Every single person involved in the publication of this novel owes Michael Crichton’s ghost a big fat apology.
The first half is basically a piratical Ocean’s 8 with an impossible heist in an impregnable Spanish fort. That part was decent enough, but then the second half spectacularly jumps the shark on its way to Seafaring Adventure Cliché Town. Hurricanes, cannibals, and giant squids all make an appearance before a sudden and inevitable betrayal kicks off a savagely abridged version of The Count of Monte Cristo in the final chapters. There are subplots that go nowhere, clunky info dumps, terrible dialogue, and horrible pacing issues. The entire cast of characters is so underdeveloped that the most believable part of the book is when one character doesn’t notice when a man he knows well is replaced by a scarecrow.
Unless this is some brilliant and twisted plot to increase tourism by getting the disgruntled spirits of dead authors to haunt their old home offices, I’m thinking we need to put a moratorium on posthumous publishing.