The Lost Panel

Sophia pushed past him. “What about the thigh action, Hollywood?” The climb was grueling. Thirty feet up, then another stretch into the dark, their harnesses clipped to a rope looped around the beams. The wind clawed at their clothes, sharp and relentless, rattling the frame beneath them. Each foothold demanded full focus. After fifteen minutes, the narrow ledge came into view, along with their target: a rusted maintenance hatch, just out of reach. “I can’t hit it,” Sophia muttered, reaching up on tiptoe. “Neither can I,” Ryan said. “Guess you’re climbing on my shoulders.” She ignored his grin and stepped up. Balanced precariously, she wedged a crowbar under the handle. The hatch resisted, then gave with a soft metallic groan. Ryan winced. “That was my back.” The hatch creaked open into darkness. “Fantastic,” Ryan said. “A medieval laundry chute. What could go wrong?” Sophia swung in first, her flashlight beam slicing through the shadows. A moment later, a rope ladder tumbled down to Ryan. He gave the scaffolding one last wary glance before climbing inside. The air was heavy with oil, metal, and centuries-old dust. Crawling on their bellies through the cramped shaft, they reached a fork. Sophia picked a direction without hesitation, and soon the passage opened into the tower’s central core. Ryan stopped short. “Holy Moses.” A metal staircase spiraled upward into shadow, wrapped in a cage of thick iron mesh. The only access was a locked gate at the base. “It’s like being swallowed by a snake,” Ryan said. Sophia ran her fingers over the lock. “Maintenance only.” “But we’ve got vests,” Ryan quipped. “We look fantastic, by the way. At least you do.” “Locks are just suggestions,” she replied, as she lifted both arms over her head with practiced grace, slipping her barrette free, and adroitly twisted her hairpin into the lock’s tumblers. Within seconds, there was a click. Ryan, looking totally impressed, swung the gate open and started up, immediately cracking his head on the overhang. “Damn it. These stairs were built for short Italians.” “Just duck,” Sophia said, sliding past him. The climb was claustrophobic, the cage pressed close, and each step made the staircase hum with hollow vibration. Halfway up, Ryan muttered, “If this thing squeezes, I’m cutting us out.” Sophia’s chuckle echoed in the tight space. “You’ve seen too many horror movies, Hollywood.” “How much time?” Ryan panted. “Fifty-three minutes,” Sophia replied without looking up. Sweat slicked her palms as she gripped the next rung. “Feels like the damn tower’s getting taller.” “Or we’re getting slower,” she shot back, forcing a wry smile that didn’t reach her eyes. They climbed until the muffled sound of machinery grew into a metallic roar. At the top, the chamber opened around them, the clock’s vast mechanical heart revealed in full. An iron shaft rose through the center, surrounded by a lattice of brass gears, pulleys, counterweights, and springs—a centuries-old machine that still smelled faintly of oil. “It’s like standing inside a giant watch,” Ryan said. “More than a watch,” Sophia replied. “A masterpiece.” The tower groaned—BOOM—and the gears engaged. Dust rained from above as counterweights swung, springs tightened, and the iron core began to turn with a deep, rhythmic thrum. “Outside—now!” she shouted. They scrambled back onto the exterior platform off the Lion’s terrace, ropes swaying as the celestial disks spun within the zodiac dial. The symbols realigned, gold flashing in the moonlight. Above, the angel atop the tower lifted its trumpet. The Magi rotated toward the Lion of St. Mark. The Moors struck the bell. GONG. The sound hit like a physical force, rattling the stone beneath them. Dust poured from hidden seams. The great zodiac wheel spun, constellations shifting into a formation unseen for ninety years. Then—a smaller mechanism stirred within the clock face. A hidden panel slid open, revealing the two blue screens. Two sets of Roman numerals blinked onto the glass: MCMXLV Sophia’s voice was barely a whisper. “1945. The last time it ran—and the last time the Lost Panel was moved.” A new sequence replaced the numerals: twelve digits, split across the screens. Sophia scrawled them on a hotel napkin. Seconds later, the panels flashed four more numerals—then went dark. Beneath the left screen, a phrase appeared in crisp German text: Belohnung Bezahlt. Ryan frowned. “What’s that mean?” “‘Reward paid,’” Sophia said. “Could be a payment confirmation for hiding the panel. Or a taunt.” “Why in German? Shouldn’t it be in Old Flemish?” Ryan’s eyes stayed on the blanking screens. “And the numbers?” “Coordinates,” she said without hesitation. “Longitude and latitude.” He gestured at the now-dark panels. “Then why did they vanish?” “Timer,” she guessed. “Only for the intended recipient.” She shoved the napkin into her pocket. “We need to get this back to HQ.” Neither noticed the faint shift of shadow high above on the ledge of the Campanile bell tower, where Otto leaned silently against the beams, watching with the stillness of a predator. With this vantage point it turned their every movement as if they were on a stage for his benefit. The corners of his mouth curled upward. High above, hidden within the dense lattice of beams in the tower’s upper reaches, Otto watched. He had remained motionless for nearly an hour, his body blended into the shadows, his breathing controlled, his eyes fixed on the scene below. They’d brought and installed the astrolabes, then successfully run them to learn the coordinates. They’d given him exactly what he needed. Through the glass, Sophia and Ryan moved with sharp efficiency, their voices low but their energy betraying a rush of triumph. They believed they were solving the mystery before anyone else. They didn’t realize they were completing it for him. The astrolabes, now fully restored, traced slow, precise arcs in harmony with the stars outside. His grandfather had dismantled them in 1945, ensuring that the clock’s true purpose would remain dormant. For decades, Otto had chased whispers of their location. Now, thanks to his silent patience, others had done the delicate work of reinstallation. They had given him exactly what he wanted. And that made them—whether they knew it or not—disposable.