Da Vinci in the Shadows

In the British Museum's restoration room, a constant temperature and humidity system maintains a constant temperature of 21°C and a humidity of 45%. Wen Ya adjusted the focus of her magnifying glass. Under the cold light source, the hairline cracks on the surface of the Madonna and Child were clearly visible. She dipped her No. 000 sable brush in a special gel, and each stroke was precise to 0.1mm. "Miss Wen, your tea." Assistant Xiao Lin gently placed the bone china teacup on the edge of the workbench, the bottom of the cup making no sound when it touched the surface—this is the standard in the restoration room. Wen Ya nodded in thanks, her eyes never leaving the painting. Infrared imaging revealed an unusual layer of pigment beneath the Madonna's blue cloak. She took out a custom-made titanium alloy restoration knife from Germany, its blade gleaming coldly under ultraviolet light. This £30,000 tool, capable of removing layers of paint as precise as 0.01mm, was a gift from her father when she qualified as a restorer. "Traces of a mixture of Venetian red and Naples yellow were found on the third floor," Wen Ya said into the recording device. "It matches the recipe from Leonardo da Vinci's studio in 1498." Her voice was calm, but her fingertips trembled slightly—this pigment combination shouldn't appear in works by the 15th-century Flemish school. After Kobayashi left, Wen Ya pulled a miniature spectrometer from the inside pocket of her white coat. As the instrument scanned the lower right corner of the painting, it suddenly emitted a soft hum. She squinted—a gear-shaped watermark faintly visible at the seam of the frame. This was the logo for the "Ghost Gallery." She last saw this symbol in the firelight of her father's laboratory on that rainy night three years ago. Firefighters said the fire was caused by improper storage of cellulose nitrate adhesive, but her father always kept hazardous chemicals locked in an explosion-proof cabinet. The computer screen suddenly lit up, revealing a single line of an encrypted email: "Target confirmed activity. Leonardo da Vinci's manuscript 'The Flying Machine' will be transferred to Venice customs next Wednesday. Contact recommended. -K" Wen Ya's fingers hovered over the keyboard. K was her contact at Interpol, but the message arrived with perfect timing—just twenty minutes after she'd discovered the abnormality in the painting. An alarm suddenly blared throughout the restoration room. Wen Ya's muscle memory outpaced her thinking—her left ring finger pressed the jammer button on the side of her watch, her right hand splashed solvent onto the workbench, and simultaneously bit open the necklace pendant with her teeth. The magnetic field from the neodymium magnet instantly disabled all electronic devices, and the spilled solvent perfectly obscured the scanning traces. "A short circuit triggered the smoke alarm," she explained to the security guards who rushed in, her voice dripping with just the right amount of panic. No one noticed the micro memory card ejected from the bottom of her shoe heel, the nightingale pattern engraved on it flashing in the light. When the crowd dispersed, Wen Ya gently pried open the back of the painting frame with a restoration knife. An X-ray revealed a miniature mechanical design hidden within the interlayer—the gears meshing in a manner identical to Leonardo da Vinci's manuscripts. In her apartment by the Thames, Wen Ya placed her palm on the spine of the Yongle Encyclopedia. After the biometric system confirmed it, the bookshelf slid silently open, revealing a wall safe. The "Nightingale Protocol" device was heating up. It was her father's last gift to her. Inside the sealed box, the biological tissue in the glass tube shone eerily under the blue light. The label, "The Last Supper - Judas Sample," had yellowed, but the handwriting was still clear. As the holographic projector activated, her father's image was punctuated by a few seconds of static: "Xiao Ya, when you see this, it means they've found 'Flying Machines'..." The image suddenly switched to a map of Venice, with a red dot flashing at Pier 3. A soft sound came from outside the window. Wen Ya's repair knife was already pressed against the intruder's throat—it was just a curtain rustling in the wind. But in the moonlight, she could clearly see something new on the windowsill: a fresh rose, its petals stained with the uniquely salty Venetian water droplets. Wen Ya flipped through a photo album. In a photo from her twelfth birthday, her father held her hand while they repaired a Tang Dynasty tri-colored horse. His words back then took on new meaning: "Remember, the most perfect fake is often hidden within the original." She removed the memory card from her shoe heel and inserted it into a custom card reader. The screen displayed the complete instructions, followed by a blurry photo—her father and a blond man standing in the Venice Biennale exhibition hall. In the display case between them lay the long-lost "Flying Machine." The date in the corner of the photo read: June 12, 1999. Seven days before her father's death. Wen Ya locked her equipment box, neatly arranged with repair tools and specialized weapons. In three days, she would fly to Venice. The game that had begun with her father's life at stake was finally about to begin its first round.