I insist on Moscow rules

I got to travel to the West coast today, with a meeting in Gourock. As I have been reading John le Carre recently, this felt like a covert operation. The shabby station with the remains of some ornate Victorian ironwork, the bleakly lit main street with a row of cheap shops -- is that one of Toby's pavement artists loitering in a doorway? The cafe is on the front and has a clear view of all the approaches. A good choice, with some background noise, and not-very-attentive staff. Is that small dumpy man polishing his glasses on the end of his tie?