Free The Guard by Peter Terrin Page A

would be risking everything we’ve built up so far. In all the time we’ve been posted here, the organization hasn’t heard from us once, not once. For the organization we’re a completely autonomous two-man unit that looks after itself and that’s why we’re on the verge of a well-earned promotion to the highest level you and I can ever attain. We’re a two-man unit that knows what it has to do—guard this basement—and also knows what it’s better off not doing—asking superfluous questions. And that’s what you want to start doing in the middle of resupplying, during a standard situation, the only occasion on which we might possibly be subjected to one lasttest before the organization decides to transfer us to the elite. Just think about it, Michel. Think!”
    He doesn’t deign to look at me, he’s deeply disappointed. It was an ill-considered suggestion. I look straight at Harry, waiting for him to glance in my direction so I can express my regret wordlessly. But he points at the map, at the entrance gate, and carries on where he left off. The hairs of his mustache are hanging down over his upper lip, the tips discolored by the acidity of his saliva.
    “So he comes in here. He’ll open the gate and drive the van into the basement. You take up position at Garage 3, keeping him covered. I’ll ask for his ID and a confirmation. When I give the signal, you walk to the rear of the van. The moment the driver opens the doors, we have to assess the situation.”
    “No time to talk,” I add eagerly. “Each of us, separately, decides whether or not to open fire. But if one of the guards opens fire, the other joins in unconditionally.”
    “Dead right,” Harry mumbles.
    54
    Resupplying is already four days late. We spend most of our time sitting down and staring vacantly at the empty basement. We’ve run out of flour and yeast and bottled water. To conserve our energy, we’ve decided to reduce the inspection rounds to a minimum; who knows how long we’ll have to get by on our reserves. We speak little. The hunger even weakens Harry’s walnut smell, not that it makes him any less nervous. Now and then a drop of sweat runs over the black polymer of his Flock 28, which he constantly grips tight in his right hand, at most resting it briefly on his thigh. I don’t tell him that he’s burning up masses of valuable calories. We only give our shoes a slight rub, but still brush off our coats and pantslike always. We have postponed washing our shirts and underwear. Harry sits on the chair, I’m on the stool; I stick my pillow between my back and the wall.
    Harry doesn’t get to sleep at all in his five hours. Eyes wide open, he lies there listening to the inexhaustible silence. He is convinced we’re being subjected to the ultimate test, that the time has come to show what we’re made of and that, as a consequence, it’s ridiculous to think that resupplying will happen in the daytime when we expect it. For myself, I keep my eyes open because I’m scared of dying in my sleep.
    Halfway through the sixth day we decide to take up position on the chair and stool against the wall of Garage 4, in immediate, visible proximity to the entrance, while maintaining a clear view of the three elevators. All things considered, it seems more advisable. On the long journey over there we stop twice, resting on our loads to catch our breath.
    55
    Waiting for the entrance gate to click on: I imagine a woman in the middle of a bare, tiled hall, holding a crystal vase out in front of her. At some stage the vase must fall, that’s the agreement, the scene’s outcome . . . Endlessly, I see the vase descending through the air, which seems shocked by so much abrupt responsibility and is still trying to prevent its fall, while at the same time surrendering, withdrawing its hands as it were. Time and again, I see the lowest point of the vase approach the tiles and touch them. I watch as the vase’s mass keeps moving, like a whale