The Da Vinci Code Chapter 42-43
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.
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.
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 at 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 Sauniere 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.
Andre 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 Andre 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 Sauniere 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 Andre 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 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.
O, Draconian devil!
Oh, lame saint!
P. S. Find Robert Langdon