he driver's
head. The driver instantly dropped his radio, raising his one free hand
overhead.
"Sophie!" Langdon choked. "What the hell--"
"Arrutez!" Sophie commanded the driver.
Trembling, the driver obeyed, stopping the car and putting it in park.
It was then that Langdon heard the metallic voice of the taxi company's
dispatcher coming from the dashboard. "...qui s'appette Agent Sophie
Neveu..." the radio crackled. "Et un Amuricain, Robert Langdon..."
Langdon's muscles turned rigid. They found us already?
"Descendez," Sophie demanded.
The trembling driver kept his arms over his head as he got out of his
taxi and took several steps backward.
Sophie had rolled down her window and now aimed the gun outside at the
bewildered cabbie. "Robert," she said quietly, "take the wheel. You're
driving."
Langdon was not about to argue with a woman wielding a gun. He climbed
out of the car and jumped back in behind the wheel. The driver was yelling
curses, his arms still raised over his head.
"Robert," Sophie said from the back seat, "I trust you've seen enough
of our magic forest?"
He nodded. Plenty.
"Good. Drive us out of here."
Langdon looked down at the car's controls and hesitated. Shit. He
groped for the stick shift and clutch. "Sophie? Maybe you--"
"Go!" she yelled.
Outside, several hookers were walking over to see what was going on.
One woman was placing a call on her cell phone. Langdon depressed the clutch
and jostled the stick into what he hoped was first gear. He touched the
accelerator, testing the gas.
Langdon popped the clutch. The tires howled as the taxi leapt forward,
fishtailing wildly and sending the gathering crowd diving for cover. The
woman with the cell phone leapt into the woods, only narrowly avoiding being
run down.
"Doucement!" Sophie said, as the car lurched down the road. "What are
you doing?"
"I tried to warn you," he shouted over the sound of gnashing gears. "I
drive an automatic!"
CHAPTER 39
Although the spartan room in the brownstone on Rue La Bruyure had
witnessed a lot of suffering, Silas doubted anything could match the anguish
now gripping his pale body. I was deceived. Everything is lost.
Silas had been tricked. The brothers had lied, choosing death instead
of revealing their true secret. Silas did not have the strength to call the
Teacher. Not only had Silas killed the only four people who knew where the
keystone was hidden, he had killed a nun inside Saint-Sulpice. She was
working against God! She scorned the work of Opus Dei!
A crime of impulse, the woman's death complicated matters greatly.
Bishop Aringarosa had placed the phone call that got Silas into
Saint-Sulpice; what would the abbu think when he discovered the nun was
dead? Although Silas had placed her back in her bed, the wound on her head
was obvious. Silas had attempted to replace the broken tiles in the floor,
but that damage too was obvious. They would know someone had been there.
Silas had planned to hide within Opus Dei when his task here was
complete. Bishop Aringarosa will protect me. Silas could imagine no more
blissful existence than a life of meditation and prayer deep within the
walls of Opus Dei's headquarters in New York City. He would never again set
foot outside. Everything he needed was within that sanctuary. Nobody will
miss me. Unfortunately, Silas knew, a prominent man like Bishop Aringarosa
could not disappear so easily.
I have endangered the bishop. Silas gazed blankly at the floor and
pondered taking his own life. After all, it had been Aringarosa who gave
Silas life in the first place... in that small rectory in Spain, educating
him, giving him purpose.
"My friend," Aringarosa had told him, "you were born an albino. Do not
let others shame you for this. Do you not understand how special this makes
you? Were you not aware that Noah himself was an albino?"
"Noah of the Ark?" Silas had never heard this.
Aringarosa was smiling. "Indeed, Noah of the Ark. An albino. Like you,
he had skin white like an angel. Consider this. Noah saved all of life on
the planet. You are destined for great things, Silas. The Lord has freed you
for a reason. You have your calling. The Lord needs your help to do His
work."
Over time, Silas learned to see himself in a new light. I am pure.
White. Beautiful. Like an angel.
At the moment, though, in his room at the residence hall, it was his
father's disappointed voice that whispered to him from the past.
Tu es un dusastre. Un spectre.
Kneeling on the wooden floor, Silas prayed for forgiveness. Then,
stripping off his robe, he reached again for the Discipline.
CHAPTER 40
Struggling with the gear shift, Langdon managed to maneuver the
hijacked taxi to the far side of the Bois de Boulogne while stalling only
twice. Unfortunately, the inherent humor in the situation was overshadowed
by the taxi dispatcher repeatedly hailing their cab over the radio.
"Voiture cinq-six-trois. Ou utes-vous? Rupondez!"
When Langdon reached the exit of the park, he swallowed his machismo
and jammed on the brakes. "You'd better drive."
Sophie looked relieved as she jumped behind the wheel. Within seconds
she had the car humming smoothly westward along Allue de Longchamp, leaving
the Garden of Earthly Delights behind.
"Which way is Rue Haxo?" Langdon asked, watching Sophie edge the
speedometer over a hundred kilometers an hour.
Sophie's eyes remained focused on the road. "The cab driver said it's
adjacent to the Roland Garros tennis stadium. I know that area."
Langdon pulled the heavy key from his pocket again, feeling the weight
in his palm. He sensed it was an object of enormous consequence. Quite
possibly the key to his own freedom.
Earlier, while telling Sophie about the Knights Templar, Langdon had
realized that this key, in addition to having the Priory seal embossed on
it, possessed a more subtle tie to the Priory of Sion. The equal-armed
cruciform was symbolic of balance and harmony but also of the Knights
Templar. Everyone had seen the paintings of Knights Templar wearing white
tunics emblazoned with red equal-armed crosses. Granted, the arms of the
Templar cross were slightly flared at the ends, but they were still of equal
length.
A square cross. Just like the one on this key.
Langdon felt his imagination starting to run wild as he fantasized
about what they might find. The Holy Grail. He almost laughed out loud at
the absurdity of it. The Grail was believed to be somewhere in England,
buried in a hidden chamber beneath one of the many Templar churches, where
it had been hidden since at least 1500.
The era of Grand Master Da Vinci.
The Priory, in order to keep their powerful documents safe, had been
forced to move them many times in the early centuries. Historians now
suspected as many as six different Grail relocations since its arrival in
Europe from Jerusalem. The last Grail "sighting" had been in 1447 when
numerous eyewitnesses described a fire that had broken out and almost
engulfed the documents before they were carried to safety in four huge
chests that each required six men to carry. After that, nobody claimed to
see the Grail ever again. All that remained were occasional whisperings that
it was hidden in Great Britain, the land of King Arthur and the Knights of
the Round Table.
Wherever it was, two important facts remained:
Leonardo knew where the Grail resided during his lifetime.
That hiding place had probably not changed to this day.
For this reason, Grail enthusiasts still pored over Da Vinci's art and
diaries in hopes of unearthing a hidden clue as to the Grail's current
location. Some claimed the mountainous backdrop in Madonna of the Rocks
matched the topography of a series of cave-ridden hills in Scotland. Others
insisted that the suspicious placement of disciples in The Last Supper was
some kind of code. Still others claimed that X rays of the Mona Lisa
revealed she originally had been painted wearing a lapis lazuli pendant of
Isis--a detail Da Vinci purportedly later decided to paint over. Langdon had
never seen any evidence of the pendant, nor could he imagine how it could
possibly reveal the Holy Grail, and yet Grail aficionados still discussed it
ad nauseum on Internet bulletin boards and worldwide-web chat rooms.
Everyone loves a conspiracy.
And the conspiracies kept coming. Most recently, of course, had been
the earthshaking discovery that Da Vinci's famed Adoration of the Magi was
hiding a dark secret beneath its layers of paint. Italian art diagnostician
Maurizio Seracini had unveiled the unsettling truth, which the New York
Times Magazine carried prominently in a story titled "The Leonardo
Cover-Up."
Seracini had revealed beyond any doubt that while the Adoration's
gray-green sketched underdrawing was indeed Da Vinci's work, the painting
itself was not. The truth was that some anonymous painter had filled in Da
Vinci's sketch like a paint-by-numbers years after Da Vinci's death. Far
more troubling, however, was what lay beneath the impostor's paint.
Photographs taken with infrared reflectography and X ray suggested that this
rogue painter, while filling in Da Vinci's sketched study, had made
suspicious departures from the underdrawing... as if to subvert Da Vinci's
true intention. Whatever the true nature of the underdrawing, it had yet to
be made public. Even so, embarrassed officials at Florence's Uffizi Gallery
immediately banished the painting to a warehouse across the street. Visitors
at the gallery's Leonardo Room now found a misleading and unapologetic
plaque where the Adoration once hung.
THIS WORK IS UNDERGOING
DIAGNOSTIC TESTS IN PREPARATION
FOR RESTORATION.
In the bizarre underworld of modern Grail seekers, Leonardo da Vinci
remained the quest's great enigma. His artwork seemed bursting to tell a
secret, and yet whatever it was remained hidden, perhaps beneath a layer of
paint, perhaps enciphered in plain view, or perhaps nowhere at all. Maybe Da
Vinci's plethora of tantalizing clues was nothing but an empty promise left
behind to frustrate the curious and bring a smirk to the face of his knowing
Mona Lisa.
"Is it possible," Sophie asked, drawing Langdon back, "that the key
you're holding unlocks the hiding place of the Holy Grail?"
Langdon's laugh sounded forced, even to him. "I really can't imagine.
Besides, the Grail is believed to be hidden in the United Kingdom somewhere,
not France." He gave her the quick history.
"But the Grail seems the only rational conclusion," she insisted. "We
have an extremely secure key, stamped with the Priory of Sion seal,
delivered to us by a member of the Priory of Sion--a brotherhood which, you
just told me, are guardians of the Holy Grail."
Langdon knew her contention was logical, and yet intuitively he could
not possibly accept it. Rumors existed that the Priory had vowed someday to
bring the Grail back to France to a final resting place, but certainly no
historical evidence existed to suggest that this indeed had happened. Even
if the Priory had managed to bring the Grail back to France, the address 24
Rue Haxo near a tennis stadium hardly sounded like a noble final resting
place. "Sophie, I really don't see how this key could have anything to do
with the Grail."
"Because the Grail is supposed to be in England?"
"Not only that. The location of the Holy Grail is one of the best kept
secrets in history. Priory members wait decades proving themselves
trustworthy before being elevated to the highest echelons of the fraternity
and learning where the Grail is. That secret is protected by an intricate
system of compartmentalized knowledge, and although the Priory brotherhood
is very large, only four members at any given time know where the Grail is
hidden--the Grand Master and his three sunuchaux. The probability of your
grandfather being one of those four top people is very slim."
My grandfather was one of them, Sophie thought, pressing down on the
accelerator. She had an image stamped in her memory that confirmed her
grandfather's status within the brotherhood beyond any doubt.
"And even if your grandfather were in the upper echelon, he would never
be allowed to reveal anything to anyone outside the brotherhood. It is
inconceivable that he would bring you into the inner circle."
I've already been there, Sophie thought, picturing the ritual in the
basement. She wondered if this were the moment to tell Langdon what she had
witnessed that night in the Normandy chuteau. For ten years now, simple
shame had kept her from telling a soul. Just thinking about it, she
shuddered. Sirens howled somewhere in the distance, and she felt a
thickening shroud of fatigue settling over her.
"There!" Langdon said, feeling excited to see the huge complex of the
Roland Garros tennis stadium looming ahead.
Sophie snaked her way toward the stadium. After several passes, they
located the intersection of Rue Haxo and turned onto it, driving in the
direction of the lower numbers. The road became more industrial, lined with
businesses.
We need number twenty-four, Langdon told himself, realizing he was
secretly scanning the horizon for the spires of a church. Don't be
ridiculous. A forgotten Templar church in this neighborhood?
"There it is," Sophie exclaimed, pointing.
Langdon's eyes followed to the structure ahead.
What in the world?
The building was modern. A squat citadel with a giant, neon equal-armed
cross emblazoned atop its facade. Beneath the cross were the words:
DEPOSITORY BANK OF ZURICH
Langdon was thankful not to have shared his Templar church hopes with
Sophie. A career hazard of symbologists was a tendency to extract hidden
meaning from situations that had none. In this case, Langdon had entirely
forgotten that the peaceful, equal-armed cross had been adopted as the
perfect symbol for the flag of neutral Switzerland.
At least the mystery was solved.
Sophie and Langdon were holding the key to a Swiss bank deposit box.
CHAPTER 41
Outside Castel Gandolfo, an updraft of mountain air gushed over the top
of the cliff and across the high bluff, sending a chill through Bishop
Aringarosa as he stepped from the Fiat. I should have worn more than this
cassock, he thought, fighting the reflex to shiver. The last thing he needed
to appear tonight was weak or fearful.
The castle was dark save the windows at the very top of the building,
which glowed ominously. The library, Aringarosa thought. They are awake and
waiting. He ducked his head against the wind and continued on without so
much as a glance toward the observatory domes.
The priest who greeted him at the door looked sleepy. He was the same
priest who had greeted Aringarosa five months ago, albeit tonight he did so
with much less hospitality. "We were worried about you, Bishop," the priest
said, checking his watch and looking more perturbed than worried.
"My apologies. Airlines are so unreliable these days."
The priest mumbled something inaudible and then said, "They are waiting
upstairs. I will escort you up."
The library was a vast square room with dark wood from floor to
ceiling. On all sides, towering bookcases burgeoned with volumes. The floor
was amber marble with black basalt trim, a handsome reminder that this
building had once been a palace.
"Welcome, Bishop," a man's voice said from across the room.
Aringarosa tried to see who had spoken, but the lights were
ridiculously low--much lower than they had been on his first visit, when
everything was ablaze. The night of stark awakening. Tonight, these men sat
in the shadows, as if they were somehow ashamed of what was about to
transpire.
Aringarosa entered slowly, regally even. He could see the shapes of
three men at a long table on the far side of the room. The silhouette of the
man in the middle was immediately recognizable--the obese Secretariat
Vaticana, overlord of all legal matters within Vatican City. The other two
were high-ranking Italian cardinals.
Aringarosa crossed the library toward them. "My humble apologies for
the hour. We're on different time zones. You must be tired."
"Not at all," the secretariat said, his hands folded on his enormous
belly. "We are grateful you have come so far. The least we can do is be
awake to meet you. Can we offer you some coffee or refreshments?"
"I'd prefer we don't pretend this is a social visit. I have another
plane to catch. Shall we get to business?"
"Of course," the secretariat said. "You have acted more quickly than we
imagined."
"Have I?"
"You still have a month."
"You made your concerns known five months ago," Aringarosa said. "Why
should I wait?"
"Indeed. We are very pleased with your expediency."
Aringarosa's eyes traveled the length of the long table to a large
black briefcase. "Is that what I requested?"
"It is." The secretariat sounded uneasy. "Although, I must admit, we
are concerned with the request. It seems quite..."
"Dangerous," one of the cardinals finished. "Are you certain we cannot
wire it to you somewhere? The sum is exorbitant."
Freedom is expensive. "I have no concerns for my own safety. God is
with me."
The men actually looked doubtful.
"The funds are exactly as I requested?"
The secretariat nodded. "Large-denomination bearer bonds drawn on the
Vatican Bank. Negotiable as cash anywhere in the world."
Aringarosa walked to the end of the table and opened the briefcase.
Inside were two thick stacks of bonds, each embossed with the Vatican seal
and the title PORTATORE, making the bonds redeemable to whoever was holding
them.
The secretariat looked tense. "I must say, Bishop, all of us would feel
less apprehensive if these funds were in cash."
I could not lift that much cash, Aringarosa thought, closing the case.
"Bonds are negotiable as cash. You said so yourself."
The cardinals exchanged uneasy looks, and finally one said, "Yes, but
these bonds are traceable directly to the Vatican Bank."
Aringarosa smiled inwardly. That was precisely the reason the Teacher
suggested Aringarosa get the money in Vatican Bank bonds. It served as
insurance. We are all in this together now. "This is a perfectly legal
transaction," Aringarosa defended. "Opus Dei is a personal prelature of
Vatican City, and His Holiness can disperse monies however he sees fit. No
law has been broken here."
"True, and yet..." The secretariat leaned forward and his chair creaked
under the burden. "We have no knowledge of what you intend to do with these
funds, and if it is in any way illegal..."
"Considering what you are asking of me," Aringarosa countered, "what I
do with this money is not your concern."
There was a long silence.
They know I'm right, Aringarosa thought. "Now, I imagine you have
something for me to sign?"
They all jumped, eagerly pushing the paper toward him, as if they
wished he would simply leave.
Aringarosa eyed the sheet before him. It bore the papal seal. "This is
identical to the copy you sent me?"
"Exactly."
Aringarosa was surprised how little emotion he felt as he signed the
document. The three men present, however, seemed to sigh in relief.
"Thank you, Bishop," the secretariat said. "Your service to the Church
will never be forgotten."
Aringarosa picked up the briefcase, sensing promise and authority in
its weight. The four men looked at one another for a moment as if there were
something more to say, but apparently there was not. Aringarosa turned and
headed for the door.
"Bishop?" one of the cardinals called out as Aringarosa reached the
threshold.
Aringarosa paused, turning. "Yes?"
"Where will you go from here?"
Aringarosa sensed the query was more spiritual than geographical, and
yet he had no intention of discussing morality at this hour. "Paris," he
said, and walked out the door.
CHAPTER 42
The Depository Bank of Zurich was a twenty-four-hour Geldschrank bank
offering the full modern array of anonymous services in the tradition of the
Swiss numbered account. Maintaining offices in Zurich, Kuala Lumpur, New
York, and Paris, the bank had expanded its services in recent years to offer
anonymous computer source code escrow services and faceless digitized
backup.
The bread and butter of its operation was by far its oldest and
simplest offering--the anonyme Lager--blind drop services, otherwise known
as anonymous safe-deposit boxes. Clients wishing to store anything from
stock certificates to valuable paintings could deposit their belongings
anonymously, through a series of high-tech veils of privacy, withdrawing
items at any time, also in total anonymity.
As Sophie pulled the taxi to a stop in front of their destination,
Langdon gazed out at the building's uncompromising architecture and sensed
the Depository Bank of Zurich was a firm with little sense of humor. The
building was a windowless rectangle that seemed to be forged entirely of
dull steel. Resembling an enormous metal brick, the edifice sat back from
the road with a fifteen-foot-tall, neon, equilateral cross glowing over its
facade.
Switzerland's reputation for secrecy in banking had become one of the
country's most lucrative exports. Facilities like this had become
controversial in the art community because they provided a perfect place for
art thieves to hide stolen goods, for years if necessary, until the heat was
off. Because deposits were protected from police inspection by privacy laws
and were attached to numbered accounts rather than people's names, thieves
could rest easily knowing their stolen goods were safe and could never be
traced to them.
Sophie stopped the taxi at an imposing gate that blocked the bank's
driveway--a cement-lined ramp that descended beneath the building. A video
camera overhead was aimed directly at them, and Langdon had the feeling that
this camera, unlike those at the Louvre, was authentic.
Sophie rolled down the window and surveyed the electronic podium on the
driver's side. An LCD screen provided directions in seven languages. Topping
the list was English.
INSERT KEY.
Sophie took the gold laser-pocked key from her pocket and turned her
attention back to the podium. Below the screen was a triangular hole.
"Something tells me it will fit," Langdon said.
Sophie aligned the key's triangular shaft with the hole and inserted
it, sliding it in until the entire shaft had disappeared. This key
apparently required no turning. Instantly, the gate began to swing open.
Sophie took her foot off the brake and coasted down to a second gate and
podium. Behind her, the first gate closed, trapping them like a ship in a
lock.
Langdon disliked the constricted sensation. Let's hope this second gate
works too.
This second podium bore familiar directions.
INSERT KEY.
When Sophie inserted the key, the second gate immediately opened.
Moments later they were winding down the ramp into the belly of the
structure.
The private garage was small and dim, with spaces for about a dozen
cars. At the far end, Langdon spied the building's main entrance. A red
carpet stretched across the cement floor, welcoming visitors to a huge door
that appeared to be forged of solid metal.
Talk about mixed messages, Langdon thought. Welcome and keep out.
Sophie pulled the taxi into a parking space near the entrance and
killed the engine. "You'd better leave the gun here."
With pleasure, Langdon thought, sliding the pistol under the seat.
Sophie and Langdon got out and walked up the red carpet toward the slab
of steel. The door had no handle, but on the wall beside it was another
triangular keyhole. No directions were posted this time.
"Keeps out the slow learners," Langdon said.
Sophie laughed, looking nervous. "Here we go." She stuck the key in the
hole, and the door swung inward with a low hum. Exchanging glances, Sophie
and Langdon entered. The door shut with a thud behind them.
The foyer of the Depository Bank of Zurich employed as imposing a decor
as any Langdon had ever seen. Where most banks were content with the usual
polished marble and granite, this one had opted for wall-to-wall metal and
rivets.
Who's their decorator? Langdon wondered. Allied Steel?
Sophie looked equally intimidated as her eyes scanned the lobby.
The gray metal was everywhere--the floor, walls, counters, doors, even
the lobby chairs appeared to be fashioned of molded iron. Nonetheless, the
effect was impressive. The message was clear: You are walking into a vault.
A large man behind the counter glanced up as they entered. He turned
off the small television he was watching and greeted them with a pleasant
smile. Despite his enormous muscles and visible sidearm, his diction chimed
with the polished courtesy of a Swiss bellhop.
"Bonsoir," he said. "How may I help you?"
The dual-language greeting was the newest hospitality trick of the
European host. It presumed nothing and opened the door for the guest to
reply in whichever language was more comfortable.
Sophie replied with neither. She simply laid the gold key on the
counter in front of the man.
The man glanced down and immediately stood straighter. "Of course. Your
elevator is at the end of the hall. I will alert someone that you are on
your way."
Sophie nodded and took her key back. "Which floor?"
The man gave her an odd look. "Your key instructs the elevator which
floor."
She smiled. "Ah, yes."
The guard watched as the two newcomers made their way to the elevators,
inserted their key, boarded the lift, and disappeared. As soon as the door
had closed, he grabbed the phone. He was not calling to alert anyone of
their arrival; there was no need for that. A vault greeter already had been
alerted automatically when the client's key was inserted outside in the
entry gate.
Instead, the guard was calling the bank's night manager. As the line
rang, the guard switched the television back on and stared at it. The news
story he had been watching was just ending. It didn't matter. He got another
look at the two faces on the television.
The manager answered. "Oui?"
"We have a situation down here."
"What's happening?" the manager demanded.
"The French police are tracking two fugitives tonight."
"So?"
"Both of them just walked into our bank."
The manager cursed quietly. "Okay. I'll contact Monsieur Vernet
immediately."
The guard then hung up and placed a second call. This one to Interpol.
Langdon was surprised to feel the elevator dropping rather than
climbing. He had no idea how many floors they had descended beneath the
Depository Bank of Zurich before the door finally opened. He didn't care. He
was happy to be out of the elevator.
Displaying impressive alacrity, a host was already standing there to
greet them. He was elderly and pleasant, wearing a neatly pressed flannel
suit that made him look oddly out of place--an old-world banker in a
high-tech world.
"Bonsoir," the man said. "Good evening. Would you be so kind as to
follow me, s'il vous plait?" Without waiting for a response, he spun on his
heel and strode briskly down a narrow metal corridor.
Langdon walked with Sophie down a series of corridors, past several
large rooms filled with blinking mainframe computers.
"Voici," their host said, arriving at a steel door and opening it for
them. "Here you are."
Langdon and Sophie stepped into another world. The small room before
them looked like a lavish sitting room at a fine hotel. Gone were the metal
and rivets, replaced with oriental carpets, dark oak furniture, and
cushioned chairs. On the broad desk in the middle of the room, two crystal
glasses sat beside an opened bottle of Perrier, its bubbles still fizzing. A
pewter pot of coffee steamed beside it.
Clockwork, Langdon thought. Leave it to the Swiss.
The man gave a perceptive smile. "I sense this is your first visit to
us?"
Sophie hesitated and then nodded.
"Understood. Keys are often passed on as inheritance, and our
first-time users are invariably uncertain of the protocol." He motioned to
the table of drinks. "This room is yours as long as you care to use it."
"You say keys are sometimes inherited?" Sophie asked.
"Indeed. Your key is like a Swiss numbered account, which are often
willed through generations. On our gold accounts, the shortest
safety-deposit box lease is fifty years. Paid in advance. So we see plenty
of family turnover."
Langdon stared. "Did you say fifty years?"
"At a minimum," their host replied. "Of course, you can purchase much
longer leases, but barring further arrangements, if there is no activity on
an account for fifty years, the contents of that safe-deposit box are
automatically destroyed. Shall I run through the process of accessing your
box?"
Sophie nodded. "Please."
Their host swept an arm across the luxurious salon. "This is your
private viewing room. Once I leave the room, you may spend all the time you
need in here to review and modify the contents of your safe-deposit box,
which arrives... over here." He walked them to the far wall where a wide
conveyor belt entered the room in a graceful curve, vaguely resembling a
baggage claim carousel. "You insert your key in that slot there...." The man
pointed to a large electronic podium facing the conveyor belt. The podium
had a familiar triangular hole. "Once the computer confirms the markings on
your key, you enter your account number, and your safe-deposit box will be
retrieved robotically from the vault below for your inspection. When you are
finished with your box, you place it back on the conveyor belt, insert your
key again, and the process is reversed. Because everything is automated,
your privacy is guaranteed, even from the staff of this bank. If you need
anything at all, simply press the call button on the table in the center of
the room."
Sophie was about to ask a question when a telephone rang. The man
looked puzzled and embarrassed. "Excuse me, please." He walked over to the
phone, which was sitting on the table beside the coffee and Perrier.
"Oui?" he answered.
His brow furrowed as he listened to the caller. "Oui... oui...
d'accord." He hung up, and gave them an uneasy smile. "I'm sorry, I must
leave you now. Make yourselves at home." He moved quickly toward the door.
"Excuse me," Sophie called. "Could you clarify something before you go?
You mentioned that we enter an account number?"
The man paused at the door, looking pale. "But of course. Like most
Swiss banks, our safe-deposit boxes are attached to a number, not a name.
You have a key and a personal account number known only to you. Your key is
only half of your identification. Your personal account number is the other
half. Otherwise, if you lost your key, anyone could use it."
Sophie hesitated. "And if my benefactor gave me no account number?"
The banker's heart pounded. Then you obviously have no business here!
He gave them a calm smile. "I will ask someone to help you. He will be in
shortly."
Leaving, the banker closed the door behind him and twisted a heavy
lock, sealing them inside.
Across town, Collet was standing in the Gare du Nord train terminal
when his phone rang.
It was Fache. "Interpol got a tip," he said. "Forget the train. Langdon
and Neveu just walked into the Paris branch of the Depository Bank of
Zurich. I want your men over there right away."
"Any leads yet on what Sauniure was trying to tell Agent Neveu and
Robert Langdon?"
Fache's tone was cold. "If you arrest them, Lieutenant Collet, then I
can ask them personally."
Collet took the hint. "Twenty-four Rue Haxo. Right away, Captain." He
hung up and radioed his men.
CHAPTER 43
Andru Vernet--president of the Paris branch of the Depository Bank of
Zurich--lived in a lavish flat above the bank. Despite his plush
accommodations, he had always dreamed of owning a riverside apartment on
L'lle Saint-Louis, where he could rub shoulders with the true cognoscenti,
rather than here, where he simply met the filthy rich.
When I retire, Vernet told himself, I will fill my cellar with rare
Bordeaux, adorn my salon with a Fragonard and perhaps a Boucher, and spend
my days hunting for antique furniture and rare books in the Quartier Latin.
Tonight, Vernet had been awake only six and a half minutes. Even so, as
he hurried through the bank's underground corridor, he looked as if his
personal tailor and hairdresser had polished him to a fine sheen. Impeccably
dressed in a silk suit, Vernet sprayed some breath spray in his mouth and
tightened his tie as he walked. No stranger to being awoken to attend to his
international clients arriving from different time zones, Vernet modeled his
sleep habits after the Maasai warriors--the African tribe famous for their
ability to rise from the deepest sleep to a state of total battle readiness
in a matter of seconds.
Battle ready, Vernet thought, fearing the comparison might be
uncharacteristically apt tonight. The arrival of a gold key client always
required an extra flurry of attention, but the arrival of a gold key client
who was wanted by the Judicial Police would be an extremely delicate matter.
The bank had enough battles with law enforcement over the privacy rights of
their clients without proof that some of them were criminals.
Five minutes, Vernet told himself. I need these people out of my bank
before the police arrive.
If he moved quickly, this impending disaster could be deftly
sidestepped. Vernet could tell the police that the fugitives in question had
indeed walked into his bank as reported, but because they were not clients
and had no account number, they were turned away. He wished the damned
watchman had not called Interpol. Discretion was apparently not part of the
vocabulary of a 15-euro-per-hour watchman.
Stopping at the doorway, he took a deep breath and loosened his
muscles. Then, forcing a balmy smile, he unlocked the door and swirled into
the room like a warm breeze.
"Good evening," he said, his eyes finding his clients. "I am Andru
Vernet. How can I be of serv--" The rest of the sentence lodged somewhere
beneath his Adam's apple. The woman before him was as unexpected a visitor
as Vernet had ever had.
"I'm sorry, do we know each other?" Sophie asked. She did not recognize
the banker, but he for a moment looked as if he'd seen a ghost.
"No...," the bank president fumbled. "I don't... believe so. Our
services are anonymous." He exhaled and forced a calm smile. "My assistant
tells me you have a gold key but no account number? Might I ask how you came
by this key?"
"My grandfather gave it to me," Sophie replied, watching the man
closely. His uneasiness seemed more evident now.
"Really? Your grandfather gave you the key but failed to give you the
account number?"
"I don't think he had time," Sophie said. "He was murdered tonight."
Her words sent the man staggering backward. "Jacques Sauniure is dead?"
he demanded, his eyes filling with horror. "But... how?!"
Now it was Sophie who reeled, numb with shock. "You knew my
grandfather?"
Banker Andru Vernet looked equally astounded, steadying himself by
leaning on an end table. "Jacques and I were dear friends. When did this
happen?"
"Earlier this evening. Inside the Louvre."
Vernet walked to a deep leather chair and sank into it. "I need to ask
you both a very important question." He glanced up at Langdon and then back
to Sophie. "Did either of you have anything to do with his death?"
"No!" Sophie declared. "Absolutely not."
Vernet's face was grim, and he paused, pondering. "Your pictures are
being circulated by Interpol. This is how I recognized you. You're wanted
for a murder."
Sophie slumped. Fache ran an Interpol broadcast already? It seemed the
captain was more motivated than Sophie had anticipated. She quickly told
Vernet who Langdon was and what had happened inside the Louvre tonight.
Vernet looked amazed. "And as your grandfather was dying, he left you a
message telling you to find Mr. Langdon?"
"Yes. And this key." Sophie laid the gold key on the coffee table in
front of Vernet, placing the Priory seal face down.
Vernet glanced at the key but made no move to touch it. "He left you
only this key? Nothing else? No slip of paper?"
Sophie knew she had been in a hurry inside the Louvre, but she was
certain she had seen nothing else behind Madonna of the Rocks. "No. Just the
key."
Vernet gave a helpless sigh. "I'm afraid every key is electronically
paired with a ten-digit account number that functions as a password. Without
that number, your key is worthless."
Ten digits. Sophie reluctantly calculated the cryptographic odds. Over
ten billion possible choices. Even if she could bring in DCPJ's most
powerful parallel processing computers, she still would need weeks to break
the code. "Certainly, monsieur, considering the circumstances, you can help
us."
"I'm sorry. I truly can do nothing. Clients select their own account
numbers via a secure terminal, meaning account numbers are known only to the
client and computer. This is one way we ensure anonymity. And the safety of
our employees."
Sophie understood. Convenience stores did the same thing. EMPLOYEES DO
NOT HAVE KEYS TO THE SAFE. This bank obviously did not want to risk someone
stealing a key and then holding an employee hostage for the account number.
Sophie sat down beside Langdon, glanced down at the key and then up at
Vernet. "Do you have any idea what my grandfather is storing in your bank?"
"None whatsoever. That is the definition of a Geldschrank bank."
"Monsieur Vernet," she pressed, "our time tonight is short. I am going
to be very direct if I may." She reached out to the gold key and flipped it
over, watching the man's eyes as she revealed the Priory of Sion seal. "Does
the symbol on this key mean anything to you?"
Vernet glanced down at the fleur-de-lis seal and made no reaction. "No,
but many of our clients emboss corporate logos or initials onto their keys."
Sophie sighed, still watching him carefully. "This seal is the symbol
of a secret society known as the Priory of Sion."
Vernet again showed no reaction. "I know nothing of this. Your
grandfather was a friend, but we spoke mostly of business." The man adjusted
his tie, looking nervous now.
"Monsieur Vernet," Sophie p