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 craning 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-p ère 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,
