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."
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