James turned and ran. But when he pulled the door open he found his way blocked by two of Ugo’s men. When he turned back round he saw that Haight hadn’t even moved.

‘This way,’ he said quietly, and James knew that he had no choice but to follow him.

The door at the other end of the corridor opened into a large library. There were shelves of leather-bound books and many paintings and statues.

Ugo sat at a vast mahogany desk, with Smiler at his side. Two uniformed officers stood guard.

‘Here he is,’ said Haight and he shoved James into the centre of the room.

Ugo was pretending to read some papers. For a long while he didn’t look up. James could see the muscles moving under his pale skin as he ground his teeth.

James took the opportunity to properly look around the room. He spotted a small bronze figure standing on an antique side table that exactly fitted the description of Amy’s stolen siren. On a stand right next to it was what looked like one of the Canalettos from his room at Casa Polipo.

And then he saw, behind Ugo, the unfinished painting of a boy standing on a desolate beach. He looked half reptilian with webbed feet and goggle eyes. He was holding the number seven in one hand and a sea urchin in the other. There was something dreamlike and disturbing about the picture, as if the boy were dead, a ghost.

And James recognised the boy. It was himself, wearing the swimming mask and flippers. Poliponi must have painted it just as he had said he would.

Ugo finally looked up and spoke. ‘Do you like it?’ he said, noticing James staring at the picture.

James shrugged.

‘I had it brought here from Signor Delacroix’s house, while you were all supposed to be out of the way,’ said Ugo. ‘These Canalettos are exquisite.’ He nodded towards the two scenes of Venice, then looked back at Poliponi’s picture. ‘But this thing I do not like. I do not care for modern art. It is degenerate, decadent, the product of a sick mind. Art must be pure.’

So saying, he took a letter knife from his desk and slashed the canvas three times across the centre, destroying it.

James felt furious, as if Ugo had slashed his own body.

The Count walked over to him. ‘You have put us to a lot of trouble, James Bond,’ he lisped, his silver tooth glinting.

‘My pleasure,’ said James. He didn’t care any more. He felt numb.

‘Be quiet, Bond,’ said Haight and he slapped him around the back of the head. ‘You will show a little more respect.’

James was suddenly roused from his slump and filled with a burning fury. He thought of Victor, and Mauro and Amy. ‘Respect?’ he said. ‘For him?’