CHAPTER
43
André 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'Ile 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 André 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 Saunière 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 André 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 pressed, her tone firm. “My grandfather called me tonight and told me he and I were in grave danger. He said he had to give me something. He gave me a key to your bank. Now he is dead. Anything you can tell us would be helpful.”
Vernet broke a sweat. “We need to get out of the building. I'm afraid the police will arrive shortly. My watchman felt obliged to call Interpol.”
Sophie had feared as much. She took one last shot. “My grandfather said he needed to tell me the truth about my family. Does that mean anything to you?”
“Mademoiselle, your family died in a car accident when you were young. I'm sorry. I know your grandfather loved you very much. He mentioned to me several times how much it pained him that you two had fallen out of touch.”
Sophie was uncertain how to respond.
Langdon asked, “Do the contents of this account have anything to do with the Sangreal?”
Vernet gave him an odd look. “I have no idea what that is.” Just then, Vernet's cell phone rang, and he snatched it off his belt.
“Oui?”
He listened a moment, his expression one of surprise and growing concern.
“La police? Si rapidement?”
He cursed, gave some quick directions in French, and said he would be up to the lobby in a minute.
Hanging up the phone, he turned back to Sophie. “The police have responded far more quickly than usual. They are arriving as we speak.”
Sophie had no intention of leaving empty-handed. “Tell them we came and went already. If they want to search the bank, demand a search warrant. That will take them time.”
“Listen,” Vernet said, “Jacques was a friend, and my bank does not need this kind of press, so for those two reasons, I have no intention of allowing this arrest to be made on my premises. Give me a minute and I will see what I can do to help you leave the bank undetected. Beyond that, I cannot get involved.” He stood up and hurried for the door. “Stay here. I'll make arrangements and be right back.”
“But the safe-deposit box,” Sophie declared. “We can't just leave.”
“There's nothing I can do,” Vernet said, hurrying out the door. “I'm sorry.”
Sophie stared after him a moment, wondering if maybe the account number was buried in one of the countless letters and packages her grandfather had sent her over the years and which she had left unopened.
Langdon stood suddenly, and Sophie sensed an unexpected glimmer of contentment in his eyes.
“Robert? You're smiling.”
“Your grandfather was a genius.”
“I'm sorry?”
“Ten digits?”
Sophie had no idea what he was talking about.
“The account number,” he said, a familiar lopsided grin now crossing his face. “I'm pretty sure he left it for us after all.”
“Where?”
Langdon produced the printout of the crime scene photo and spread it out on the coffee table. Sophie needed only to read the first line to know Langdon was correct.
13-3-2-21-1-1-8-5
O, Draconian devil!
Oh, lame saint!
P.S. Find Robert Langdon
CHAPTER
44
“Ten digits,”
Sophie said, her cryptologic senses tingling as she studied the printout.
13-3-2-21-1-1-8-5
Grand-père wrote his account number on the Louvre floor!
When Sophie had first seen the scrambled Fibonacci sequence on the parquet, she had assumed its sole purpose was to encourage DCPJ to call in their cryptographers and get Sophie
involved
. Later, she realized the numbers were also a clue as to how to decipher the other lines—
a sequence out of order . . . a numeric anagram
. Now, utterly amazed, she saw the numbers had a more important meaning still. They were almost certainly the final key to opening her grandfather's mysterious safe-deposit box.
“He was the master of double-entendres,” Sophie said, turning to Langdon. “He loved anything with multiple layers of meaning. Codes within codes.”
Langdon was already moving toward the electronic podium near the conveyor belt. Sophie grabbed the computer printout and followed.
The podium had a keypad similar to that of a bank ATM terminal. The screen displayed the bank's cruciform logo. Beside the keypad was a triangular hole. Sophie wasted no time inserting the shaft of her key into the hole.
The screen refreshed instantly.
ACCOUNT NUMBER:
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
The cursor blinked. Waiting.
Ten digits
. Sophie read the numbers off the printout, and Langdon typed them in.
ACCOUNT NUMBER:
1332211185
When he had typed the last digit, the screen refreshed again. A message in several languages appeared. English was on top.
CAUTION:
Before you strike the enter key, please check the accuracy of your account number.
For your own security, if the computer does not recognize your account number, this system will automatically shut down.
“Fonction terminer,”
Sophie said, frowning. “Looks like we only get one try.” Standard ATM machines allowed users
three
attempts to type a PIN before confiscating their bank card. This was obviously no ordinary cash machine.
“The number looks right,” Langdon confirmed, carefully checking what they had typed and comparing it to the printout. He motioned to the
ENTER
key. “Fire away.”
Sophie extended her index finger toward the keypad, but hesitated, an odd thought now hitting her.
“Go ahead,” Langdon urged. “Vernet will be back soon.”
“No.” She pulled her hand away. “This isn't the right account number.”
“Of course it is! Ten digits. What else would it be?”
“It's too random.”
Too random?
Langdon could not have disagreed more. Every bank advised its customers to choose PINs at random so nobody could guess them. Certainly clients
here
would be advised to choose their account numbers at random.
Sophie deleted everything she had just typed in and looked up at Langdon, her gaze self-assured. “It's far too coincidental that this supposedly
random
account number could be rearranged to form the Fibonacci sequence.”
Langdon realized she had a point. Earlier, Sophie had rearranged this account number into the Fibonacci sequence. What were the odds of being able to do that?
Sophie was at the keypad again, entering a different number, as if from memory. “Moreover, with my grandfather's love of symbolism and codes, it seems to follow that he would have chosen an account number that had meaning to him, something he could easily remember.” She finished typing the entry and gave a sly smile. “Something that appeared random . . . but was
not
.”
Langdon looked at the screen.
ACCOUNT NUMBER:
1123581321
It took him an instant, but when Langdon spotted it, he knew she was right.
The Fibonacci sequence.
1-1-2-3-5-8-13-21
When the Fibonacci sequence was melded into a single ten-digit number, it became virtually unrecognizable.
Easy to remember, and yet seemingly random.
A brilliant ten-digit code that Saunière would never forget. Furthermore, it perfectly explained why the scrambled numbers on the Louvre floor could be rearranged to form the famous progression.
Sophie reached down and pressed the
ENTER
key.
Nothing happened.
At least nothing they could detect.
At that moment, beneath them, in the bank's cavernous subterranean vault, a robotic claw sprang to life. Sliding on a double-axis transport system attached to the ceiling, the claw headed off in search of the proper coordinates. On the cement floor below, hundreds of identical plastic crates lay aligned on an enormous grid . . . like rows of small coffins in an underground crypt.
Whirring to a stop over the correct spot on the floor, the claw dropped down, an electric eye confirming the bar code on the box. Then, with computer precision, the claw grasped the heavy handle and hoisted the crate vertically. New gears engaged, and the claw transported the box to the far side of the vault, coming to a stop over a stationary conveyor belt.
Gently now, the retrieval arm set down the crate and retracted.
Once the arm was clear, the conveyor belt whirred to life. . . .
Upstairs, Sophie and Langdon exhaled in relief to see the conveyor belt move. Standing beside the belt, they felt like weary travelers at baggage claim awaiting a mysterious piece of luggage whose contents were unknown.
The conveyor belt entered the room on their right through a narrow slit beneath a retractable door. The metal door slid up, and a huge plastic box appeared, emerging from the depths on the inclined conveyor belt. The box was black, heavy molded plastic, and far larger than she imagined. It looked like an air-freight pet transport crate without any airholes.
The box coasted to a stop directly in front of them.
Langdon and Sophie stood there, silent, staring at the mysterious container.
Like everything else about this bank, this crate was industrial—metal clasps, a bar code sticker on top, and molded heavy-duty handle. Sophie thought it looked like a giant toolbox.
Wasting no time, Sophie unhooked the two buckles facing her. Then she glanced over at Langdon. Together, they raised the heavy lid and let it fall back.
Stepping forward, they peered down into the crate.
At first glance, Sophie thought the crate was empty. Then she saw something. Sitting at the bottom of the crate. A lone item.
The polished wooden box was about the size of a shoebox and had ornate hinges. The wood was a lustrous deep purple with a strong grain.
Rosewood,
Sophie realized. Her grandfather's favorite. The lid bore a beautiful inlaid design of a rose. She and Langdon exchanged puzzled looks. Sophie leaned in and grabbed the box, lifting it out.
My God, it's heavy!
She carried it gingerly to a large receiving table and set it down. Langdon stood beside her, both of them staring at the small treasure chest her grandfather apparently had sent them to retrieve.
Langdon stared in wonderment at the lid's hand-carved inlay—a five-petal rose. He had seen this type of rose many times. “The five-petal rose,” he whispered, “is a Priory symbol for the Holy Grail.”
Sophie turned and looked at him. Langdon could see what she was thinking, and he was thinking it too. The dimensions of the box, the apparent weight of its contents, and a Priory symbol for the Grail all seemed to imply one unfathomable conclusion.
The Cup of Christ is in this wooden box
. Langdon again told himself it was impossible.
“It's a perfect size,” Sophie whispered, “to hold . . . a chalice.”
It can't be a chalice.
Sophie pulled the box toward her across the table, preparing to open it. As she moved it, though, something unexpected happened. The box let out an odd gurgling sound.
Langdon did a double take.
There's liquid inside?
Sophie looked equally confused. “Did you just hear . . .?”
Langdon nodded, lost. “Liquid.”
Reaching forward, Sophie slowly unhooked the clasp and raised the lid.
The object inside was unlike anything Langdon had ever seen. One thing was immediately clear to both of them, however. This was definitely
not
the Cup of Christ.