Trent, Arman and Beth made their way to the BBC meeting, in the south end of Boston. A tiny pub known only to locals and a few savvy customers. It would be quiet and private enough inside. With lots of end. Boston winters can be brutal.
Arman and Trent ordered a Samuel Adams. Beth took a Beringers as she carefully placed her coat beside her in the booth. Her eyes were drawn to the dark mahogany woodwork throughout. Hurricane lamps provided ambient lighting."Lookit, it isn't what anyone thinks. Well, maybe I should clarify that. There has been too much military action on the part of this country for too long. So many things have been allowed that under a healthy government would never happen. The Wall Street designed-collapses, government turning their back to make them accountable, weapons of mass destruction, terrorist attacks that consume the media 24-7. And now Paris. It happened on the eve of the Russian reconciliation. Too much money would have been lost if some hasn't stopped it and diverted attention to a terrorist situation. Just look what goes on behind closed door when this happens," says Arman.
"Yes, I agree. And the public does nothing. Absolutely nothing," said Trent.
Almost immediately, the color washed down Beth's face. She faded to almost white. Not from shock but more from disgust at the public's apathy.
Trent leaned forward. Beth and Arman followed. Beth slid her hand under the table and felt a miniature box.
"OMG. We are being recorded," she whispered.
She gathered her coat as Trent and Arman moved toward the front door. A $20 bill was left on the table.
Just as Arman's hand turned the door knob, it wouldn't move. Four men in long dark cashmere coats stood outside the door.
Beth turned as Arman and Trent angled a couple of chairs to block the door. They fled out the back of the pub.
The only thing that remained was Beth's beige, black and red checked Burberry scarf.
To be continued...
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