“Me?” the old sailor asked in surprise.
Nathaniel nodded. “You’re in a uniform for the steamboat, so you won’t alarm him like a police officer might. Tell him he has been selected for a special meeting, and there’s a free meal for him at the embarkation port. I don’t care how you persuade him to come, but I need him back there, and I don’t want him to be alarmed. Can you do it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Be respectful. He hasn’t done anything wrong yet, but I need to know why he’s following us.”
Nathaniel and Sullivan quickly put a plan together, and then he spun the cylinder on his pistol to confirm it was fully loaded and holstered the weapon. The McKinleys were in a secure location, and he gave permission to lower the gangway.
Mr. Wilbert was the first one out, with Nathaniel following a few steps behind. The scowling man was at the front of the crowd, and Mr. Wilbert headed toward him, Nathaniel loitering behind.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Mr. Wilbert said.
The scowling man said nothing, just gave a brief nod of acknowledgment.
“A handful of guests have been selected to be treated to a meal in the canteen, and you’re on the list. Would you care to follow me?”
The scowl vanished, replaced with a look of hopeful optimism. “Did the president ask to meet me?”
“I’m not sure how you got selected,” Mr. Wilbert hedged. “Please follow me.”
The scowling man followed Wilbert toward the canteen, and Nathaniel arrived a few minutes later. It was cooler inside the open-air restaurant, with fans overhead to keep the air moving.A slight breeze came in from the river running alongside the canteen. Most of the tables were already occupied, but Mr. Wilbert found an open table for the scowling man.
Nathaniel gestured for Mr. Wilbert to leave with a quick flick of this head. He counted a dozen heartbeats, then approached the man’s table. “It looks as if we’ll be sharing this table,” he said companionably as he took a seat across from the stranger. “I’m Nathaniel Trask. And you are?”
Nathaniel offered his hand, and it was a moment before the scowling man gave him a brief handshake. “Horatio Jankowski. Look, I’m sorry if this is your table. A man from the steamboat company told me I was picked for something.”
He stood, but Nathaniel gestured him down. “Sit, sit. There’s no mistake. I actually wanted the chance to speak with you. I remember seeing you at the president’s speech earlier today.”
A look of anger flashed, but it was quickly masked. “That’s right.”
“What did you think of it?”
Jankowski shrugged.
“I only ask because I’m curious. Have you ever heard the president speak before?”
Again, Jankowski shrugged, but his lips thinned and his brow lowered. It was the start of a fighting stance. Nathaniel countered with a deliberately calming expression.
“My job is to keep an eye on events as the president travels,” he said. “What is it you do for a living?”
“Machinist,” Jankowski said tersely. “I keep the spinning frames operating at a cotton mill up in Jersey City.”
“You must have seen a world of change in the past few years,” Nathaniel said in a sympathetic tone. “How did you learn that trade?”
Up close, Jankowski was older than Nathaniel originally assumed. He had to be at least seventy, and that was good. Violence rarely simmered in a man this old.
Mr. Jankowski pulled his bag onto the table, pointing to the closing mechanism. “See that clasp? I made it myself. I’ve always had a knack for metalwork. It’s good work, and it has value. I don’t care what those people at the mill say.”
“I can see that,” Nathaniel said, pretending to admire the clasp but noting the size and heft of the bag. It could hold a pistol, but not a rifle. He catalogued every detail of Jankowski’s appearance, noting the worn heels on his boots and the clean fingernails. It had been a while since this man had his hands on mechanical equipment. There was something off about Mr. Jankowski, and Nathaniel needed to keep asking open-ended questions.
“What was your business in Pensacola?” he asked in his most casual voice.
It didn’t work. Jankowski’s jaw tensed, and his hands fisted around the handle of his bag. “I came to hear that boy speak,” he said angrily.
“What boy?”
“The president,” Jankowski said. “He may be calling himself William McKinley, but that’s not his real name. No, sir.”
