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2024-09-18 18:34:43Once the lecture was on break, Leila approached Dr. Sanchez, her eyes innocent, her steps hesitant.
“Excuse me, Dr. Sanchez,” Leila said, her voice low, “do you know Professor Eduard Yellen personally?”
Dr. Sanchez’s warm smile faded just a little, a flicker of concern crossing her face. “Of course. Why do you ask?”
Leila didn’t hesitate any longer. “I found a black notebook with the same initials—E.Y. I think it might belong to him.”
Dr. Sanchez’s eyes widened. “You’re serious? It could be one of the notebooks everyone’s been looking for. His notes—they went missing along with him. They’re of immense scientific value.”
Leila shifted, pulling her phone from her bag and switching it off. She leaned in closer, her voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me more.”
Dr. Sanchez fished out her own phone, put it on silent, and then began to speak, her voice now cautious. “Yellen was an archaeologist—brilliant but eccentric. He specialized in ancient artifacts. A few days ago he vanished. Gone, without a trace. And with him, his handwritten research—several volumes on ancient civilizations.”
Leila frowned. “So he was a big deal?”
“Yes and no,” Sanchez replied. “He had his followers, but many found his theories… controversial shall we say. Yellen wasn’t exactly mainstream. He believed that the ancient civilization he was studying was tied to the rightful rulers of modern-day Europe. No more, mo less.”
Leila blinked. “Wait—you’re serious?”
“I know, I know,” Sanchez said, coughing awkwardly and grabbing a bottle of water from her bag. “It sounds crazy. But Yellen had his supporters. The Grossman Center even gave him a hefty research grant a couple of years ago.”
“Grossman Center? Aren’t they into computers and tech, not ancient dynasties?”
Dr. Sanchez laughed, a quick, humorless sound. “It does sound ridiculous, doesn’t it? But people will believe anything if it’s wrapped in enough mystery. And Grossman—he’s not just a tech guy. He’s got his hands in a lot of pies. Heraldry, conspiracy theories—you name it.”
Leila leaned back, processing the information. “The ‘rightful rulers’? A grown man believing that?”
Sanchez’s smile returned, thin and tired. “You’d be surprised how many so-called ‘intelligent’ grown-up people fall for that kind of thing. Especially in archaeology. The world is full of strange ideas, and people like Yellen are magnets for them.”
Leila’s curiosity deepened. “So what’s Yellen’s connection to all this? How does a guy like him end up mixed up with someone like Grossman?”
Sanchez sighed, leaning against the wall. “It’s a long story, but it starts with an artifact—an ancient relic hidden somewhere in the Alps. The Nazis supposedly found it in Tibet, then lost it again. Yellen thought it was the key to some sort of royal lineage. Said the Nazis’ failure to hold onto it cost them the war.”
“Sounds plausible enough," Leila smirked. "And you are saying that Yellen had disappeared a few days ago?”
Sanchez nodded. “The university sent out a formal notice. He’s officially missing.”
A chill crawled up Leila’s spine. “So… what exactly was Yellen’s goal? And how does the Grossman Center fit in?”
Dr. Sanchez shrugged, a resigned look in her eyes. “Yellen was bonkers. He believed in divine rights, old conspiracies, the works of aliens. Grossman? He’s an oligarch with a knack for European history and heraldry. He’s got money to throw at anything that piques his interest—crypto, AI, ancient dynasties.”
Leila’s brow furrowed. “You think Yellen was involved in a cult?”
Sanchez looked at her sharply, almost startled by the question. “A cult? I wouldn’t go that far. But he definitely ran in strange circles.”
“Just a hunch,” Leila muttered. “All this talk about mystical beliefs, hidden artifacts—it’s the kind of thing cults latch onto.”
Sanchez exhaled slowly, her face serious. “I know how this sounds. But trust me, Yellen wasn’t some crazed cultist. He was respected, even if his ideas were… unconventional. As for Grossman? He’s got too much money for anyone to call him out on his interests.”
Leila nodded, though she wasn't convinced. Half of her family was from Eastern Germany. She knew too well that there was no such thing as "rich" Russian oligarch. They were used by the state and the FSB as convenient wallets, and were not independent players,
“Thanks for the info, Dr. Sanchez. I’m glad we talked. It’s given me a thing or two to think about.”
Dr. Sanchez paused, biting her lip as though remembering something. She leaned in, dropping her voice to a whisper. “There’s one more thing about Yellen. He used to attend these secretive workshops. I only know because of the expense reports. He never invited anyone—not even his top students.”
Leila’s pulse quickened. “Secretive? You think these workshops were somehow connected to his disappearance?”
Sanchez hesitated, then shook her head. “I can’t say that for sure. But if you can get an invite to one of those workshops it might be worth your time. They’ve got a strange fondness for your last name around here. If I hear about one coming up, I’ll let you know. And keep me posted if you succeed.”
Leila’s eyes darted sideway. “But of course! Actually, I was going to ask you the same thing, Dr. Sanchez, Lets join forces and find out what happened to that wierdo Yellen,” Leila said, trying to keep her tone casual. They left the lecture room and strolled down the dim corridor, footsteps echoing off the cold tiles. That’s when Leila saw it—a plaque on one of the doors. She stopped in her tracks, feeling her stomach tighten. The plaque had a golden eagle with outstretched wings perched above a crown, framed by a blue-and-white shield, wrapped in a black and silver mantle. It was her family crest.
Her mind stopped functioning for a second or two. Why was her family crest hanging on the door in the Grossman Center? Was it some kind of twisted coincidence, or was there a connection between her and Mikhail Grossman, the Russian oligarch with the murky past and “German roots”? The questions piled up too fast for her liking.
But Leila didn’t show her surprise and kept walking down the wide corridor adorned with banana trees in modern steel pots. The building seemed emptier with each step, the air colder. At least Wolfie was with her, padding silently by her side. The receptionist hadn’t dared say a word about the dog, and Leila was glad. Wolfie was a steady presence—just the kind of calm Leila needed.
As they reached the end of the corridor, a staircase appeared leading down. Leila hesitated, her curiosity gnawing at her like a rat in a trap. Why not? She descended the stairs, and found herself in a darkish and coldish basement with stone walls and a marble floor. It was an underground museum, filled with relics—artifacts glittering under soft lights. A golden chalice. A jeweled sword. But what really caught her eye was the display case in the center. It was empty.
Leila couldn’t pull her gaze away. She stepped closer, peering into the case, half-expecting to find a clue. But there was nothing there—just a thin layer of dust on the velvet lining. Something had been here. Something important.
“Excuse me,” she called to a bald man in a lab coat, hunched over a table in the corner, fiddling with a beaker. The guy didn’t flinch, didn’t even acknowledge her presence. Leila moved closer, her voice firmer this time. “Excuse me. What was supposed to be in that empty case?”
The man jumped, nearly knocking over the beaker in his hands. He turned around, blinking in surprise. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”
Leila pointed at the display case. “What was in there?”
The man hesitated, scratching his bald head, trying to find the right words. “Ah, yeah. That case was for an artifact Eduard Yellen was searching for. But it was never found.”
Leila’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of artifact?”
Another pause. The man looked like he was debating whether to spill the bins. Finally, he said, “A gold medallion. Supposed to have… well, magical properties. It belonged to an ancient royal dynasty. Yellen thought it held the key to unlocking secrets about the civilization he was studying.”
Leila nodded, playing along. “The official version, huh? And where is someone supposed to look for a thing like that?”
The man shook his head, his lips curling into a thin, humorless smile. “That’s the thing. No one knows. It’s one of those lost treasures, the kind people kill for.”
The tone of the man's voice made Leila shiver. She thanked him nevertheless, and turned to leave, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this story. So she climbed back up the stairs, her mind buzzing with hypothesis. When she finally made it outside, she hopped into her snowmobile and headed back to the chalet. Once inside, she filled Wolfie’s bowl, trying to ignore the unease prickling at the back of her neck. Then she grabbed her iPad, fired it up, and typed “Mikhail Grossman” into the search bar.
The results didn’t surprise her—just disturbed her a little more. Grossman’s name was tangled up in all kinds of “alleged” ties to organized crime. Nothing stuck, of course. He was too rich for anything to stick. Oh he appeared so to the unexperienced Westerners. To her horror, Leila couldn’t shake the feeling that her family’s crest on the door in the Grossman Center wasn't just a freak coincidence. She reckoned something darker was at play there.
She typed in another search: “Eduard Yellen, conspiracy theories, heraldic cults.”
What came back made her sit up a little straighter. YouTube videos, fringe articles—all linking Yellen to a secretive group called “The Rulers.” Could these people be real? Or was this just jealousy from Yellen’s less successful colleagues? Whatever the case, “The Rulers” were obsessed with ancient legends and mystical artifacts. The kind of obsession that made people bonkers. The kind that could make them dangerous.
Leila leaned back, skepticism gnawing at her. Could her family be involved in something this strange? A secret society? The more she uncovered, the more it felt like the world she thought she knew was a cover for something much darker. Something hidden just beneath the surface of her life.
As the hours dragged on and the first light of dawn broke through the window, Leila kept digging. Every click led to more questions. If she was right—if her family had connections to Grossman—this was going to be one hell of a ride.
Then she remembered something: that ad she’d seen about caterers being hired for an event at the Grossman Center. She pulled up their website and, sure enough, there it was. They were hosting a ball. And, just like that, her hunch was confirmed: Leila Weinrich was invited.
She found the invitation slipped under her front door, engraved on heavy, elegant paper. A note came with it, apologizing for the late notice, claiming they didn’t have her address. Sure, they didn’t. Leila smirked. It felt too convenient, but she couldn’t resist. She hated the idea of bumping into any of the more “distant” Weinrich relatives, but her curiosity was stronger than her unease. In any event, Leila had two days to do the thinking.
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Leila stood in front of the bathroom mirror, combing her hair and trying on different faces like masks in Japanese theatre. She went for “amiable attention,” followed by “quiet confidence,” then “ready-for-anything,” and finally the smirk—“gotcha!” But none of them worked. She gave up, tossed the phone into her velvet Versace bag, and stepped out into the corridor.That’s when it hit her. The door across the hall was wide open, and there he stood—a man in a black tie, looking sharp enough to cut through glass, but there was something off about him. Familiar, too. His stance was casual, but you could tell he was trying too hard. He looked down at Leila—five-foot-nothing in heels—and flashed a grin that could sell ice in Siberia.It was Tom.Leila fought to keep her cool. He moved like a cat, gliding over to her with that silly grin still plastered on his face.“I’m the guest of honor,” he said, like he’d just announced he won the lottery.Leila’s smile didn’t falter. “Pretend we’ve just
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Latest chapter
The Secret Whisperer 17
Tom’s message slid into her inbox like an invitation to regret: Move into my pod across the road. It’s safer, and I can stop worrying about you every five minutes. It was sweet, that “I know better” way Tom had, but Leila wasn’t buying it.She thumbed back a reply. I promised Christina I’d look after the house and Wolfie. No cults or homicidal archaeologists are changing my plans.A sad emoji pinged back. Tom wasn’t giving up, but work had him chained to the Grossman Center until his financial projections were in. He’d miss dinner; the Center was feeding his team.Disappointed but not deterred, Leila decided to clean up Tom’s new place. It was part guilt, part curiosity. She grabbed the spare key, the plastic kind that came with a polished wood veneer to make it look fancier than it was, and let herself in.The pod was pristine, the kind of clean that said either Tom had hired a housekeeper or he’d stopped living like a human being. The only mess in sight was her lipstick, perched smug
The Secret Whisperer 16
As Leila strolled through the market square, her mind was tangled like a bowl of spaghetti, trying to link the stolen books and the murdered professor. The square was lively for the amount of snow and the temperature well below the freezing point. Vendors peddled their wares by spreading them on fleece blankets, their goods as ragged and random as the spirit of Christmas. Leila walked between the aisles, surrounded by old copper kettles, once fine German porcelain, toy trains, and oak plant stands trying hard not to look bored. One stall caught her eye—a pile of books, mostly battered children’s tales and lonely volumes of the classics not worth much without the rest of the lot. Some books looked interesting, bound in old tooled leather. Then something caught her eye. She spotted a volume in the middle of all that artful chaos. It was a thick, faded book with a tan leather binding. The title, The History and Artifacts of the Ancient Germanic Tribes, was elegantly crafted in gold lett
The Secret Whisperer 15
The morning after smuggling her aunt Christina out of the hospital felt like the calm before a storm, the kind that sneaks up on you while you’re sitting in a deck chair, thinking everything’s fine until the wind knocks your Martini and soda off the table. Leila had slept about as well as a guilty conscience in a cheap motel. Now, sitting at the café, she waited for Linda Stern, the sharpest reporter on this side of the Alps.Linda breezed in like she owned the joint, her leather jacket creaking, sunglasses low on her nose despite the clouds outside. She was all business, but there was always that edge of mischief about her, like she was permanently one bad idea away from pulling a fast one. She slid into the chair across from Leila, didn’t even bother with the pleasantries.“So,” she said, her voice like whiskey poured over gravel. “What’ve you got for me this time, kid? And don’t tell me it’s a knitting club you want me to expose.”Leila smirked. “Knitting club? Try a cult, Linda. A
The Secret Whisperer 14
Coffee with Linda left Leila shaken. If Linda had turned up in a dusty library in a mountain village, she would have acted on reliable information. And if Linda reckoned that Yellen's book had disappeared for a reason worth Linda's attention, it was. It is just that good old Linda was that kind of reporter, All these spelled trouble for Leila, no doubt, and not only for her Christina! Leila had a bad feeling about her aunt's accident. She’d left her Christina at the hospital the day before, propped up in one of those sterile, too-white beds, looking more vulnerable than Leila had ever seen her. And now, she was standing outside that same hospital, feet rooted to the pavement as if daring her to turn around. Her aunt wasn’t just resting there; she was a target.Leila still couldn't believe it. The plot was nuttier than anyone had imagined—a centuries-old cult, secret society, AI virus, all the usual suspects when you’re trying to topple European governments in one night. Right? Unless L
The Secret Whisperer 13
The next morning, Leila opened her eyes and blinked at the unfamiliar room, like she’d woken up in someone else's movie—one where she wasn’t the lead. The only thing she recognized was Wolfie, sprawled out on the other half of the four-poster bed, taking up more space than seemed possible for a dog. The morning light filtered through velvet curtains the color of overripe plums, casting a soft glow over the polished wood floors. The bed looked straight out of a European castle—mahogany, carved with the kind of craftsmanship that screamed, "I’ve got money, and I want you to know it." The sheets were Egyptian cotton, probably with a thread count higher than most people's salaries.Leila pushed herself up, the plush duvet slipping off her shoulders like butter. The room was big—so big, it made most penthouses look like broom closets. Across from her, a marble fireplace stood cold and untouched, its mantel decorated with abstract sculptures that were probably worth more than her house. Abov
The Secret Whisperer 12
Leila speared an olive off her plate with the kind of laziness that came with a long evening and bad company. The party was getting noisier, guests drifting away towards the library, where the port was served. She noticed Tom’s eyes flicker toward the small curtained alcove in the middle of the corridor. That told her all she needed to know—he’d heard the voices too.Without a word, she gave him a signal, and they slipped out of their seats, moving toward the alcove like a couple of thieves on a job. They ducked behind the heavy velvet curtain across from where the voices were coming, pretending to be locked in some passionate clinch. It was just for show, but felt not at all disagreeable. The curtain was seriously dusty, and it made Leila's eyes itchy. She probably smeared her mascara evenly on her cheeks, but she couldn't care less: the real action was happening behind the curtain opposite.Three voices—two men, one woman—were arguing behind the fabric. AI was the topic, which wasn’t
The Secret Whisperer 11
Leila stood in front of the bathroom mirror, combing her hair and trying on different faces like masks in Japanese theatre. She went for “amiable attention,” followed by “quiet confidence,” then “ready-for-anything,” and finally the smirk—“gotcha!” But none of them worked. She gave up, tossed the phone into her velvet Versace bag, and stepped out into the corridor.That’s when it hit her. The door across the hall was wide open, and there he stood—a man in a black tie, looking sharp enough to cut through glass, but there was something off about him. Familiar, too. His stance was casual, but you could tell he was trying too hard. He looked down at Leila—five-foot-nothing in heels—and flashed a grin that could sell ice in Siberia.It was Tom.Leila fought to keep her cool. He moved like a cat, gliding over to her with that silly grin still plastered on his face.“I’m the guest of honor,” he said, like he’d just announced he won the lottery.Leila’s smile didn’t falter. “Pretend we’ve just
The Secret Whisperer 10
The ball was the last thing on her mind as Leila left the office. She’d just made a deal with a man who wore murder like an expensive suit, and now she had to figure out how to get out of it without ending up in a ditch somewhere.As she walked back down the dim corridor, her head spun. She didn’t plan on killing anyone. She just had to outsmart them. The Rulers might be powerful, but they weren’t the brightest bulbs in the chandelier.Leila climbed into her snowmobile, trying to calm the pounding in her chest. She’d just signed herself up for a deadly game, and her life—other than that—was perfectly normal. She needed to research her target, find out who this K.B. was, and figure out how to play the game without getting caught.But as she thought back to the encrypted notebook, a horrifying realization hit her. This wasn’t some academic journal—it was the diary of a hired killer. The Rulers had sent someone to murder her aunt Christina, and now they were asking Leila to do the same d
The Secret Whisperer 9
The next morning, Leila walked back into the Grossman Center like she owned the place. She was wearing a navy suit that hugged her curves in all the right places, and the borrowed Chanel bag gave her a look of money and class—two things she was always happy to fake. Inside the bag, she carried the small, leather-bound notebook and a Montblanc pen, feeling like they were about to help her write her way into something big.She breezed past the room with the heraldic plaque—her family crest, still staring back at her like a ghost of bad news—and made her way to the receptionist. The brunette behind the desk glanced up, eyebrows rising, as if she could smell the trouble Leila had brought with her.“Hi, I’m Leila Weinrich. I’m here to see Mr. Grossman,” she said, flashing a smile that carried all the confidence of someone who had nothing to lose.The receptionist’s eyebrows hitched higher. “Do you have an appointment?”Leila leaned against the desk, letting her eyes lock with the brunette’
