But the Labour Party did better still and entered into negotiations to form a red–green coalition with the Socialist Left and the Centre Party. Together, the three parties formed a government platform that was the most radical in Europe. It signalled that it would put the brakes on all privatisation of state activities. The Socialist Left got the Ministry of Finance. The party stood for everything Anders Behring Breivik was against: stricter regulation of market forces, more control of the economy, bigger fines for financial misdemeanours and higher taxes on share profits.
He made it his principle to pay as little tax as possible. But when he was setting up E-Commerce Group that year, he did have to abide by some laws and regulations. He hired an auditor, which was a requirement when establishing a limited company with shareholders. The income from the diploma production was never reported to the authorities, but he could not conceal profits on selling shares.
He spent the autumn weighing up whether to stop doing the diplomas. It would be embarrassing if his full name came out in the media. Even if it transpired that his operation was not strictly illegal, it was still morally questionable, and he didn’t want to make a living as a forger, he wanted to be a proper businessman. A proper businessman, rolling in money.
But it was hard to give up on shady dealings that generated so many kroner. So the man in Indonesia went on making examination certificates. Anders went on sending them out.
* * *
The snow came drifting down.
Christmas was approaching. Family time. Well, his family was rather meagre. His sister had married in Los Angeles a few years before and he had not seen her since the wedding, when his mother and sister clashed. Wenche complained that she had been instructed by her daughter to say she was a doctor.
So it would be just him and his mother on Christmas Eve as usual, the two of them opening presents and eating a festive meal. This year they would be at the flat in Hoffsveien, to which his mother had moved. But then, just a few days before the holiday, they were invited to Christmas dinner at the home of Wenche’s second cousin, outside Oslo.
Wenche had only met Jan Behring on a few previous occasions, but now his wife had run into Wenche and realised that she and Anders would be celebrating Christmas alone. What a shame! They couldn’t spend Christmas Eve in separate places when they were both so short of close family.
Wenche dressed, did her hair and put on make-up. Anders took trouble over his outfit too.
During the meal Anders noticed a candlestick standing on its own on a shelf in the living room.
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘Greek columns,’ replied Jan Behring, a sparse, self-restrained man. ‘A Doric, an Ionic and a Corinthian column.’
They were the symbols of the order of Freemasons he belonged to – the Pillars.
‘Oh, I’ve always wanted to be a Freemason,’ Anders exclaimed. ‘It’s always been my dream.’ At thirteen he had gone to the Freemasons’ Hall to find out how to become a member. He was told that the lower age limit was twenty-four. Now he was almost twenty-seven.
The Freemasons are the power elite, he told friends who thought it was weird of him to want to mingle with those old stuffed shirts. It was the ideal place to make contacts. You have to join if you want to get anywhere, he would say.
Here was his opportunity.
‘Can you get me in?’ he asked excitedly.
‘Oh that would be amazing,’ put in Wenche.
‘Are you a Christian?’ asked the cousin.
‘Yes,’ answered Anders.
Jan Behring was a cautious and pensive man who spoke in a rather slow and long-winded fashion. The brotherhood was based on Christian values, he explained. Membership improved and refined the individual. As a Freemason, one strove to become more humble, tolerant and compassionate – with style and dignity.
Anders had always lacked a father, grandfather, uncle or trustworthy family friend who could invite him in. To be proposed for membership you had to be invited by two brothers of the order who would remain your sponsors for the rest of your life, while two more people had to vouch for you.
Now he realised that he was related to someone who was a Freemason of the Eighth Degree!
As the evening drew to an end, Anders plucked up the courage to ask outright if this remote cousin, forty years his senior, would be his sponsor.
Behring hesitated. He did not know Anders well and did not feel able to recommend him just like that. But he lent him the Freemasons’ book, the Masonic register containing the names of all the members. Anders could look through and see if he knew anyone in it who could act as his sponsor.
It was a mild Christmas in Oslo that year, with more sleet than snow. The streets turned grey, sprayed with slush that froze overnight. At home, Anders pored over the register and found barristers and judges, chief inspectors of police, renowned professors and businessmen. But no one remotely linked to him.
The Freemasons’ website spoke of ancient symbols and rituals to which only a closed circle could be admitted. They were only revealed as you rose through the degrees. Truth did not come naked into the world. It came in symbols and images, it said.
* * *
‘Every child deserves to win.’
This was the phrase with which Prime Minister Jens Stoltenberg began his New Year message that year. ‘I’m talking about the sheer joy of succeeding at something,’ he said in the address, broadcast on television. ‘Many people are making plans in this festive season, dreaming dreams great and small. There are possibly more opportunities for making those dreams come true in Norway than in any other country. Our strong sense of community gives each one of us greater opportunities for seeking success and happiness. That is what constitutes the Norwegian dream – more opportunities for more people. For me, dreams are achieved through community.’
Greater equality created a more dynamic society, the Labour Party Prime Minister maintained.
For Anders, dreams were not achieved through community. He wanted to shine out above the grey mass.
* * *
So then it was 2006. Over the New Year holiday, Anders told his mother’s second cousin that he had not found anyone he knew in the Freemasons’ register. Jan Behring was then faced with conflicting loyalties and contacted the Chairman Master of the Pillars, the order of which he was a member. The Master said they could make an exception and ask Anders in for a chat to see what he was made of.
Later that winter, Anders was shown round the Armigeral Hall, the ‘Knights’ Hall’ at the Freemasons’ headquarters. It was a magnificent, high-roofed hall with stucco and murals on the ceiling and walls. Suits of armour and helmets were displayed between flags and banners. Knights on horseback and Crusaders in white mantles with red Maltese crosses on their chests were painted directly onto the walls. A lion in relief had the cross of St George hanging round its neck. The animal’s tongue was painted red. In the cellars were the bones and skulls used in the Freemasons’ ceremonies and rituals.
Anders was taken down into the depths, to the Pillars’ little cubicle beneath the ceremonial hall. There he was questioned by the Master of the Lodge about his life and how he lived it. Anders replied politely, remaining rather quiet and reserved. The eagerness of Christmas Eve was now muted. His mother’s cousin was rather surprised at this, but the Master of the Lodge thought the young man seemed to have a strong Christian faith and provided decent answers to his other questions too. His only cause for concern was that this Behring might be rather too unassuming and weak.
The Master of the Lodge promised to let Anders know the outcome. He said it might take some time.
Anders was kept waiting. His application had to go through a complicated process. He started to sense he would be turned down. Would he be refused entry to the brotherhood, wasn’t he good enough?
* * *
The absence of a father weighed on Anders.
It was a lack that he sometimes felt quite acutely.
One da
y he decided to ring his father.
It was eleven years since they had spoken. Eleven years since he had last been arrested for tagging and his father had cut off all contact.
He rang the number. The receiver was lifted at the other end.
‘Hello, it’s Anders.’
His father said a surprised hello back, in his refined Nordland accent.
Anders told his father how well he was getting on, that he had his own IT company with employees all over the world. He said everything was great and he was considering further study at a university the US. He gave the impression that he was extremely content with life and that everything was going well, financially and socially.
They said goodbye, and promised that they would speak again soon.
It didn’t happen. Anders never rang his father again.
Nor was his father ever to ring him. He had his own life to live. He was now married for the fourth time. He had no contact with any of his four children.
But maybe if Anders did something really great his father would see him, truly see him. He so much wanted his father to be proud of him. At least that was what he told his stepmother, his father’s ex-wife number three, the one who had looked after him during the holidays in Normandy.
* * *
The winter proved tough; his self-esteem was sinking, his energy was gone. In February he stopped the diploma production with immediate effect. He could not cope with the prospect of being exposed in the media as a forger. So he started buying securities.
The stock market was sluggish and falling for most of the spring. He lost a bit, made a bit, but never saw anything of the big, lucky lottery ticket he was hoping to draw. In May, share prices plummeted and stayed at rock bottom.
The totals in his accounts were shrinking. Most of his capital was now bound up in shares he couldn’t sell without making big losses. He followed the stock and share prices in a feverish panic. Most of his portfolio was tied up in shares that had been suspended from sale.
When he sat down at the computer, what he liked best was to escape from reality.
Neither his annual report nor his accounts for the year were submitted in time to meet the deadline. When he finally sent them in, the auditor pulled him up for deficient accounting in both purchase and sale of shares.
Anders avoided his friends. The computer screen attracted him more and more. He swiftly typed in the addresses of the computer games he was involved in and could play for hours. If anyone called round or telephoned, they often had to wait until he had finished the level he was playing.
He could not be bothered to work out any more, his diet was poor, he no longer made the effort to dress up and go out into town; he’d had enough of partying with friends in that damn cattle market, as he called the social scene. ‘Life’s a rat race,’ he told a friend. ‘Dancing in never-ending circles to get rich. I can’t do it any more.’
His cash reserves were dwindling. The rent for the decaying two-room flat in the fashionable street was fifteen thousand kroner. In a month or two he would have to start selling low-priced shares to cover his living costs. There was no fresh money coming in.
It had been his mother’s idea. He could save lots of money by moving back home, she said. The room wasn’t being used in any case. All he had to do was to take out a few bits of dining-room furniture she had put in there.
The summer when he was twenty-seven, he moved back in with his mother.
‘It’s only temporary,’ he said.
‘It’ll be lovely,’ she answered.
Choose Yourself a World
It was a good place to be. It was a perfect meritocracy.
If you were skilful and alert, you rose through the levels. If you persevered and carried out your tasks, you reaped the rewards.
Quite simply, you got what you deserved.
There were no inherited qualities or privileges. You chose your class and your race for yourself. It was your skills, and how you used them, that carried you up the hierarchy and towards your goal.
Everyone started from the same place, from the start.
You made yourself exactly as you wanted to be. You gave yourself a name and a story. You could be a man or a woman. You could be a human being or a troll, a dwarf or an elf, a gnome or an orc. That was your race.
Then there was class. You could choose to be warrior, priest, shaman, hunter or rogue. Or you could be one of the mages.
The hunters could get wild animals to fight for them while they stood back and fired their crossbows. The rogues could steal up on their opponents without being seen and attack them from behind with a dagger or axe. They were the best in hand-to-hand combat, while the priests could inflict the most damage from a distance. They had healing powers and used black magic. A mage had an arsenal of remedies that infused strength over time; a paladin knew magic spells that restored life instantly.
The druids could change themselves into bears and tigers, huge trees or rocks. They could summon tornadoes or dark clouds. The warlocks could call forth demons to sacrifice themselves in battle. The shamans could invoke air, earth and water, while the knights could use light to blind their opponents.
But a plus was always accompanied by a minus. If you were strong in one area, you were weak in another. Those able to dish out fire or ice could not take much themselves, whereas those who had only a club to fight with were hardier in battle.
Finally, you had to choose a profession. Blackmith or alchemist, tailor or fisherman, skinner or cook.To know a craft well could be as valuable as swordplay or spellcraft. When you were not supplementing your own arsenal, you could make a profit supplementing someone else’s.
* * *
The game could commence.
He was entering a world of colour. Sometimes the contrasts were subdued and misty, then all of a sudden the colours would crackle out at him. The landscape was constantly changing. A bolt of lightning would strike, a river burst its banks or red-hot lava threaten to fill the valley he was standing in.
The green was greener, the red redder, the dark darker, the light lighter. Everything had a meaning and a purpose. Every tool had its use. Every skill could be exploited. The landscape was charged with meaning.
Like everyone else, he started at zero in terms of qualities. From that point on he could earn points, which were given in percentages as he completed the tasks.
The qualities he had to improve to raise his percentage were strength, resilience, flexibility, courage and intelligence.
As a newcomer he was allocated simple tasks. It might be to harvest the crops of the field, make a spear, or barter to get himself an animal to ride. There were fast animals and slow ones. Some could fly, like the sandstone drake. He could also get himself a non-fighting pet that just followed him around the game.
Everything he wanted, he had to make or capture himself. Sometimes there was gear for sale in auctions, or he could exchange things. Some tools were in the ownership of the enemy and then he had to beat his opponent and take what had been his.
It was laborious work. With patience came results. With time came assets.
The tasks grew more demanding. He was to kill a monster, find a hoard of treasure. Both of them might be concealed among the cliffs. Attractive castles could be surrounded by vampires, the plains around them transformed into enchanted battlefields.
Eventually it became impossible to complete the tasks alone. He had to cooperate with others, join a guild. The guild members had to have qualities that complemented each other. The strongest had to fight in the front line. The warriors and paladins had to draw the attention of the enemy so the more vulnerable, the mages and priests who had the power of healing, were not hurt.
There was an element of obligation too. If you didn’t show up, if you weren’t there, you let everybody down and the guild risked losing.
* * *
He gave himself the name Andersnordic. His gender was male and his race was human. His class was that of mage.
Andersnordic was tall and powerful, with a menacing, greyish face. His big body was dressed in a knight’s outfit with precious stones sewn onto the chest and huge epaulettes on the shoulders. On his head he wore a tall, shining staff.
He relaxed his shoulders.
And pressed the keys.
The game drew him in and calmed him down. The system was easy to understand. There were no awkward categories like cool versus uncool. If you were clever enough, you were good enough. Absolutely anyone could be a success, all you had to do was be dedicated and logged in. Your reward came with time and experience, not like the volatile stock market, not like the risky chat-up scene.
Anders was good at collecting points and moved swiftly up the levels. The gamers played wearing headsets and communicated as they went along. The exchanges were largely about raids, allocation of roles and fighting tactics. They knew each other only as characters in the game – avatars – and not as their everyday selves.
Anders initially slotted into the newcomer role and was unassuming and quiet, not very active in discussions. As he rose through the hierarchy, he gradually changed. He became more affable, more talkative. As time went by he became known for his cheerfulness, as someone who could inspire others to contribute. Quite simply, he was well liked. ‘A tonic to depression,’ one of his fellow players called him.
* * *
Anders’s mother was frustrated. This was not what she had expected of her son. Whenever she went into his room he just got annoyed and chased her out again. He scarcely had time to eat, was as quick as possible in the loo and the shower, hurried back to his room, shut the door and slept late. Life took on a routine determined by the game; his offline breaks were few.
He had stopped answering when anybody rang him on his mobile. He asked his mother to say he was out if any friends turned up at the door.
Thus he passed his early days at 18 Hoffsveien. It was a mild, sunny autumn. On the solitary birch outside his window the leaves turned first yellow, then brown, and then fell to the ground. The rain set in. The leaves lying in a circle round the tree were soon slimy and decaying. He, meanwhile, took a comfortable seat in the deep office chair each day and let his fingers do battle with the keyboard as the days darkened.
One of Us: The Story of Anders Breivik and the Massacre in Norway Page 13
