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.
CHAPTER 43
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?"