He smiled. It must be Victor. The car looked big and expensive. But as it grew nearer his heart sank. It was being driven by a boy, a local boy by the look of him, with olive skin and thick black hair. He appeared to be about sixteen and was wearing sunglasses that completely hid his eyes.

This couldn’t be Victor, who was at least fifty, with fair hair.

The car was a Hispano-Suiza cabriolet, long and powerful, with wide running boards. It was a deep maroon colour but was so covered in dust it looked almost white. This was a rich man’s car and seemed totally out of place in this squalid, flyblown little town. When it drew level with James it stopped, and the boy sat staring at him with a sullen, bored look.

James looked back, holding his stare, unblinking, and after a while the boy turned his head and spat into the road. Then he said something in a thick Italian accent.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said James and the boy repeated what he had said. James suddenly realised that he was saying his name.

‘James Bond? Yes,’ said James. ‘Has Victor sent you? Victor Delacroix?’

The boy nodded and jerked his head back, indicating that James should put his luggage on the tiny back seat. James tossed it in.

‘You’re late,’ he said. ‘I’ve been waiting here for over an hour.’

The boy just shrugged and threw the passenger door open without looking round.

James climbed in and with a crunch of gears the boy turned the car around and set off back up the road.

‘Well, better late than never, I suppose,’ said James, trying to break the ice, but the boy didn’t reply. ‘I’m sorry,’ said James irritably. ‘Maybe you don’t speak English.’

‘Little,’ the boy grunted.

‘And do you have a name? A name…? What – is – your – name?’

‘Mauro.’

‘Well, Mauro, I’m pleased to meet you… I suppose.’

Mauro muttered something but kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead, driving with one hand on the wheel. His other hand draped nonchalantly over the side of the car.

They left town and veered off the road on to a rutted dirt track that followed the cliffs around the coast to the east. It was wild scenery here, with outcrops of twisted, honey-coloured granite that had been carved by the winds into dramatic shapes. James kept a lookout for the landmark that gave this area its name. After ten minutes of uncomfortable jostling and shaking, he spotted, high up on top of a promontory, a wind-eroded rock which must surely be it.

‘Is that Bear Rock?’ he shouted over the noise of the engine, but Mauro said nothing. ‘Orso,’ said James. ‘Bear.’

‘Sì,’ said Mauro without looking up. James peered at the rock and, with a little imagination, he found that it did indeed resemble a huge bear on all fours peering out to sea.

This, then, was Capo d’Orso, the Cape of the Bear.