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relationships with the exceptionally wealthy, both have made themselves up. To say that Epstein, in the company of the Princess, stuck in Carter’s craw would be an understatement. Epstein became one of the “what do you know about him” figures in Carter’s gossip trail—a story waiting to happen. Carter advised me not to go to Epstein’s house or accept a ride in his car least I risk being blackmail. (“For what?” I asked Carter. “You can’t even begin to imagine,” said Carter.) Epstein is private and secretive, but grandly so. He joined the board of Rockefeller University. He was suddenly on the Trilateral commission, that cabal of business people who fancy themselves, and who are fancied by conspiracy buffs, as running the world. He bought, from his client Limited Founder Les Wexner, the largest private house in Manhattan. (Rumors will continue for many years, that Wexner owns the house and Epstein is just squatting in it—an 18-year squat.) He bought an airplane. Then another. He expanded his holdings in New Mexico. He began a Xanadu-like refurbishment of his Caribbean Island. He befriended Bill Clinton in his new after-office life--and that. And would prove to be quite the fatal pairing. The post-Monica Clinton, now having pardoned the on-the-lam financier Marc Rich—at this point, before his own rehabilitation, Clinton really is the world’s ultimate sleaze ball—was suddenly being ferried around in the jet of... who exactly? The New York Post was the HOUSE_OVERSIGHT_022884