Da Vinci in the Shadows

Chapter 2: Undercurrents in Venice

The Venetian rain, with its distinct salty, Adriatic smell, pattered against the rusted iron doors of the customs warehouse. Wen Ya stood in the shadows of Pier 3, her Biennale expert credentials swaying slightly against her chest. On her AR conta

ct lenses, the Interpol database was scanning the container number in real time.

C-19.

The gear watermark on the seal glowed blue under the UV light—identical to the marking found at the scene of the fire at her father's laboratory. Wen Ya disguised the scanner as lipstick and gently swiped it across the seam of the container. The device suddenly vibrated, and a line of small text popped up on the screen:

"Biometric Lock—Lane Family DNA Verification Required"

"An unexpected bonus, Doctor."

The hair on the back of Wen Ya's neck stood on end. Three men wearing electronic collars emerged from the shadows of the container, their red lights flickering with their breathing—the hallmark of black market mercenaries. The leader grinned, revealing his gold teeth. "Mr. Lane said you should have some coffee first."

She pretended to stumble back, but her right hand had already pressed the emergency signal transmitter on the side of her watch. "I don't know any Mr. Lane."

The metal railing vibrated slightly. Wen Ya looked up and saw Marcus Lane leaning on the second-floor landing, fiddling with a gold-leaf restoration knife—the same souvenir from the 1987 International Restorers Conference she had used that morning. Sunlight filtered through the blade, casting a sharp spot of light on her face.

"You've even forgotten your father's old friend?" Marcus' voice clung like ice in whiskey. "This knife was given to my father personally by Professor Wen Mingde."

He suddenly flipped the handle, revealing small words engraved on the inside:

"Truth Hides in the Cracks—Wen Mingde 1987"

Wen Ya's breath stopped for a second. This knife should have been burned with her father.

"Dinner at 8 o'clock, Hotel Danieli." Marcus tossed her a small bronze gear. "Bring your dissecting tools, Miss Nightingale... We have many 'bodies' to dissect."

The gear felt cold to the touch, its interior engraved with longitude and latitude coordinates. When Wen Ya looked up again, Marcus was gone, his last words lingering on the salty sea breeze:

"Remember to wear that blue dress—the same one your father wore the last time he came to Venice."

A sudden electrical hum filled her headphones. The mercenaries' electronic collars were flashing at the same frequency. Even more terrifying, one of their collars had a miniature Nightingale engraved on its inside—an exact replica of the Interpol special task force's signature.

Back in her hotel room, Wen Ya placed the gear in an ultrasonic cleaner. The high-frequency vibrations peeled away the patina, revealing a microchip within. A holographic projection unfolded in the misty bathroom, revealing a security blueprint for the 1999 Venice Biennale.

The spot circled in red on the blueprint was the exact spot where her father and Marcus's father had taken a photo together. But there was a detail in the corner she had never noticed—a secret compartment beneath the display case, labeled:

"The Last Supper—Judas Sample Storage."

The mirror suddenly caught the movement behind her. Wen Ya spun with lightning speed, her repair knife pressed against the intruder's throat—but it only pierced a blue dress hanging on a hanger. A fresh rose was pinned to the hem of the dress, its thorn stained with dark red liquid. A DNA test revealed a match:

"Wen Mingde—99.7% match."

Wen Ya opened the encrypted channel, her finger hovering over the send button. On the other side of the screen, K's last email still lit up:

"Don't trust any living Leonardo da Vinci."

Outside the window, a gondola driver hummed an ancient Venetian ballad. As the sound drifted into the room, Wen Ya suddenly recognized the lyrics—the same tune her father had often hummed. She slowly turned off the computer and retrieved the Brussels medallion he had left behind.

As the medallion nestled into the groove at the center of the gear, a set of holographic coordinates projected onto the wall, pointing to a forgotten chamber beneath the Venetian canals. On the back of the medallion, she could clearly read for the first time the tiny, time-worn words:

"When a nightingale meets a ghost, the truth will eventually emerge."