The Man in the Barretina Hat

The Man in the Barretina Hat Nancy O’Hare © Nancy O’HareAll 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] by Nancy O’Hare at Amazon KDPISBN: 978-1-7774017-4-0First published on January 11, 2023Edited by Susan FitzgeraldProofread by Mirror Image PublishingCover design by BespokeBookCovers.comwww.bynancyohare.com 1 Dedication Written for my dad, a man of many hats 2 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