by Anne Holt
People were going to wake up.
They were waking up, she could see that.
You could not just decide not to add up with odd numbers, as Peder was wont to say. If you removed them from mathematics because you didn’t like how they were indivisible by two, then the entire economy would collapse. In the same way, you could not close your eyes to ethnic differences and believe that everything would proceed satisfactorily. Cultural differences. Differences in fundamental values, integrity, and rationale. The differences between races.
They had decided that all whole numbers could be divided by two.
However, odd numbers existed, as Kirsten Ranvik well knew, and without being aware of them, the world would come tumbling down.
Peder had been only nine years old when Trond committed suicide. She had tried to hide the truth from the children, but rumors circulated, and Peder was a bright boy. It was the fault of the Turks, of course—they did not operate on the same terms as hardworking, law-abiding Norwegians. They broke all the rules and regulations, and hounded Trond to bankruptcy by their tricks and by selling cheap shit.
Trond often talked about it. That they cheated the cash register. Did not ring up all the cash sales: he himself had seen them putting money into a shoebox under the counter. They had a thirteen-year-old who worked five hours in the shop every day after school.
It wasn’t legal to do that sort of thing.
Trond went bankrupt, and that killed him.
The day Gunnar woke from his coma and explained that it had been two Norwegian Pakistanis who had set about him, his big brother had dashed out that very evening. He returned in the wee hours with bloodied clothes and a swollen eye. He had beaten up a Pakistani, he said sullenly, before going straight to bed.
Since then, Peder had never spoken about politics to anyone. He had applied for military training, became an elite soldier, and never married. He was open about his opinions only to his mother and three uncles. When Kirsten had succumbed to flattery and become a candidate on the lower ranks of the Progress Party list in local government elections, he had been furious. She quickly extricated herself from the party, and since then had remained silent, like him.
The patrol car was approaching Carl Berners plass.
There were a lot of people out and about, even up here, far beyond the course taken by the children’s parade. A strong wind was obviously blowing, and the flags were fluttering vigorously.
It was beautiful, the Norwegian flag.
She hoped she would arrive home in time to take it down before nine o’clock, as the flag rules required.
It was rules that held a society up. Common rules. Order and system, and agreement about how to behave. Those who did not agree could stay where they found fellow believers.
She looked at her watch and smiled.
The police car was taking a peculiar route, probably because of all the people and cordoned areas in the city center. Now at least they were going in the right direction.
This was not the end.
Her brothers had been in on it all along. They too had connections. A nameless and eventually significant group of people, with restricted contact between individual members.
Only what was absolutely necessary was ever said and never using modern methods of communication. All her brothers were familiar with Morse code, and the postal service could be used in an emergency. Gunnar’s carrier pigeons had been useful but never totally necessary.
But it had been a lovely thought, fighting with carrier pigeons.
The bird of peace.
People were turning.
She had noticed it from the time of the first explosion, both on TV and in newspapers, but also at work. “That was enough now,” people had started to mutter.
That was enough now.
The car had arrived in Åkebergveien.
They were obviously going to come by a back road, or so it seemed. The only times she had been inside police headquarters was when she had needed to renew her passport. Then you entered from the other side.
They had arrived now, and she would soon be driven home again. They had no proof, since no proof existed. She would be polite to the police, since you were accustomed to treating the forces of law and order with respect, but she was not going to say very much.
She accepted the young policeman’s hand to help her out of the back seat. She gave him a smile, but the smile he returned seemed slightly disconcerted.
As she put her foot down on the ground, an explosion sounded.
Not powerful, not so forceful that the ground shook, but a loud, resounding bang from somewhere down in the city center.
The police radio was suddenly silenced. Kirsten Ranvik used her hands to smooth her skirt and adjust her coat.
This was just the beginning.
AUTHOR’S POSTSCRIPT
This is a book that could not have been written without a great deal of inspirational reading. As a writer of fiction, it is difficult to provide a specific reading list, since you never know with any degree of accuracy just what in particular has influenced you. So I will content myself with thanking all the journalists, writers, and researchers who use their time and skills to shed light on the very darkest aspects of our world: extremism in all its forms.
This book could also not have been written without a considerable amount of dispiriting reading. I would draw your attention to the fact that the comments placed, directly or indirectly, in the mouths of extremists on both sides in the novel are slightly paraphrased quotes from real statements. They are taken from publicly accessible sources such as books, blogs, web pages, online comments, and social media.
Thanks to those who have helped me through conversations and email exchanges. You know who you are. This time I have also received assistance via Twitter. Thank you for your enthusiastic response to all my questions. I must thank @v36ar in particular. I do know his real name but have never met him. He has a fascinating range of knowledge and answered my numerous questions in an insightful and generous fashion.
I take responsibility for any mistakes and the many simplifications of a huge and complex body of material.
And, as always, thanks are due to Tine for countless suggestions, discussions, and advice. She and Iohanne show unfailing patience to a demanding and sometimes distracted author. I am deeply grateful.
Larvik, June 7, 2015
Anne Holt
About the Author
PHOTOGRAPH BY JO MICHAEL
Anne Holt was a journalist and news anchor and spent two years working for the Oslo Police Department before founding her own law firm and serving as Norway’s minister for justice from 1996 to 1997. Her first novel was published in 1993, and her works have been translated into over thirty languages and sold more than seven million copies. She is the recipient of several awards, including the Riverton Prize and the Norwegian Booksellers’ Prize, and she was short-listed for an Edgar Award in 2012. She was also short-listed for the 2012 Shamus Award and the 2012 Macavity Award. In October 2012, Anne Holt was awarded the Great Calibre Award of Honor in Poland for her entire authorship. She lives in Oslo with her family.
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THE HANNE WILHELMSEN SERIES
Blind Goddess
Blessed Are Those Who Thirst
Death of the Demon
The Lion’s Mouth
Dead Joker
No Echo
Beyond the Truth
1222
Odd Numbers
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Anne Holt and Berit Reiss-Andersen
English language translation copyright © 2017 by Anne Bruce
Originally published in Norwegian in 2015 as Offline
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Holt, Anne, 1958– author.
Title: Odd numbers : a Hanne Wilhelmsen novel / Anne Holt ; translated from the Norwegian by Anne Bruce.
Other titles: Offline. English.
Description: New York : Scribner, 2017. | Series: A Hanne Wilhelmsen novel ; 9
Identifiers: LCCN 2016056265 (print) | LCCN 2017001021 (ebook) | ISBN 9781451634730 (hardback) | ISBN 9781451634891
Subjects: LCSH: Wilhelmsen, Hanne—Fiction. | Women detectives—Fiction. | Terrorism—Norway—Oslo—Fiction. | Bombing investigation—Norway—Oslo—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective / General. | FICTION / Suspense. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PT8952.18.O386 O3413 2017 (print) | LCC PT8952.18.O386 (ebook) | DDC 839.823/8—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016056265
ISBN 978-1-4516-3473-0
ISBN 978-1-4516-3489-1 (ebook)