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Authors: Laney Salisbury
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on various theories of unmanned flight and drone weaponry, and Carroll noted again that he had a sophisticated understanding of physics. Years later Carroll realized that Drewe had simply memorized basic concepts from physics textbooks.
Drewe quickly added Terry Carroll to his collection of unwitting accomplices. The soft-spoken lecturer was developing powerful intelligence-gathering software that could be applied to various disciplines. Drewe told Carroll he was sure the Home Office would be interested in the software for a newly proposed national computerized fingerprint identification system, as would the auction houses for an international database for art. Drewe said that he could broker both potential deals. Soon he was bringing an assortment of interesting characters to Carroll’s office: a group of MI6 and Scotland Yard acquisition officers; a handful of Russian and South African officials; a Chinese military attaché and his computer specialist. Carroll couldn’t help but be impressed.
Another candidate for Drewe’s crew was Peter Harris, the larger-than-life armed forces veteran who had introduced him to Carroll. Harris was well into his fifties, a hard drinker and smoker who had already lost a lung, and whose appointment with oblivion was neatly stamped on his forehead. A retired commercial artist, Harris supplemented his income by working an early morning paper route and subletting his flat, most recently to Carroll.
Harris’s friends would probably have pitied him if he hadn’t been such a great raconteur. He claimed that in the late 1960s, while fighting in Aden in the British Army’s last colonial counterinsurgency campaign, he had stood his ground after a sniper shot one of his mates dead. Wearing the Tartan kilt of the Argyle Highlanders, he had picked up his bagpipes and marched down a bullet-pocked street playing “Scotland the Brave” and daring the bastards to finish him off. Or so the story went.
It was questionable whether Harris had ever seen combat, but the Catch-22 was a perfect venue for such yarns, with its collection of armchair warriors and tin soldiers who enjoyed the camaraderie of real fighters. Britain was filled with barflies who lied about their war service. Many of the kingdom’s khaki fantasists claimed to have served in the elite Special Air Service (SAS), or as commandos during the Falklands War, or in the bomb-disposal squads in Northern Ireland. Drewe also claimed to have belonged to an elite military unit, one of several in the British Army that operated covertly against the IRA in Northern Ireland in the 1980s, relying on spies, “dirty ops” informers, and army and loyalist death squads. Terry Carroll realized much later that Drewe, who could reel off military commands, ranks, and lists of weapons, probably got most of his information from spy novels and military manuals.
Psychiatrists who treat serial war fibbers and compulsive liars use the term “pseudologia phantastica” to describe this pattern of habitual deceit. The lies often contain some element of truth: A onetime army clerk, for example, might claim to have seen hazardous duty during wartime. Fabricators most often tend to be in search of some internal psychological gain rather than a tangible or monetary reward. They want to be seen as extraordinarily brave, important, or above average, somehow superior to the ordinary citizen. The typical fantasist is not delusional. 8
Peter Harris and John Drewe both fit the pattern. They were habitual exaggerators. At the Catch, they loved to talk about their shared passion for all things military, about calibration and cannons, missile velocities and the merits of the old Lee-Enfield rifle. Harris wasn’t making everything up. His service career was as an airman between 1947-1949. He knew about guns, having worked for three years as a security officer for the South African High Commission, and he was still a registered firearms dealer, although the only guns his
Drewe quickly added Terry Carroll to his collection of unwitting accomplices. The soft-spoken lecturer was developing powerful intelligence-gathering software that could be applied to various disciplines. Drewe told Carroll he was sure the Home Office would be interested in the software for a newly proposed national computerized fingerprint identification system, as would the auction houses for an international database for art. Drewe said that he could broker both potential deals. Soon he was bringing an assortment of interesting characters to Carroll’s office: a group of MI6 and Scotland Yard acquisition officers; a handful of Russian and South African officials; a Chinese military attaché and his computer specialist. Carroll couldn’t help but be impressed.
Another candidate for Drewe’s crew was Peter Harris, the larger-than-life armed forces veteran who had introduced him to Carroll. Harris was well into his fifties, a hard drinker and smoker who had already lost a lung, and whose appointment with oblivion was neatly stamped on his forehead. A retired commercial artist, Harris supplemented his income by working an early morning paper route and subletting his flat, most recently to Carroll.
Harris’s friends would probably have pitied him if he hadn’t been such a great raconteur. He claimed that in the late 1960s, while fighting in Aden in the British Army’s last colonial counterinsurgency campaign, he had stood his ground after a sniper shot one of his mates dead. Wearing the Tartan kilt of the Argyle Highlanders, he had picked up his bagpipes and marched down a bullet-pocked street playing “Scotland the Brave” and daring the bastards to finish him off. Or so the story went.
It was questionable whether Harris had ever seen combat, but the Catch-22 was a perfect venue for such yarns, with its collection of armchair warriors and tin soldiers who enjoyed the camaraderie of real fighters. Britain was filled with barflies who lied about their war service. Many of the kingdom’s khaki fantasists claimed to have served in the elite Special Air Service (SAS), or as commandos during the Falklands War, or in the bomb-disposal squads in Northern Ireland. Drewe also claimed to have belonged to an elite military unit, one of several in the British Army that operated covertly against the IRA in Northern Ireland in the 1980s, relying on spies, “dirty ops” informers, and army and loyalist death squads. Terry Carroll realized much later that Drewe, who could reel off military commands, ranks, and lists of weapons, probably got most of his information from spy novels and military manuals.
Psychiatrists who treat serial war fibbers and compulsive liars use the term “pseudologia phantastica” to describe this pattern of habitual deceit. The lies often contain some element of truth: A onetime army clerk, for example, might claim to have seen hazardous duty during wartime. Fabricators most often tend to be in search of some internal psychological gain rather than a tangible or monetary reward. They want to be seen as extraordinarily brave, important, or above average, somehow superior to the ordinary citizen. The typical fantasist is not delusional. 8
Peter Harris and John Drewe both fit the pattern. They were habitual exaggerators. At the Catch, they loved to talk about their shared passion for all things military, about calibration and cannons, missile velocities and the merits of the old Lee-Enfield rifle. Harris wasn’t making everything up. His service career was as an airman between 1947-1949. He knew about guns, having worked for three years as a security officer for the South African High Commission, and he was still a registered firearms dealer, although the only guns his
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