Journal Entry 70

04.09.2026

Although I asked Fräulein Heng to help me decipher the next line, she declined each time I asked. No—at Die Verborgene Tasse. No—when we arrived home. No—during yesterday’s breakfast. I felt like a child begging his mother.

In hindsight, I should not have told her that the letter was written in blood. Then again, I have always been honest with her.

Last evening, I tried my hardest to make sense of the second line. My concentration lasted almost an hour before I gave up, retired to my quarters, and turned on the Glotze. Honestly, I do not remember whether I even chose a show to watch on Prime Video, since I awakened this morning with the remote control still in my hand.

My dearest journal, I am having quite a difficult time with the next line. I need assistance from someone I trust. I do not need to tell the person where the cryptic words and numbers came from. I need only ask for their aid.

But who?

Shall I ask my children? No.

Shall I ask a random parliamentary member? No. That would invite inquisitive questions—or a leak to the press.

Maybe a member of the Royal Family? No. I do not know why that thought even crossed my mind.

As I consider who might provide me with insight, I know whom I will ask. I am taking a gamble by asking him, but something inside me tells me he is trustworthy.

I bid you good night. I have a phone call to make.

I pray Zechariah answers.