The Man in the Barretina Hat Read online

  The Man in the Barretina Hat

  Nancy O’Hare

  © Nancy O’Hare

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means—by electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise—without prior written permission from the author, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For permission requests, email the author at [email protected]

  Published by Nancy O’Hare at Smashwords

  ISBN: 978-1-7774017-4-0

  First published on January 11, 2023

  Edited by Susan Fitzgerald

  Proofread by Mirror Image Publishing

  Cover design by BespokeBookCovers.com

  www.bynancyohare.com

  Dedication

  Written for my dad, a man of many hats

  Epigraph

  Routine can calm the soul, but once torn open exposes a tempestuous fury, one we wrestle to control and long to succumb to under the wild hopes of a life full of what-ifs and lucky turns.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1. Carlos

  2. Sasha

  3. Cristabel

  4. Trapped

  5. Myriam

  6. Dead Ends

  7. Duality

  8. Rat Hole

  9. Gauze and Haze

  10. Blood Drop

  11. James

  12. Reunited

  13. Seven Words

  14. Ally and Foe

  15. Fisherman’s Hut

  16. Intruder

  17. Gerardo

  18. Switch

  19. Find and Seek

  20. Necessary Means

  21. Spiral

  22. Cone of Silence

  23. Archives

  24. Visitor

  25. Spare Parts

  26. Loaded Gun

  27. Entangled

  28. Full Circle

  29. Magnets

  30. Chill

  31. Cured Ham

  32. Sunken Ship

  33. Feeding Time

  34. Crossroads

  35. Supply Chain

  36. Medical Kit

  37. Cybernaut

  38. Extraction

  39. Saboteur

  40. Safe House

  41. Released

  42. Disarray

  43. Full Clearance

  44. Noise Complaints

  45. Old Flings

  46. Panther’s Eye

  47. Guest List

  48. Screwdriver

  49. Ancient Connections

  50. Amateur Hour

  51. The Fool, The Meathead and the Puppeteer

  52. Family Ties

  53. Safety Nets

  54. Takedown

  55. Homeward Bound

  About the Author

  1

  Carlos

  Carlos Ignacio pulled his hat lower, narrowly preventing a tempestuous gust from hurling it against the stone wall of the marina. He had nearly lost his treasured barretina cap last spring in similar winds. It had blown straight across to the Kalkara Marina, where he had collected it after a rather embarrassing run-in with the manager of the Regatta Club’s restaurant. His thoughts turned to his friend Peter, who just last week had reminded Carlos to stop at the tailor to have a hole in the hat stitched. Peter Bustillo, a fellow professor who typically arrived early for their morning walk—and who knew every cobblestoned street that wound around the harbours of Vittoriosa, Senglea and Cospicua—had oddly not appeared this morning.

  Peter’s never-ending quest to lose five kilos had inspired their daily regime. While Carlos epitomized the lanky scholar, emphasized by thinning hair and tortoiseshell glasses, Peter leaned towards a more eccentric style. Only yesterday, he had paired flashy orange cargo pants with a sea-blue linen shirt for their stroll. Even a teenager on a skateboard had done a double take as he flew past. His grin rolled respect, jest and scorn into a single sardonic expression that adolescents do so well.

  Carlos had liked Peter from the day they met. Over a year earlier they had joined an archeology club looking into digs on the island and had grown even closer. Malta had a curious history. A history at the heart of some interesting questions their group had been raising.

  When Peter wasn’t at their normal meeting spot this morning, Carlos had initially assumed he had started his walk early and they would eventually run into each other. But the sun was now well above the horizon. Peter had not shown up.

  A fragment of a memory niggled the edges of Carlos’ mind, like he had missed something on his walk, a detail that was intended to appear natural but for some reason sat askew in his subconscious. Carlos checked his phone once more to see if he had any new texts. Only one green notification popped up. His wife had sent a reminder: Car, would you swing by Sasha’s for a loaf of fresh rye, por favor? Only Myriam called him anything but Carlos. Not even Peter in their most heated debates crossed into that most personal single-syllable sphere.

  He recalled his last conversation with Peter, only fourteen hours earlier. Peter mentioned that he had uncovered some worrying connections and wanted to talk with Carlos face to face. Peter’s whispered words had prodded Carlos’ growing concern: “Say nothing to anyone. I will explain tomorrow.”

  Perhaps it was nerves, but Carlos felt a gnawing impulse to backtrack. He wanted to observe the place where Peter typically performed his daily ritual. After almost stepping in a fresh dropping some dog owner had failed to bag Carlos slowed his pace; he knew the next steps could prove crucial. Or maybe he was overreacting. Peter might very well be at home relaxing, nursing a headache after staying up too late engrossed in his latest theory and most likely partaking in a few too many glasses of his neighbour’s wine. Not that Carlos could blame him. On more than one occasion, he had lost count himself of how many glasses of the smooth beverage he’d consumed while lounging beside the very vines that produced such a spectacular vintage.

  “Stop rambling,” Carlos muttered. Every instinct was telling him he had to be sharp. Something was off. He might be a near-retired IT professor, but he still felt pretty spry. Besides, he wasn’t only involved in dry academics. More often than not, that side of his life already felt like a past life.

  No point in calling the police—he really had nothing concrete to go on, and they had made such a debacle of the missing woman’s case from a few months ago. Evidence had been destroyed and key witnesses overlooked. The papers blamed stumbling ineptitude, but hushed voices speculated about a more sinister narrative. No, he definitely wanted to do his own research first.

  Glancing at his watch, he calculated he had four hours to retrace his steps, check in at Peter’s house, make a few calls and, of course, pick up the grainy rye Myriam had requested. That would give him enough time to make his Monday lecture. Thankfully, it was his only course of the semester. Far too many distractions were pulling him from his usual scholarly life. Peter was not the only concern prying into his thoughts.

  While returning along his route, Carlos had to dodge two people staring so intently at their phones they forgot to watch in front of them. Shaking his head, he finally spotted the reddish capitoli inset where Peter left a single flower every morning. Such devotional niches dotted corners of buildings all over the city. Usually they held the statue of a saint. The Knights of Saint John had mandated these tiny sanctuaries back when Malta’s capital city of Valletta and its surrounding villages were originally built. Without fail, Peter’s donation would be gone by the next day.

  Carlos gasped.

  A fresh blossom balanced just as Peter would have left it; Peter had been here this morning. As Carlos stepped back to lean against the cool stone building, a hand, seemingly from nowhere, clenched his mouth. One question flew across his mind: What is that smell?

  Then, total darkness.

  2

  Sasha

  What a disturbing day, Sasha thought. Her morning had started out as usual. She had risen to ignite the ovens by 3:00 a.m., ready to start baking a dozen loaves fifteen minutes later. It had been easier when she lived right above the bakery, but she loved having a proper house with more space for her and her daughter to live. Besides, the two-block walk gave her enough fresh air to wake up without being inconvenient.

  Although her customers were friendly, she knew even a five-minute delay of their beloved rye or tender ftira—a bread foreigners routinely confused with sourdough—might send them over to the baker on Triq Hanover. More than likely they would return the next morning, but these days every euro counted. The smaller community of Birgu did not attract the crowds of neighbouring Valletta des
pite sitting just across the bay.

  Her only daughter had one year left to complete her master of science, and intern jobs paid little. On top of it all, that blasted Emanuel had appeared again this morning and requested her most expensive loaf. Naturally, he left without paying anything beyond a contemptuous glint of superiority. Her shoulder still ached at the thought of last month’s “payment.”

  When the noon crowd had faded and the early evening rush had not yet begun, Sasha tried to enjoy a few minutes of solitude. She pulled off her hairnet to let her scalp breathe. No matter how much styling cream she used to smooth her waves, the Mediterranean air never failed to turn her auburn tresses into a frizzy halo by midday. She absently tucked a loose strand back into her hair knot and took a sip of iced lemon tea.

  The drink cooled her throat, but not the irk still rolling around her head from the frantic call that had come during her busiest period. The caller had asked what time a man wearing a barretina had picked up a loaf of ħobża rye. Such molly-coddling these days. Then Cristabel, her daughter, rang to say she would swing by to help at the shop since her professor had failed to turn up for their afternoon class. This news set off another wave of frustration with the local university’s lack of professionalism. These classes weren’t cheap.

  Sasha’s mind swiftly turned to more pressing concerns. She could now make the entire meeting with her new group. Not long ago, she’d joined an alliance of sorts among small-business owners. The myriad of unfair, unmonitored and intricate financing rules of this small island nation made it impossible for most people to earn a reasonable living. If the officials could not sort things out, it was time the people took things into their own hands. Of course, she dared not let anyone outside of the tight-knit club know of her involvement. Even she, a small-time baker, knew the consequences of getting on the wrong side of the so-called right people.

  The afternoon crowd eventually arrived. Later by the time the rush had dissipated, Cristabel came flying into the shop. Ever since she was a baby, people had commented on the intensity of her green eyes. Those eyes never missed a beat. Before the door had closed behind her, Cristabel had straightened the business hours’ sign and picked up a receipt the last customer must have dropped. Sasha reckoned it was why Cristabel stayed so slim; the girl moved in a frenzy of continual motion.

  Cristabel tossed her worn backpack under the payment counter. As usual, the bag was crammed full of textbooks and flimsy magazines, their ragged edges poking out of the half-open zipper. Cristabel grabbed a Red Bull from the cooler and rushed Sasha out the door, encouraging her mom to get some fresh air.

  Although her daughter’s antsy nature might be trying at times, Sasha didn’t complain. Tonight, she was keen to get out and clear her head before meeting up with her group.

  Tonight’s meeting would be held in the next village over, Kalkara, near the old Fort Rinella. Its name, like many, did not quite match the truth. The fort was not a fort, but a battery constructed by the British for an extra-heavy cannon. Regardless, between the occasional roaming tourist and the miscellany of actors who popped in and out of the nearby film studios, the area offered the perfect place to meet unnoticed. At low tide, those who knew which narrow gap to squeeze through could clamber down between the stone port walls and get close to the surf. Down there, voices scattered into nothing more than soundless rustlings amid the waves.

  Sasha ran over her plan one final time.

  At the last meeting, she’d found out Raymond needed vehicles. Lots of vehicles. As it happened, Sasha’s uncle worked for a car plant in Japan. While she imagined the very rich commission she would earn, a nearly imperceptible flash of unease poked her resolve. Just as swiftly, the thought of Emanuel’s greedy grin urged her forward. She had twelve days.

  A phone light flashed. Her head throbbed. Sasha hated all the selfies people were constantly taking these days. She glanced backwards and noticed someone in a tweed jacket dart behind a building. That’s odd, she thought. Her mind was becoming overly active. It was not like her to play games or take risks. Yet much of what she had done in recent months wasn’t in her character. What the hell, I only live once. She hadn’t felt this exhilarated since she took over Loaves & Buns thirty-one years ago. Now most people simply referred to it as the L&B.

  Turning back around and straightening her shoulders, Sasha dialled the number she had so rarely called until recently.

  “Hello?” Her uncle’s stilted voice sounded distant. It was the middle of the night for him.

  Taking a deep breath, Sasha replayed their last conversation in her mind when she had agreed to do as he asked—with one condition. Not noticing the overhead camera on the corner, nor the person in the tweed coat standing nearby, she began, a little louder than she realized. “Uncle Noa, I am in some trouble.”

  3

  Cristabel

  Cristabel rushed into her mom’s shop. She was intent to get the place to herself, which apparently would be easy, as her mom seemed uncharacteristically eager to leave her darling business. With a short text to a trusted friend to keep an eye on her mom, Cristabel’s anxiety dropped slightly. She figured she had a good forty minutes to dig around before the evening clientele started to trickle in. Kicking aside the worn Iranian rug, Cristabel grabbed the rusted iron ring bolted to the floorboards. It took a few hard tugs, but the section it was attached to eventually slid open.

  Before climbing down she typed a few strings of characters into her mother’s computer. Her two years of IT classes and optional forensic security courses were paying off already. Last fall, Cristabel had shown her mom a standard encryption function built-in to their bakery’s accounting software. She figured if her mom wanted to hide anything, she would have used this trick. The screen flickered, then revealed a list of about eighteen files. Encrypted and filed in hidden folders, they would remain invisible to all but a trained eye. Luckily, Cristabel made a point of being trained, very well trained. She had brought a USB drive with the decryption tool she needed. While it ran to decrypt and copy the files, she slipped through the narrow shaft into the underground cavern.

  As she climbed down the ladder, her nose detected the change. Musty dampness stifled any aroma from the bread ovens above. At the bottom, in complete darkness, she shifted her feet around until she felt them grip the uneven bedrock. With a tap, her phone’s light lit up the smallish room. Arches above adjoining tunnels looked like furrowed eyebrows sending warning messages to leave, sparking scant images from a distant memory. Early on, she had learned never to ask about the time her family had crept down here. Early on, she’d learned her mother’s boundaries.

  Pushing her uneasiness aside, she stepped deeper into the space, feeling along the wall with her hands as she went. Was the old board in the wall a figment of my imagination or does it actually exist? There it is! She grimaced as her hand slid along the slimy surface. She remembered a knob, recalled stretching with her entire arm to reach it. Instead, her fingers ran into a cardboard box. It couldn’t have been here long. It was dry, not soggy, despite the damp environment. But why had it been placed here, in an inconvenient location where nobody normally came?

  Cristabel gently lifted the lid and beamed her phone light inside.

  Documents, a stack of foreign bills and the butt of what looked to be a revolver were tucked inside. Before she could dig through further, a faint ring from the bell that hung on the bakery door jolted her thoughts back upstairs.

  The customer jumped slightly when Cristabel suddenly stood up from behind the cash register.

  “Sorry to startle you. I was digging around this bottom shelf to tidy up a bit.” She added a partial smile to complete her rushed cover story.

  Perhaps it was the extra flush in her cheeks or the freckles she had given up trying to hide years ago, but the man on the other side of the counter seemed more amused than shocked. He ended up buying five items and promised to return the next day. She found him creepy and decided she would certainly not be coming back tomorrow to help her mom.