that the lung could collapse and come to rest against the heart causing it to spasm and stop beating. He could lie on his side but that guaranteed nothing.The only way to ensure survival until he could get to a hospital and be patched up was to re-inflate the lung.
Stratton looked around on the ground for anything he might be able to use and saw a photograph. His eyes moved on and found another that he could not ignore. It was a picture of Zhilev and his brother, standing in the snow, arms around each other and smiling broadly. A stab of pain reminded him of his immediate needs and he disconnected from the photo and picked up a small piece of plastic wrapping beside it. As he took a breath, the frothy blood immediately around the hole was sucked back inside. He placed the plastic over the bloody hole to seal it. It did not matter how filthy it was since dying of infection was a low priority. But placing the plastic over the hole was not enough. That only blocked it; he needed to get air back into the deflating lung and that required a valve. He noticed a piece of masking tape on the side of the Uzi with the owner’s name and number on it. Using the tape, he stuck the piece of plastic to his chest, the tape placed above the hole so that the plastic flapped down over it. As he breathed in, the plastic blocked the hole, and as he exhaled, it allowed some of the air in the chest cavity to escape. With each breath, the lung would eventually inflate again. He dropped his hands to the ground, the effort exhausting him. It was all now up to Gabriel.
Gabriel stood inside the crypt looking at the device that appeared every bit as evil as it was. He wondered what kind of sick mind had invented such a weapon, and what even sicker one would use it. Zhilev had such a mind, but he had paid the price.
Gabriel ran a hand over it. The dull metal was cold. For some reason he had expected it to be hot, such was the stigma of the weapon. On reflection, cold suited it better. The worst killers were always cold.
He rolled it over carefully and was then amused at his own stupidity. He had come to break it open and here he was treating it with reverence, a forgivable reaction perhaps for a thing of such power.
He picked it up, surprised to find it heavier than it looked, and rolled it over in his hands searching for an obvious way of opening it, but there did not appear to be one. It was made of two semi-spheres riveted together. After a thorough inspection Gabriel could not see any way into the device other than penetrating the seam and prising it apart.
He looked around for a tool of some kind and saw a large nail on the floor. As he bent down to pick it up, he found a stone under the table that looked like it might serve as a hammer. It fitted nicely in his hand and he got up, positioned the nail on the seam and tapped the nail head gently as a test. It made a small dent in the seam. He tapped it harder and the nail went in a few millimetres. Encouraged by his success he moved the nail along a couple of millimetres and repeated the process, this time prising the edge of the seam up a little by levering on the nail. Another puncture and he paused to inspect his work. To go around the entire seam would take a long time. What he needed was something bigger to jam into it and lever it apart. He was suddenly amused again, this time at the enthusiasm with which he was going about his task. He was reminded of his younger days when he used to enjoy helping his father fix his car in their garage. He always liked to tackle the simple yet awkward jobs, such as undoing the nut that didn’t want to budge, or attaching the hose that did not appear long enough, but since it had come off, it had to go back on.
As he scanned the dusty floor without luck, he moved his search to the walls, and his eyes came to rest on the metal crucifix on the wall beside the icon of the