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 Saunière 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
AndréVernet— 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 AndréVernet. 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 AndréVernet 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
