Read PDF 1222 (Hanne Wilhelmsen Series Book 8)

Free download. Book file PDF easily for everyone and every device. You can download and read online 1222 (Hanne Wilhelmsen Series Book 8) file PDF Book only if you are registered here. And also you can download or read online all Book PDF file that related with 1222 (Hanne Wilhelmsen Series Book 8) book. Happy reading 1222 (Hanne Wilhelmsen Series Book 8) Bookeveryone. Download file Free Book PDF 1222 (Hanne Wilhelmsen Series Book 8) at Complete PDF Library. This Book have some digital formats such us :paperbook, ebook, kindle, epub, fb2 and another formats. Here is The CompletePDF Book Library. It's free to register here to get Book file PDF 1222 (Hanne Wilhelmsen Series Book 8) Pocket Guide.

Leia mais Leia menos. Detalhes do produto Formato: Reprint 27 de dezembro de Vendido por: In Dust and Ashes: Death of the Demon: Compartilhe seus pensamentos com outros clientes. This is the 8th book in the Hanne Wilhelmsen series. I've only read one book before and I wasn't a fan: This one could be read as a standalone and, even if it's still very political, it is so much fun. After her train crashes in the mountains, Hanne gets stuck with the rest of the passengers in a hotel during a snow storm.

There is a murder and many suspects. The survivors quickly form different groups that seem to reflect the Norwegian society: There is also another mysterious group that may be part of the government and may be guarding a terrorist or a member of the Royal Family, depending on who you ask.

There are rumors, arguments and all-out fights. Hanne will have to figure out whodunit, before the weather breaks and they can be rescued. Again, I don't necessarily agree with Anne Holt's political views and yet, I was really into the plot. This shows how you can make a point and still keep your readers entertained. I must say that I didn't completely understand the ending, and it may be that I'm missing part of the backstory - so loyal readers will probably be rewarded more than the rest of us.

See a Problem?

Hanne is now in a wheel chair - and is on her way to a medical assessment, when her train derails in an isolated mountain resort in Norway. The blizzard storm of the century is in progress and the people on the train are stranded at a local hotel. Then a murder occurs. Those who know who Hanne is, recruit her assistance in the matter There are several stories occurring -who was in the secret last coach car that was added to the back of the train and is now under heavy guard?

Who would want to kill the priest who was found murdered in the deep snow? And then, a second murder occurs - the stranded survivors of the train accident are in chaos and terrified. Keeping people calm becomes a major concern As I was reading the book, I became so engrossed in the story that I felt I was actually snowed in: I spent the whole weekend immersed in snow.

This Swedish adventure is very clever, and intriguing from page one to the end and even beyond. I will be thinking about it often. Were there not guards? And why were these few unidentified riders sent to a separate apartment at the top of the lodging? The atmosphere is at first stunningly sober, i. When I got shot and almost died, I ran out of strength. I was perfectly happy sitting there, all by myself.

They were talking openly about everything. Despite the fact that many had disappeared for a while when the rooms were allocated, it was still too early to wind down for the night. Most of them came back before long. A few were standing chatting in the reception area. The shock of the accident had begun to subside, edging towards laughter. The situation was no longer threatening, in spite of the fact that the storm outside the old hotel was more violent than anything any of us had experienced before.

It was more the fact that the shabby, melancholy air of the hotel was having a calming effect on us. Its crooked brown architectural patchwork had withstood both wind and storms for almost a hundred years, and it was not going to let anybody down tonight either. The doctors had worked their way through the queue of those needing help. A few of the teenagers were playing poker. I had positioned my chair at just the right distance from the long wooden table, and I could hear both the youngsters and the stream of people coming back from their rooms to find out the latest news, to compare their injuries, and to stare at the huge windows as the storm tried in vain to batter its way through to us at Finse I was listening to what people were saying.

They thought I was asleep. The rumour had already been circulating on the train. Two middle-aged women just behind me had talked about virtually nothing else.

Detalhes do produto

There was an extra carriage, they whispered. It had to be the Royal Carriage. I rejoiced too soon. The gossip had caught on, and was well on the way to becoming the truth. Strangers were chatting to each other. The train became less and less Norwegian as it climbed towards the high mountains. People were sharing their sandwiches and fetching coffee for each other. One person thought they knew something they had heard from someone they knew, and a girl of about twenty-five had definitely heard that somebody she went to school with who now worked in the royal protection team was actually going to Bergen this week.

When we left Oslo, there was quite simply an extra carriage on the train. By the time we were approaching Finse, the carriage had turned into the Royal Carriage and everybody knew that Mette-Marit and her bodyguards were on board, along with little Prince Sverre, no doubt. He was still so small, after all.

He needed his mummy, the little darling. An eager elderly man thought he had seen a little girl through a window before he was brusquely turned away by the police, so Ingrid Alexandra was there too. But where had they gone, all these members of the royal family? Sometimes I realize a little more clearly than usual why I would prefer not to have anything to do with other people.

It is said that opinions in themselves are never dangerous.

| Book by Anne Holt | Official Publisher Page | Simon & Schuster

At any rate, she is still very adept. She could play the main character in a play by Holberg, with her absurd logic, her way of distorting the facts, and her impressive belief in her own message. Besides which, she has such a bloody high profile. Kari Thue frightens nervous people into becoming aggressive, and seduces otherwise sensible men into insanity.

The woman with a voice as sharp as the parting in her thin hair had already started a quarrel. There were two Muslims at Finse this afternoon: Kari Thue is a bloodhound of note, and she had scented the problem long ago. She was wearing dark, full-length clothes and a headscarf; she was the person the priest had tried to drag along to his prayer meeting in the hobby room, in his confusion.

I presumed they were Kurds. They could of course just as easily have been Iranians, Iraqis, or even Italian Muslims, when it came down to it, but I still settled on Kurds. The woman was weeping, hiding her face in her hands. She reacted as if he had been anointing her with sulphuric acid, and turned around so fast that she almost dropped the little rucksack she carried over one shoulder.

I did once meet a rabbi who was quite decent, but that was in New York. On the whole I have little time for religion, and particularly for those who act as stewards for various religious beliefs. I find priests the most difficult of all to tolerate. Naturally, they are also the ones I am most accustomed to. And I react against priests like Cato Hammer most strongly of all. They preach a theology of tolerance where the boundaries between right and wrong are so vague that I cannot see the point of having a religion at all.

They smile piously and open their arms wide. Suffer little children to come unto me.

I want sulphurous sermons and threats of eternal flames. Give me priests and bishops with straight backs and burning eyes, give me implacability and condemnation and promises of punishment on the other side. I want a church that whips its congregation onward along the straight and narrow, and makes it crystal clear to the rest of the world that we are heading for eternal damnation.

At least that would make it easy to see the difference between us. Muslims are not the same as Islamists.

Clientes que visualizaram este item também visualizaram

The world is not like that. If religion is, as I believe, basically a scourge for mankind, then I still see no logic, not to mention decency, in arranging believers in some kind of rank order.


  • More from Anne Holt.
  • The Hanne Wilhelmsen Novels, Book 8 Livre audio | Anne Holt | oxivecakyhub.ga.
  • ;
  • Model Selection and Multimodel Inference: A Practical Information-Theoretic Approach!

Religion comprises tyranny and civilization, rejection and conformity, love and oppression. And why Islam in particular should be regarded as worse than other faiths is beyond my comprehension.


  • (Hanne Wilhelmsen, #8) by Anne Holt.
  • Hanne Wilhelmsen Book Eight!
  • The Organ Farm.
  • 1222 (Hanne Wilhelmsen 8);
  • - Salomonsson Agency.
  • .

My back was aching, one shoulder was sore, and my mouth was dry. Dr Streng had pulled up a chair beside me. He offered me a glass of red wine.

1222: The Hanne Wilhelmsen Novels, Book 8

But a glass of water would be great. I put the glass down on the floor. Released the brake on my chair and nodded briefly to the doctor before setting off slowly. For one thing, the roaring from outside was so loud that everyone had to raise their voice in order to be heard.

What was more remarkable was that the wind was making the windowpanes vibrate, as if the storm were a living thing with a loudly pounding heart. The view was completely devoid of reference points. No trees, no objects, even the walls of the rooms at right angles to reception had disappeared in a whirling chaos of snow, without anything to focus on. If one goes, there are still two left. He sat down on the edge of the table and raised his glass in a toast. It looked like Coca-Cola. Something watchful, a flicker in his eyes before he sought refuge behind the glass he was holding. I nodded, then shook my head as Magnus Streng once again offered me the glass of red wine.

The wind would just blow you off your feet, and the snow is something else. Geir Rugholmen burst out laughing. His laughter was happy and melodious, like that of a young girl. He took out a tin of snuff. He tucked a fresh plug under his lip and slipped the tin into his pocket. But you should just take it easy. Make yourself at home.

Less than seventy kilometres an hour, they said. We really can talk about a blessing in disguise. Nothing but smiles and kindness. For getting us down from here? What does that involve? Is it Ulvik police district? Is there a local representative? Too much of the latter simply makes people curious and more intrusive, just like Magnus Streng, who had clearly decided to get to know me better.

But I had obviously gone too far when it came to the former. Particularly for the fact that you went to get my chair when the weather had worsened. Thank you very much indeed. Geir Rugholmen looked at me expressionlessly for a few seconds, then shrugged his shoulders and gave a wry smile. Because of you, in fact. It was my idea. The snowstorm is so severe that not even diesel snow ploughs can get through. So you might as well try and relax for the time being. Adrian had found someone.