The Messenger

down the engine.
    “This is as far as I go.”
    “Who am I seeing, Adrian?”
    “Go through that gate over there and walk up the drive toward the house. He’ll be out in a minute.”

    T HE DOGS came first, two coal-black terriers that shot from the Diplomatic Entrance like bullets from a gun barrel and launched a preemptive strike on Gabriel’s trousers. The president emerged a few seconds later. He advanced on Gabriel with one hand out while the other was gesturing for the terriers to break off their onslaught. The two men shook hands briefly, then set off along the footpath that ran around the periphery of the South Lawn. The terriers launched one more sortie against Gabriel’s ankles. Carter watched as Gabriel turned and murmured something in Hebrew that sent the dogs scurrying toward the protection of a Secret Service agent.
    Their conversation lasted just five minutes, and to Carter it seemed the president did most of the talking. They moved at a brisk pace, stopping only once in order to settle what appeared to be a minor disagreement. Gabriel removed his hands from his coat pockets and used them to illustrate whatever point he was trying to make. The president appeared unconvinced at first, then he nodded and clapped Gabriel hard on the shoulders.
    They completed their circuit and parted at the Diplomatic Entrance. As Gabriel started back toward East Executive Drive the dogs trotted after him, then turned and darted into the White House after their master. Gabriel slipped through the open gate and climbed into Carter’s car.
    “How was he?” Carter asked as they turned into 15th Street.
    “Resolute.”
    “It looked like you had a bit of an argument.”
    “I’d characterize it as a polite disagreement.”
    “About what?”
    “Our conversation was private, Adrian, and it will remain so.”
    “Good man,” said Carter.

18.

London

    T HE ANNOUNCEMENT THAT Isherwood Fine Arts had sold Daniel in the Lions’ Den by Peter Paul Rubens for the sum of ten million pounds came on the first Wednesday of the new year. By Friday the clamor had been eclipsed by a rumor that Isherwood was bringing aboard a partner.
    It was Oliver Dimbleby, Isherwood’s tubby nemesis from King Street, who heard it first, though later even Dimbleby would be hard pressed to pin down its precise origin. To the best of his recollection the seeds were planted by Penelope, the luscious hostess from the little wine bar in Jermyn Street where Isherwood could often be seen whiling away slow afternoons. “She’s blond,” Penelope had said. “ Natural blond, Oliver. Not like your girls. Pretty. American with a bit of an English accent.” At first Penelope suspected Isherwood was once again making a fool of himself with a younger woman, but she soon realized that she was witnessing a job interview. “And not just any job, Oliver. Sounded like something big.”
    Dimbleby would have thought nothing of it had he not received a report of a second sighting, this one from Percy, a notorious gossip who waited tables in the breakfast room at the Dorchester Hotel. “They definitely weren’t lovers,” he told Dimbleby with the assurance of a man who knew his material. “It was all salary and benefits. There was a fair amount of haggling. She was playing hard to get.” Dimbleby slipped Percy ten quid and asked whether he’d caught the woman’s name. “Bancroft,” said Percy. “ Sarah Bancroft. Stayed two nights. Bill paid in its entirety by Isherwood Fine Arts, Mason’s Yard, St. James’s.”
    A third sighting, a cozy dinner at Mirabelle, confirmed to Dimbleby that something was definitely afoot. The next evening he bumped into Jeremy Crabbe, director of the Bonhams Old Masters department, at the bar in Greene’s restaurant. Crabbe was drinking a very large whiskey and still licking his wounds over Isherwood’s monumental coup. “I had that Rubens, Oliver, but Julie outfoxed me. He’s ten million richer, and I’m facing a firing squad at dawn. And now he’s expanding operations. Getting himself a flashy new front man, from what I hear. But don’t quote me, Oliver. It’s nothing but malicious talk.” When Dimbleby asked whether Isherwood’s flashy front man might in fact be an American woman named Sarah Bancroft, Crabbe gave him a sideways smile. “Anything’s possible, love. Remember, we are talking about Juicy Julie Isherwood.”
    For the next forty-eight hours Oliver Dimbleby devoted his copious spare time to