The Da Vinci Code

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 
sat 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 Saunière 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.