Cherry, or Sheryl Valance left the motorway and dropped me off at the Maybury bus stop on Glasgow Road, where I took the 100 line to Waverley Bridge. The plan was to ring up my contact, but he beat me to it.
When I got off the bus, I was astonished how crowded Edinburgh was, crowded and grey, wet, and oppressive with its massive Georgian townhouses as it presented itself to me under the cloud shuttered sky. For a while I stood on that bridge spanning the train station and marvelled at it all: The Scotsman Hotel at one end, and Princes Street to the other, Carlton Hill with its old burial ground yonder, and, when I turned around, beyond Waverley Station, the park, and looming above on its high, rocky perch the Castle. Of all cities I’ve been to, I think only Budapest is as immediately awesome.
Finally I decided to walk over to the Princes Street side, around the Balmoral and then down to the train station. Train stations are fine places to make unobserved telephone calls. Way too many CCTV cams, of course, but that’s the point: Who is going to sift that sea of images for something as innocuous as a simple phone call? Especially given my complex (and faintly ridiculous) security instructions.
You see, Bryan had made me memorize but not write down a mobile phone number. I was supposed to call it, let it ring twice, then hang up, wait 5 minutes, and call again. And then we were supposed to exchange the passphrase: The bloke on the other end was to say: “Oz here,” to which I was to answer: “It’s Bob.” And then I was supposed to get instructions where to exchange the package.
On my way to the concrete terraces leading to the station, leaning against one of the low walls encircling the horribly out of place shrubbery, was a bloke, maybe 25 years old, wearing neat blue jeans, tasseled loafers, and a plain, navy windbreaker over an obviously brand new Ozzy Osbourne T-shirt.
He sucked on a fag and then he grinned at me insolently. Noticing my guarded stare that couldn’t quite hide my confusion, he asked: “Bob, right?”
I hesitated, then asked lamely: “Oz?”
He scrunched up his handsome face, blew out smoke, and said: “Please, call me Charley.” He put the fag into his mouth and offered me his hand: “Charles Tully.”
“You got it?”
I hesitated some more. Charley sighed, got out his mobile and speed-dialled someone.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he said into the phone. “He’s here. Tell him to cut the secret agent crap, please.” He handed it to me. It was Bryan, who told me it was okay and thanks for everything. Charley took back his phone and held out his hand.
“Here?” I asked.
Charley made a big show of looking around. Then he exaggeratedly pointed at a rozzer standing on the other side of Princes Street, opened his eyes wide, and put his hand over his mouth.
He stage-whispered: “Oh no, what if he sees us?”
I sighed, got the packet out of my satchel (pained and laboriously, trying to avoid opening the wound on my arm again), and handed it to him. He didn’t even bother to stow it away or anything, just held it relaxed in his hand.
“Where are you staying?”
“No idea yet.”
At that he raised an eyebrow.
“Mate, it’s the festival, you know?”
And when my face didn’t register understanding, he explained: “The Edinburgh Festival. All of August. It’s the bloody biggest festival of performing arts in the world. There’s about half a million visitors in town, as many as live here normally.”
Charley turned around and started to walk away from me. When I didn’t move, he turned around.
“Well, come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Get you a place to stay. You don’t expect you’ll find a hostel or hotel room at the moment, do you?”
I said “I suppose not,” and followed him.
“So, what’s you’re name?”
He gave me a long look.
“You can call me Bob Moros.”
At that he laughed and we became friends.