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I'm Hannah. I'm Zuri.

And welcome to Redhanded. I should have learned how to say welcome in Norwegian,

but I have not despite my very imminent plans to move there because I am now obsessed with it.

One of my only friends from when I lived in Costa Rica was Norwegian.

And I got in touch with her this weekend to double check pronunciations of stuff.

And I can confidently say that nothing is pronounced in Norwegian the way you think it is.

Oh, I see. Okay. Plot twist language. Got it.

Plot twist. So shout out to Annette for helping me out because they're just a system is so different to anything else in the West.

It was quite difficult to negotiate.

But I did. Thanks to Annette. So let's get on with it so we can all find out why I am Norwegian now.

In the forest in Norway, miles away from his native Oslo, a 32 year old man was making a bomb.

When he had shown up asking to rent a remote farmhouse, the landlord thought it was odd that such a well groomed city type would want to come and live out in the forest.

But rent money was rent money. So he left the man to it.

Neighbors also thought this city man was weird.

He certainly didn't know very much about farming.

He drove all his fertilizers straight up to the barn and never managed to grow any crops.

But like the landlord, they left him to it.

The man was very glad of this peace and quiet illegal bomb making factories are quite obviously best undertaken alone.

He had made very sure that no one would suspect what he was doing.

He bought his sulfuric acid from car dealerships, his sodium nitrate and powdered aluminium from Poland and his plastic bags from China.

eBay helped him to make quite a few of his anarchist cookbook purchases.

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