The Asset (6 page)

And there she was, playing an in-studio session with Nic Harcourt, the bellwether DJ and tastemaker who'd made stars of Coldplay and Norah Jones. Hearing her voice brought back a flood of memories Kennedy hadn't conjured in many years.

“That track is off your new album, which is your first in a couple of years, right?” Nic asked.

“Yeah, I really took my time with it. I wanted every song to be well thought out and have a life of its own. I hate the notion of B-side tracks so I work on each track as if it were going to be a single.”

“It shows. It's rare for me to listen to a record and not have at least one song I always skip past. But I like them all.”

“Thank you. It's really nice to finally get some recognition for my work . . . from the right place, that is.”

She sounded the same. Maybe a little more mature than when they were kids, but she still had the same old charmingly smart mouth.

“Let's talk about that. You got a lot of recognition when you were in your late teens. Some say you walked away from a hugely successful pop career.”

“They're right. I did. But in that case success was defined as fame and fortune, the tails that wag the dog, as they say. I love music too much to have those things dictate how I make it. And that's what was happening back then. Plus, a lot of nasty old farts were constantly trying to get in my pants.”

“Sounds dreadful,” Nic said, laughing.

“God, it was. I had to walk away because I knew if I stayed I would wind up hating myself and hating music, which just wasn't acceptable.”

“Is that why you changed your name to Love?”

“Exactly. I never wanted to forget why the hell I'm doing this.”

“So, the big question is, why haven't I heard any of your post–pop emancipation work until now?”

“Probably because I spend a lot more time touring than recording. To me, playing live is the reason you become a musician. And I love the vagabond life. Playing in small clubs from Miami to . . . Marrakesh, making a lot of friends along the way, living dangerously. Makes it hard to get into the studio. I produced three albums prior to this on my own label but never released them because they weren't right. This is right.”

“I couldn't agree more,” Nic said. “Tell us about your gig tonight.”

“Yeah, I'm really excited. I'm getting back to my roots down in Venice at The Sink, one of the places I played all the time when I was young and dumb.”

“I can happily say I've been young and dumb there myself on a number of occasions,” Nic said. “And I will be again tonight. What time do you go on?”

“I go on at—”

The clock radio inexplicably shut itself off.

“Son of a bitch!” Kennedy yelled.

He fumbled with it, trying to turn it back on, but when he did Love was already playing another song. Kennedy went online and looked up the show, but it was sold out. He really wanted to go and thought about contacting her, but didn't have any current information. He found her
on Facebook and almost hit her up that way, but it felt weird to stalk her on social media after years of very little contact, to score a backstage pass.

Besides, he didn't have time for socializing. He had to get his head in the game and start working on analyzing the threat. Like an auto mechanic rebuilding an engine, he was going to disassemble everything he knew about airports and air travel and scrutinize each piece for flaws and weaknesses. He had no doubt that's what they
had done—whoever
they
were—and the fact that intel about the threat even existed meant they were probably well into the planning stage.

Kennedy did his best thinking on the golf course, so he took the hotel car service to his private club in Pacific Palisades. It was still relatively early and the rest of the world had not yet invaded every square inch of asphalt in Los Angeles. When he arrived, a thin marine layer kept everything mercifully cool and shaded. Kennedy had not been to the club for nearly six months and was contented by its steady presence. His father and grandfather had been members. Golf was not just a pastime in his family; it was a religion. But Kennedy had been the only one with the talent to go pro.

When he got out on the course, his game came back to him, energizing his muscle memory and sharpening his senses to the nuances of the track.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder and also improves golf scores.

Being preoccupied with the Homeland memo was the perfect way to keep his intellect out of the game and let his body do what came naturally. As he played he followed his grandfather's advice and treated each shot like a game unto itself. This got him into a methodical groove, addressing every stroke without the distraction of results or thinking ahead. He finished the round at one under par and was only a few strokes off the average score for the middle of the field in a PGA tournament.

Feeling refreshed and clearheaded, he ducked into the lounge for a drink, ready to focus on the memo. He ordered a cold beer and, like with his golf game, addressed the threat in a linear fashion, making sure he didn't skip over any minuscule but important detail.

He'd learned from his Israeli instructors that most attacks fell in the
statement
category. The majority of terrorists were amateurs who often lacked the resources or intelligence to pull off something profoundly
damaging, like 9/11. Instead they opted for a headline. The upside of this category was that the attacks were usually smaller in scale. The downside was that they were often successful because the attacker was willing to die to carry out the plan. Like with Japanese kamikaze pilots and suicide bombers, this approach offered a major strategic advantage because of its totally unpredictable nature.

Kennedy hadn't gotten any new intel from Wes yet, but based on the fact that this threat had grabbed the attention of several intelligence entities, it seemed like it would turn into more than a statement. Osama bin Laden didn't merely make headlines run red when he attacked the United States. To him it was more a military offensive designed to inflict extensive, even debilitating, damage on the target—not just the thousands of people on the planes and in the buildings, but also the whole country. Bin Laden knew that it would not only strike fear in the hearts of the “enemy,” but it would also put America on the defensive, causing us to lash out in irrational ways that increased our vulnerability. In that way, it was guerrilla warfare, a highly effective approach for the Davids of the world looking to knock Goliath on his ass.

The only way to approach this threat was to assume it would be even bigger than 9/11. That was the nature of the beast. Whoever was planning it very likely wanted to trump all previous attacks, if not just for ego then also for impact. It was scary to think that bin Laden had weakened the United States, dividing it against itself, but that's exactly what had happened. The toll that two wars had taken on the country, along with the political carnage that made government barely able to function in any kind of constructive way, might be the camel's back—and someone might be thinking he had just the straw to break it.

“For someone who just dismantled that course, your celebration skills leave a lot to be desired.”

Kennedy looked up, startled. A slim, muscular Hispanic man in his forties, dressed impeccably in all-black golf attire, was standing next to his table. The man smiled, sharp features framing perfect white teeth. He looked like an actor or politician. As if on cue, the server dropped two neat scotches on the table.

“Buy you one?” the man asked politely.

“Be my guest.”

They toasted and drank. Kennedy was not pleased about the interruption,
but the fact that the man had chosen the best scotch in the bar softened the blow.

“After I heard about your round, I saw you up on the club championship board. Eleven wins. Pretty impressive. Unheard of actually. Ever go pro?”

“Thought about it, but—”

“You should have. Juarez.”

They shook hands.

“Thanks.”

The only thing Kennedy hated more than watching golf on television was talking about it.

“What's your handicap?”

“Five,” Kennedy lied.

“Bullshit,” Juarez said, gently confrontational.

“I'm not looking to team up or anything. I don't really do club tourneys.”

“Me neither,” Juarez said. “There just aren't any real players around here anymore. Bunch of stuck-up gringos drinking beer in carts, which I can't believe they even allow. No offense.”

“None taken. I'm not a fan of the gringos either.”

Kennedy finished his scotch, hoping that would facilitate Juarez's exit, but the guy waved the waitress over with two more glasses before Kennedy could protest.

“
Salud
,” Juarez said, raising his glass.

“Cheers,” Kennedy said, raising his own.

Kennedy noticed a copper bracelet on Juarez's wrist.

“What's that, some kind of power band?” Kennedy asked.

“Side business. My kid's going to private school next year. Gringos love these things.”

“Guaranteed to make you a scratch golfer,” Kennedy joked.

“And improve your sex life,” Juarez flipped back. “The only cool thing is, it has sports tracker tech, like Nike FuelBand. So, people know your
real
handicap and don't have to bug you about it.”

“Two,” Kennedy said.

“That's more like it,” Juarez said.

He fished another bracelet out of his pocket and handed it to Kennedy. It was brand-new, wrapped in a clear plastic sleeve.

“I don't have any cash—”

“I'm not hustling you. Having the Ben Hogan of the club wear one is great advertising for me.” He laughed.

They had another drink and shot the shit for a while. Juarez wasn't like the other morons he'd grown to hate at the club, the ones who had money and political suck but couldn't swing a club to break a window, let alone par. Juarez knew the game and didn't bore Kennedy bragging about what he had or whining about what he didn't. When they parted ways, they exchanged business cards and promised to try to play a round sometime. Kennedy hoped it wasn't bullshit, something people in LA had developed into an art. Talking to Juarez made him realize that the one thing he needed to make his life less disconnected and transient was a friend.

Back at the hotel, he couldn't help but wonder if he'd heard Sierra—Love—on the radio that morning for a reason. Maybe Belle had spirited into the room that night and turned on that goddamned alarm clock? That was definitely her style. And she would be pissed if he wimped out and didn't at least try to go to the show,
after I busted my ass to come back from the dead
, she would say.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he was in the hotel car service, on his way to Venice Beach.

T
his is a bad idea.

It was 9:00
P.M.
and the freeway was inexplicably jammed. Kennedy had been in the car for forty-five minutes and they still had a long way to go. The whiskey buzz was starting to wear off and he was getting queasy from the driver stopping and lurching, fighting for every mile.

“Maybe we should just head back to the hotel,” Kennedy said.

“At this point, it may take you twice as long to get back as it would to get to your destination, but I can turn around if you like,” the driver said, eyeing Kennedy in the rearview.

“Fuck it. Let's stay the course.”

“Of course. Would you like a mint?”

“A what?”

“A mint. Or a stick of gum?”

“Why?”

“Maybe you're meeting a lady tonight?”

“What makes you say that?”

“No reason, sir. How about some music?”

Kennedy stared at the parking lot of cars ahead of them on the freeway. He
was
nervous—but not in the way the driver had implied. He had to admit he'd been avoiding Belle's best friend ever since his sister died. She reminded him too much of something he could never get back. A month
after Belle's funeral, Sierra had been distraught, unable to sleep or eat, battling severe depression. She had come to Kennedy, driving all the way from Santa Monica to Stanford, saying she needed to talk to someone who felt like she did.

The problem was, Kennedy had wanted to weld himself shut in his iron grief and had no desire to share feelings. When she arrived at his dorm, looking for a shoulder to cry on, he managed to put on a convincing act that he was there for her, but all of her reminiscing made him want to retreat even further into himself. After that, their communications became less frequent. She'd tried to stay in touch, but Kennedy always made excuses. Until he'd run out, and she stopped calling. And now here he was, at The Sink, wringing his hands like a freshman prom date.

The show had started by the time Kennedy arrived. It was sold out and the club was full to capacity, so the velvet-rope jockey told him to get lost. Kennedy remembered the kitchen entrance Sierra had shown him and his friends how to break into with a credit card when they were in high school. He crept around back and was blown away to see they hadn't fixed the lock after all those years. He used one of his many frequent-flier cards to slip in the door and found the last square foot of standing room.