flight so it didnât include protection from the weather at either end of the journey. Going down the steps which had been wheeled to the doors, Jimmy turned up his coat collar against the wind and the squally rain. Once on the tarmac, he didnât hurry as some passengers did. His legs felt stiff and the weather made him feel even more dispirited than he had been when heâd set off from Rome.
It was all very well for Ricci to say use your old contacts. What Ricci didnât understand was that if he got in touch with any of the old contacts, the ones who had fixed his file and kept prying eyes away, he would be a dead man very quickly. His safety lay in staying well away from those contacts. But he needed to know who was doing what. As Ricci had said, it was one thing to fillet a file and get a petrol bomb thrown through a window, quite another thing to fix a visit to the States to lecture on art crime.
By the time he got out of the rain, his hair and coat were wet. He thought of the Rome sunshine he had left just two hours ago. He ran his fingers through his hair and began to climb the wide, carpeted staircase up to the Arrivals terminal.
âBloody weather,â he muttered.
âGet used to it, pal, this is Scotland.â
The Glasgow voice belonged to a smiling young man in a smart, black overcoat who was carrying a small suitcase. Jimmy stood still against the stainless steel handrail and watched the manâs back. It was nothing, it couldnât be. Why would anyone be put on the plane? Anyway no one knew which plane he would be on. Iâm getting paranoid, he thought. Then he remembered the old joke, just because youâre paranoid doesnât mean theyâre not out to get you. He came out of the stairway into a wide, well-lit walkway that led towards the baggage hall. He had nothing in the hold of the plane so he walked through Nothing to Declare and on until he went through the doors into Arrivals.
Crossing the Arrivals hall he tried to make his mind find the old routine.
Be careful but not so careful that youâre slow. See whatâs there but only take notice of what matters. Donât get noticed, donât ⦠donât ⦠He heaved a heavy sigh then said, âIâm getting too bloody old and tired for this crap.â
He was passing an elderly lady in tweeds. She gave him a sharp look and moved quickly away.
Talking out loud to myself. Yes, I really am getting too bloody old and tired for this crap.
But this time he upset nobody because he said it to himself. He tried again to remember the rules. Donât make mistakes but know when mistakes have been made, your own or anybody elseâs â¦
He left the main terminal and bought a ticket for the City Shuttle, the double-decker bus which ferried people to and from Edinburgh. One was waiting so he got on and asked the driver if the bus passed the railway station.
âHaymarket or Waverley?â
âIâm going to Glasgow.â
âThen you need Haymarket. You canât miss it.â
Sitting in the bus looking at the window and watching the rain drops running down, Jimmy went over things.
Ricci got angry when he wouldnât tell him what he planned to do, thought it meant he didnât trust him. He wasnât altogether wrong. But the truth was, when heâd set up the meeting he didnât know himself how he would handle it. Now he had arrived he still wasnât sure.
Another couple of passengers got on the bus, showed their tickets to the driver, stowed their big cases in the luggage rack, and sat down. Jimmy looked at his watch, three oâclock. He looked out of the window. Everything was blurred by the rain and it was dark enough for early evening.
Tomorrow was Tuesday. He should have plenty of time to get settled into a B&B or hotel, find out where the church was, and give it a walk-by to get the layout sorted in his mind. Another passenger got onto the bus, pushed
It was all very well for Ricci to say use your old contacts. What Ricci didnât understand was that if he got in touch with any of the old contacts, the ones who had fixed his file and kept prying eyes away, he would be a dead man very quickly. His safety lay in staying well away from those contacts. But he needed to know who was doing what. As Ricci had said, it was one thing to fillet a file and get a petrol bomb thrown through a window, quite another thing to fix a visit to the States to lecture on art crime.
By the time he got out of the rain, his hair and coat were wet. He thought of the Rome sunshine he had left just two hours ago. He ran his fingers through his hair and began to climb the wide, carpeted staircase up to the Arrivals terminal.
âBloody weather,â he muttered.
âGet used to it, pal, this is Scotland.â
The Glasgow voice belonged to a smiling young man in a smart, black overcoat who was carrying a small suitcase. Jimmy stood still against the stainless steel handrail and watched the manâs back. It was nothing, it couldnât be. Why would anyone be put on the plane? Anyway no one knew which plane he would be on. Iâm getting paranoid, he thought. Then he remembered the old joke, just because youâre paranoid doesnât mean theyâre not out to get you. He came out of the stairway into a wide, well-lit walkway that led towards the baggage hall. He had nothing in the hold of the plane so he walked through Nothing to Declare and on until he went through the doors into Arrivals.
Crossing the Arrivals hall he tried to make his mind find the old routine.
Be careful but not so careful that youâre slow. See whatâs there but only take notice of what matters. Donât get noticed, donât ⦠donât ⦠He heaved a heavy sigh then said, âIâm getting too bloody old and tired for this crap.â
He was passing an elderly lady in tweeds. She gave him a sharp look and moved quickly away.
Talking out loud to myself. Yes, I really am getting too bloody old and tired for this crap.
But this time he upset nobody because he said it to himself. He tried again to remember the rules. Donât make mistakes but know when mistakes have been made, your own or anybody elseâs â¦
He left the main terminal and bought a ticket for the City Shuttle, the double-decker bus which ferried people to and from Edinburgh. One was waiting so he got on and asked the driver if the bus passed the railway station.
âHaymarket or Waverley?â
âIâm going to Glasgow.â
âThen you need Haymarket. You canât miss it.â
Sitting in the bus looking at the window and watching the rain drops running down, Jimmy went over things.
Ricci got angry when he wouldnât tell him what he planned to do, thought it meant he didnât trust him. He wasnât altogether wrong. But the truth was, when heâd set up the meeting he didnât know himself how he would handle it. Now he had arrived he still wasnât sure.
Another couple of passengers got on the bus, showed their tickets to the driver, stowed their big cases in the luggage rack, and sat down. Jimmy looked at his watch, three oâclock. He looked out of the window. Everything was blurred by the rain and it was dark enough for early evening.
Tomorrow was Tuesday. He should have plenty of time to get settled into a B&B or hotel, find out where the church was, and give it a walk-by to get the layout sorted in his mind. Another passenger got onto the bus, pushed
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