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Holmes rolled his eyes. “For God’s sake, Margaret—enough! We’re knee-deep in an important case! Oliver Paul could set off another bomb at any minute! He’s given us a deadline to release his wife, which we know we can’t do. We need Margaret Marple on the job, not Julia Child!”

“I understand,” said Marple. “You’ve all been carrying more than your share of the weight for these past few days. This will be the end of it. I promise.”

“Right,” Holmes muttered, “we’ve heard that before.”

“I can help with shopping,” said Virginia. “Just tell me what you need.”

“Be careful what you ask for,” said Marple. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded copy of the complex recipe. Luckily she’d found an authentic version in one of her yellowed French cookbooks upstairs. She passed the paper to Virginia, then looked at Holmes. “And I’ll need to use Diogenes.”

“What for?” asked Holmes.

“Trust me,” said Marple. “The evening will fail otherwise.”

When Virginia opened the recipe, her eyebrows shot up. “This is a really long list.”

“Forty-three ingredients to be exact,” said Marple. “All ending up in one big pot.”

“What’s this dish called?” asked Grey.

“In English,” said Marple, “it would translate as something like a feast for the god Neptune himself.”

“Sounds impressive.”

“Oh, it is,” said Marple, “if it’s done right. The instructions recommend three full days for prep. I have two.”

“What a coincidence,” muttered Holmes. “That’s exactly the amount of time we’ve got to save the world.”

Marple winced. Holmes was prone to exaggeration. But she feared that this time he wasn’t entirely wrong.

CHAPTER 61

FROM THREE HUNDRED feet up, the Aquila looked like a futuristic city growing out of the water. The helicopter landing pad, normally a prominent feature on an offshore platform, looked like it was the size of a paperback.

The passenger with the thick mustache turned to the crew-cut man beside him. “Look at that, Ronnie!” he shouted over the engine noise. They were two of six new hires crammed into the cabin of the Bell 206 company shuttle from Houston. They’d both been testing each other on their new names and their Texas accents since they left the Motel 6 for the transport hub. By now, they no longer had to do the mental conversion. In theater terms, they were off book—fully prepared, with their parts memorized.

For all practical purposes, they were Ron and Pete. That’s how they referred to each other, how they introduced themselves to the chopper pilot and their crewmates. And their IDs backed them up. What’s more, with no wives, girlfriends, or close relatives to report to, they were completely on their own out here, dedicated to the task at hand. The oil company actually preferred things that way. More focus. Fewer distractions.

So did Oliver Paul.

The new Ron and Pete both knew that, by now, their deceased doppelgangers were shark chum back in Trinity Bay. But that wasn’t their department. The rig was.

The chopper circled the platform once and turned for the final approach. Pete could tell the direction of the wind from the swells below. A small fleet of powerboats patrolled the perimeter, about fifty yards out from the platform on all sides.

On the landing pad, a man in a bright orange vest waved a pair of glowing batons to guide the aircraft down. It settled with a gentle thump on the landing pad. The rotor shut down as the pilot’s voice crackled through the intercom. “This is the Aquila. Welcome aboard. Everybody out.”

Ron and Pete hopped down onto the black chopper pad. The man in the orange vest waved them and the other newbies toward a metal staircase at the far end. One after another, they grabbed the railing and backed down until their boots were on the main deck.

Ron looked around and let out a low whistle of amazement. The blueprints he’d studied had not conveyed the scope of this thing. Not even close. To the left and right, the deck extended to a width of more than seventy yards. Ahead, it stretched out longer than an American football field. The superstructure alone was the height of a sixty-story building. In the middle was the central tower and drilling rig, with the draw works, rotary table, and top drive. Somewhere on the decks below were the separators, pumps, and compressors, along with the rig’s desalinization and waste management equipment.

Everywhere Ron looked, he spotted crewmembers in hard hats scrambling, climbing, and wrangling gear. There were hundreds of them.

He glanced at Pete, who looked equally impressed.

It was a fantastic structure. It would be a shame to bring the whole thing down.

CHAPTER 62

BRENDAN HOLMES USUALLY enjoyed spying, and he was good at it. It gave him a satisfying inner tingle, a voyeuristic thrill. But this morning he was just depressed and confused. He’d barely taken care to conceal himself. In espionage terms, this was amateur hour.