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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
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