions to flag the content and describe the situation.

I get a text claiming they’ll get back to me as soon as possible, whatever that means.

Then I go in search of Tony, but he’s not in the office.

At ten o’clock, FDA regulatory officials arrive to examine our lab setup for the development of the clostridial myonecrosis drug.

Despite my agitation, the inspection goes well.

There are a dozen or so minor things that need tweaking, but far fewer than usual for an initial review.

I’m pretty pleased with myself and go back to my office with a smile on my face.

But when Calliope’s CEO walks in and closes the door behind him, the smile disappears. Anthony Lurie can be a difficult guy—headstrong and prone to take offense even when none is given—and I try to avoid him as much as possible.

“Good news, Tony. The feds pretty much green-lighted the CM lab. We’re on our way.”

He nods, his jaw set.

“What’s up?” I ask with fake cheerfulness.

He takes a seat in one of the chairs in front of my desk. “Nothing good.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s your Facebook post.”

“You know I didn’t do that. My account was hacked.”

“Be that as it may, it’s a major problem. For you and for Calliope.”

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am about all this. I’ve already posted a retraction and notified Facebook. Lots of wackos out there.”

“And because your wackos tagged our website in the post, now someone—maybe the same people or maybe not—got into the site and our email server. Your post was sent to all the newsletter recipients and to every address on our contact list, including our funders and the governmental offices we have connections with. I don’t think I need to tell you what a disaster this is for both our business and our reputation. ”

I stare at him. “I, I don’t know what to say. This is… It’s just so awful.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“What can I do? How can I help?”

“The most helpful thing you can do right now is nothing.”

“But I want to. I feel responsible and—”

Tony stands. “Why don’t you take a few days off? I’ll let you know what’s been determined after the decisions are made.”

I stand too. “What kind of decisions?”

“Like how we’re going to get ourselves out of this mess that you—inadvertently or not—got us into.”

AFTER THREE DAYS of silence, Tony texts and asks me to come to his office at noon.

Angelica Grebb, the VP of legal, Barry Shaddock, the board chair, and Melissa Caplan, the head of HR, are waiting for me along with Tony.

Wyatt told me that even if they acknowledged I had nothing to do with the post, Calliope would be within its rights to take disciplinary action because of the harm it did to the business.

When I asked what kind of action, he said it could be anything from a slap on the wrist to termination.

He figured something in between the two.

From the unsmiling faces before me, I’m thinking it’s going to be closer to the negative end of the spectrum.

The four of them are sitting at the conference table, and I join them.

I try not to let my nervousness show, and say, “I just want to reiterate what I told Tony the other day. I didn’t post it, and I’m really sorry that someone else did.

I have no idea who was behind it—and Facebook told me this kind of thing happens all the time—but I do know how harmful it’s been to Calliope, and I want to apologize and take responsibility for whatever unintentional hand I had in it. ”

“Thank you,” Angelica says. “We appreciate that, but I can’t overstate the negative impact this has already had on our workplace, our reputation, and on the suffering patients waiting for Zymidline to be released, a wait that will now be prolonged.

And there’s the potential effect on our bottom line and the company’s future.

The adverse publicity alone has already been devastating. ”

“Again, I’m so sorry.”

Barry, a veteran tech wiz, who was one of the first on the biotech train, smiles sadly at me. “Tamara, we recognize that this wasn’t your post, and that bad players are responsible for its spread.” He clears his throat. “But even with that, the board has no choice but to terminate your contract.”

Even though I’ve been contemplating this possibility for days, I didn’t really believe it would happen. I turn to Tony. “After my ‘exemplary work,’ as you described it in my last review? A review that, I might add, I have a copy of.”

He doesn’t meet my eye. “Sorry it’s come to this.” He looks pleadingly at Angelica.

“Like Barry said, we had no choice,” she explains.

“Whether you did it on purpose or not, the aspersions against us—and against a federal agency—cannot go unanswered. It will take months, years, if ever, to clear our name. And none of this bodes well for future grants and contracts. Not to mention our investors. Letting you go will signal to all of them that we take full responsibility and will do everything we can to keep such a thing from ever happening again.”

I want to yell that I’m as much a victim as Calliope is, that I’m going to sue them for wrongful termination.

Their decision is a knee-jerk reaction, and I would have expected better from all the brainpower in this room.

But even through my fury, self-preservation kicks in.

I understand they believe that firing me is necessary to appease both the FDA and the investors—and that I’m the scapegoat.

I also understand that if I say any of those things, I’ll never get another job in biotech.

I stand and hold my head high. “If the decision is made, the decision is made, no matter how unjust it may be. It’s my sincere hope that this can be addressed quickly and there won’t be any long-term effects on the company or the patients. And, again, my apologies.”

“We’ll pack up your things and send them to you,” Tony calls to my retreating back. “Please leave your badge and keys with Alexander.”