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What if I were to tell you I believe that James Bond is alive and retired and living in the Central West End?”

I see it as a positive. James Bond could live anywhere in the world, and he has chosen our town.

Sadly, we cannot use his presence to promote ӣ����Ƶ. The last thing an old spy wants is notoriety.

In fact, I mentioned him in a column a couple of years ago, and he was not pleased, even though I had enough sense not to use his real name — if I even know his real name. With a spy, you can’t be certain of much.

In the aforementioned column, I explained that I met him years ago playing tennis. We were in a regular foursome, and he was gone a lot. He would get called away at the last moment, and he’d be gone for a couple of weeks at a time. He went to exotic places. He was often in China, Russia or India. He spoke casually of cities I had not heard of. He brought me a cap from Vietnam.

Perhaps you remember the terrorist attack of 2008 in Mumbai. Terrorists attacked two luxury hotels, the Oberoi Trident and the Taj Mahal Palace & Tower.

I asked if he had stayed in either of those hotels. No, but I’ve had dinner or lunch in both, he said.

His cover story is that he was born and raised in Canada — that explains the accent — and that he worked for a company in the nuclear industry. The company was headquartered in Europe so he worked out of his home. Sometimes he would go to Europe for meetings. His “business trips” have become less frequent in the last few years. He is my age.

Recently, he went to Italy. I know a lot of people who have gone to Italy. They’ve gone to Rome or Pompeii or Venice. The more adventurous might take a hiking trip in wine country. He went to Ortigia, a small island linked by two short bridges to Siracusa in eastern Sicily.

I had not heard of it.

It’s rather well known, my friend said. The Corinthians were there in 734 B.C.

He and his wife and their two grown daughters spent several days on the island.

Their trip happened to coincide with an agricultural exhibition, which featured olive harvesting machines, robots, drones AI technology and more standard farming equipment.

As he tells the story, he and his family were sitting at a seaside cafe enjoying limoncello spritzers when police officers and then a phalanx of large men in black suits came up the street. Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni had arrived to tour the exhibition.

The retired spy, usually so cool, grabbed his camera and hurried along with the crowd. The prime minster is not a tall woman and barely came up to the shoulders of her bodyguards. Our man raised his camera above his head and managed to get a photo of the back of the prime minister’s head before he stumbled on the pavement stones and went down hard.

People gathered around hm.

Have you ever been that guy? Lying there dazed while strangers — good Samaritans — gather around you?

It’s a stage of life. You’ve seen other people in that predicament. You’ve heard the sounds. “Let him breathe!” somebody always shouts. Suddenly, you’re the one on the ground.

It happened to me last week at the airport. I was sitting on a stool — the chairs were taken — waiting for my flight when I became dizzy and fell off the stool. I vaguely recall a woman in white taking my pulse and asking if I had hit my head. “Let him breathe!” somebody shouted.

I was fine. Low blood pressure was the ultimate call.

James Bond was fine, too. His wrist was bleeding. His knees were scraped.

A crowd gathered and then the paramedics arrived. He stood up and did a little jig to show he was fine. The paramedics said he needed stitches. They told him to lie down on a stretcher and then they strapped him in and wheeled him into an ambulance. One of his daughters climbed in with him.

He was driven to a medical station. A doctor asked if his daughter was his wife. Yes, said the retired spy, hoping to score points with the Italian men. His daughter caught the drift of the question and used the translation app on her phone.

“He’s not my type,” she wrote.

The doctor cleaned the wound and decided no stitches were needed. Father and daughter walked back to the cafe.

Bond’s wife and daughter were waiting. Guess what happened while you were gone, they said. The prime minister visited the cafe!

In fact, she had posed for photos and one of my friend’s daughters, Brooke, had taken a picture.

“My career as a paparazzi was a short, but adventurous failure,” the retired spy said.

He didn’t tell me what happened next, but I suspect he had a martini, shaken, not stirred.