The Redbreast(4)

Whether to take the risk or not . . . the eternal

dilemma.

He thought about the low neck on the vest,

lowered the revolver half an inch. The roar of the

motorcycles was deafening.

2

Oslo. 5 October 1999.

‘THAT’S THE GREAT BETRAYAL,’ THE SHAVEN-

HEADED MAN said, looking down at his manuscript.

The head, the eyebrows, the bulging forearms,

even the huge hands gripping the lectern,

everything was clean-shaven and neat. He leaned

over to the microphone.

‘Since 1945, National Socialism’s enemies have

been masters of the land; they have developed and

put into practice their democratic and economic

principles. Consequently, not on one single day has

the sun gone down on a world without war. Even

here in Europe we have experienced war and

genocide. In the Third World millions starve to

death – and Europe is threatened by mass

immigration and the resultant chaos, deprivation

and struggle for survival.’

He paused to gaze around him. There was a stony

silence in the room; only one person in the

audience, on the benches behind him, clapped

tentatively. When he continued, fired up now, the

red light under the microphone lit up ominously,

indicating that the recording signal was distorted.

‘There is little to separate even us from oblivious

affluence and the day we have to rely on ourselves

and the community around us. A war, an economic

or ecological disaster, and the entire network of

laws and rules which turns us all too quickly into

passive social clients is suddenly no longer there.

The previous great betrayal took place on 9 April

1940, when our so-called national leaders fled

from the enemy to save their own skins, and took

the gold reserves with them to finance a life of

luxury in London. Now the enemy is here again.

And those who are supposed to protect our

interests have let us down once more. They let the

enemy build mosques in our midst, let them rob our

old folk and mingle blood with our women. It is no

more than our duty as Norwegians to protect our

race and to eliminate those who fail us.’

He turned the page, but a cough from the podium

in front of him made him stop and look up.

‘Thank you, I think we’ve heard enough,’ the

judge said, peering over his glasses. ‘Has the

prosecution counsel any more questions for the

accused?’

The sun shone across courtroom 17 in Oslo

Crown Court, giving the hairless man an illusory

halo. He was wearing a white shirt and a slim tie,

presumably on advice from his defending counsel,

Johan Krohn Jr., who right now was leaning

backwards in his chair, flicking a pen between

middle and forefinger. Krohn disliked most things

about this situation. He disliked the direction the

prosecutor’s questions had taken, the way his

client, Sverre Olsen, had openly declared his

programme, and the fact that Olsen had deemed it

appropriate to roll up his shirt-sleeves to display

to the judge and colleagues on the panel the spider-

web tattoos on both elbows and the row of

swastikas on his left forearm. On his right forearm

was tattooed a chain of Norse symbols and

VALKYRIA, a neo-Nazi gang, in black gothic letters.

But there was something else about the whole

procedure that rankled with him. He just couldn’t

put his finger on what.

The Public Prosecutor, a little man by the name of

Herman Groth, pushed the microphone away with

his little finger, which was decorated with a ring

bearing the symbol of the lawyers’ union  .

‘Just a couple of questions to finish, Your

Honour.’ The voice was gentle and subdued. The

light under the microphone showed green.

‘So when, at nine o’ clock on 3 January, you went

into Dennis Kebab in Dronningens gate, it was

with the clear intention of performing the duty of

protecting our race which you were just talking

about?’

Johan Krohn launched himself at the microphone.

‘My client has already answered that a row

developed between himself and the Vietnamese

owner.’ Red light. ‘He was provoked,’ Krohn

said. ‘There’s absolutely no reason to suggest

premeditation.’

Groth closed his eyes.

‘If what your defending counsel says is correct,

herr Olsen, it was therefore quite by chance that

you were carrying a baseball bat at the time?’

‘For self-defence,’ Krohn interrupted and threw

his arms up in despair. ‘Your Honour, my client

has already answered these questions.’

The judge rubbed his chin as he surveyed the

counsel for the defence. Everyone knew that Johan

Krohn Jr. was a defence constellation in the

ascendancy – particularly Johan Krohn himself –

and that was presumably what finally made the