Federi had quietly killed and sneaked his way all the way to the bridge. Here, just on the other side of the door, two low voices were speaking in Spanish. He tried to listen in, but couldn’t make out a word. They were speaking too softly.
“¿Café?” said the one suddenly.
“Si, por 225avour.”
Federi melted into the dark corner below the stepladder. He had a choice: Let the coffee do the trick, or do the trick himself. When it came do doing tricks, Federi would rather not trust the coffee. Another dead weight slipped quietly to the floor.
Interesting, thought Federi. The Rebellion was traditionally South American. What were English-speaking people like Sloan and Cairns doing among them? What was going on?
Suddenly he wished that he were better informed. He knew that Jon Marsden accompanied the Captain to many of his secret meetings with diverse contacts; he himself usually elected to stay aboard the ship and guard over Rushka and the crew. He hadn’t exactly been invited to come along that often, either. Like now, typically. Perhaps if he’d gone with Captain and Jon to meet Benita D’Araujo even once, he’d know the answer to his question now.
Regardless, it came to the same thing at this moment.
“¿Este usted, Juan?” asked the other man without turning around as Federi opened the door to the bridge.
“No,” said Federi softly. “It’s me, your angel of death.”