She switched off the engine, opened the door and went around so that she could slide in next to the old man. Milton was right: a round had struck him halfway between his pectoral muscle and clavicle. His shirt was already sodden with warm blood and his breathing hissed in and out in frequent, hungry gulps.

Beatrix made an immediate diagnosis: his lung had been punctured and was in danger of collapsing.

She told Milton to get her the duct tape that she had seen in the back of the people carrier and ripped open the old man’s shirt. She would try to delay the process by creating a one-way valve. She needed to stop air from getting sucked into Koralev’s chest through the wound as he breathed in, yet still allow excess air to escape through the bullet hole. She tore off two pieces of tape and stuck them together so that there was no sticky side and then placed it over the entry wound. She taped down three sides, doing so loosely so that there was a little slack. She left one side open and then checked. Whenever Koralev inhaled, the valve lid was sucked down to seal the wound so that air could not get in. When he exhaled, excess air from the chest pushed up the lid so that it could escape through the edge that was not taped down. It was makeshift, and far from perfect, but it might buy him a few extra minutes.

Koralev reached for her, his hand falling limply on her elbow. His mouth opened and closed and she realised that he was trying to speak.

“Phoenix,” he said.

“Hold on,” Beatrix said. “We’re going to get you a doctor.”

Milton opened the passenger door and went around to retrieve the gear.

Koralev shook his head. “No. No doctor. Not that.”

He coughed.

She leaned closer. “What then?”

He grunted with pain, taking a long breath until he had mastered it. “There is a house. Cortada de Maturín. There is a track on the road to the north of the town.”

“Is that your house?” she asked. “We’ve seen the track.”

He nodded. “Take it. It goes into the mountains. The house… the house is a mile later.”

“You want me to go there?”

He nodded again.

“Why?”

“My work. Everything is there.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll get it. What is it? A computer?”

He didn’t answer. “There is a person on the Internet. He believes… freedom of information. He will publish it. If we spread it wide”—he coughed violently—“if everyone sees it, they will understand what we have done. The monsters we have created. People will understand what Daedalus is trying to do. And then, perhaps, they will be forced to stop.”

His skin, already pale, was becoming tinged with blue. He wasn’t getting enough oxygen.

“Stay with me,” Beatrix urged.

“Phoenix,” Koralev said weakly.

“What?”

“Phoenix is there.”