One additional characteristic of Joe’s three-year posting to London was that he was bored. Travelling by Tube to Vauxhall station every morning doesn’t really compare to the eye-popping spectacle of taking the Star Ferry across Victoria Harbour. Nor does liaising with Whitehall on intelligence requirements compare to the excitement and challenge of obtaining that intelligence oneself. A night owl by nature, Joe missed the bars and restaurants of Kuala Lumpur, the crush and sweat of Asian streets. Going out in Singapore was a case of picking up the phone, arranging to meet a friend two hours later, and of staying out until five or six in the morning. Going out in London involved making an arrangement two weeks in advance, securing names on a guest list, queuing for half an hour for entry into an overpriced, crowded nightclub, and then dodging piles of vomit on the way home. In any case, by 2004 most of Joe’s friends from the old days had settled down. He felt increasingly disconnected from their world of nappies and marriage. Joe was fond of quoting Goethe’s maxim-“A man can stand anything except a succession of ordinary days”-and longed to be posted back to Asia. “That’s where I’m most at home,” he said. “That’s where I’m happiest.”
Matters came to a head in the autumn of 2004. At a dinner party in Tufnell Park, Joe ran into an old university friend named Guy Coates who was looking to recruit a fluent Mandarin speaker to set up a representative office in Beijing for Quayler, a niche pharmaceutical company which was hoping to expand into China. Offices of this kind need be no more than a desk and a fax machine, but they allow Western companies to promote and market their products on a limited scale in advance of being registered as a fully fledged business by the Chinese government. At a lunch in the City three days later, Coates offered Joe a five-year contract worth about?90,000 a year, with an apartment in Sanlitun and a small amount of equity thrown in. Joe was tempted, not least by the salary, which was more than twice what he was earning at SIS. I also played a part in trying to lure him back to the East. By coincidence, SIS had just pulled some strings to secure me a job in Beijing with an American news organization and I reckoned my social life would be greatly enhanced if Joe was on the scene. “It’ll be just like the old days,” I told him on the phone. “Besides, you need to get the hell out of London.”
Joe was in a dilemma. Stay with SIS and risk a three-year posting to an Asian backwater, or jump ship to work in the Chinese capital during a period which would coincide with the run-up to the 2008 Olympics? Joe had never been motivated by money, and the Far East Controllerate might have more interesting options than, say, North Korea, but he felt compelled to discuss the situation with his line manager at Vauxhall Cross. Disheartened that Joe might pull the plug at a difficult time for the Service, and anxious not to lose one of their best and most experienced officers, SIS dispatched David Waterfield in a last-ditch effort to talk him round. After all, the interventions of Joe’s mentor had succeeded before. There was no reason to suppose that they could not succeed again.
26
Nobody really knows what happened to Josh Pinnegar. Nobody knows if it was accident or design. The incident is still talked about in the bars and restaurants of San Francisco, although in Chinatown itself enquiries are met with a wall of silence. More than a year after his murder, no witnesses from the local community have come forward to describe Pinnegar’s assailants, nor to confirm specific details of the attack. FBI efforts to prove that the Triad gang responsible were hired by the MSS have fallen on predictably fallow ground. Pro-Chinese newspapers in the San Francisco area-the Singtao Daily, China Press, Ming Pao — blame a simple case of mistaken identity. Others argue that the tentacles of the Chinese Communist Party extend across the Pacific Ocean into every facet of Chinese life in the United States of America. The government in Beijing, they claim, uses Triad gangs to intimidate ethnic Chinese overtly critical of the regime back home. It follows, therefore, that they would find it all too easy to bankroll an assassination of this kind.
These are the facts.
In the early winter of 2004 Josh Pinnegar received a coded message at Langley from a dormant source in the Chinese military who had briefly provided information to the CIA during TYPHOON. The source arranged for Pinnegar to meet him at a well-known bar on Grant Avenue, in the Chinatown district of San Francisco. Further investigations revealed that the source was scheduled to fly into LAX on 10 November in order to attend a wedding in Sacramento on the 13th. He never boarded the plane.
On the night in question, Pinnegar made his way to the bar and waited at a table by the window for two hours. The bar was pop ular with students and tourists and it was a busy Friday night. One member of staff recalls that Pinnegar looked somewhat out of place as “a thirty-something male reading a novel and drinking soda,” while all around him young Americans were “sinking beers and playing pool.”
Towards 10 p.m. Josh became convinced that his contact was not going to show up. He asked for his cheque and left a ten-dollar tip. He went to the bathroom, collected his coat, and then left the bar by the main entrance on Grant Avenue.
The two members of the Triad gang approached on foot from across the street wielding meat cleavers that had been dipped in excrement to cause immediate septicaemia. The first strike severed Pinnegar’s right arm at the shoulder. A second hit a cellphone in the pocket of his trousers, causing a shallow cut to his upper thigh. There were at least seven eyewitnesses, six of whom were Chinese. A passing law student from Yale, who spoke to the police on condition of complete anonymity, heard a woman scream and somebody else shout out “Call the police!” as the attack continued. As far as she could recall, Pinnegar made no sound whatsoever as the blows rained down upon him.
Within seconds, he had lost at least two pints of blood. The wounds to his head and torso are too hideous to describe. Josh Pinnegar was pronounced dead on arrival at San Francisco General. The assailants fled on motorbikes which were later found abandoned, and torched, in Redwood Park.
27
Well spoken, patrician, reluctant to suff er fools, David Waterfield was a British spy of the old school. When working in London he invariably wore a suit cut by Hawkes of Savile Row, brogues from John Lobb, a tailored shirt by Turnbull and Asser and socks from New and Lingwood. He would lunch frequently at his club on Pall Mall, spend every third weekend at a cottage in Dorset and occasionally attend meetings of the Countryside Alliance. In the summer, for three weeks, he and his wife holidayed at a luxurious farm house in the Portuguese Alentejo, courtesy of a former SIS colleague who had made it big at Cazenove’s. Retirement, when it came, would probably involve a brief stint working for the National Trust, with the odd lecture at IONEC thrown in. Indeed, David Waterfield conformed so readily to a certain Foreign Office stereotype that as he emerged from platform 16 at Waterloo to make his way across the crowded station concourse, it occurred to the waiting Joe that he was exactly the sort of upper-class gentleman spook who had given MI6 a bad name. They were too easy to lampoon, a cinch to satirize. Yet Joe also knew that the image was completely misleading: beneath Waterfield’s public-school bonhomie lurked an intellect as sharp and as persuasive as any in the Service. Joe was fascinated to discover how he was going to try to talk him round.