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with anybody
     not like themselves, prosperous enough to show it off.
    The house was cavernous and every nook and cranny was saturated with grandeur. But Elena liked things simple and small enough
     that you didn’t have to shout across the room at each other. She didn’t care for servants, either; she was reared to do things
     herself, and that’s how she preferred it. If she even thought about a cup of coffee, a silver urn appeared out of nowhere.
     The flock of hired help violated their privacy. They made her feel guilty and spoiled.
    The mansion sat on the corner of two furiously busy Moscow streets, for another thing. Traffic and pedestrians were always
     pausing to gawk at the impressive old home, and occasionally littered the property with letters strewn with vile curses and
     filthy threats. In a city populated largely with impoverished former communists—their families and few belongings suffocating
     in six-hundred-square-foot apartments—the newly rich and their expansive indulgences were not viewed fondly.
    Any day, Elena expected a flotilla of Molotov cocktails to sail through her window.
    After enough hateful letters, Alex built a small guard shack out front and posted guards around the clock to chase away disgruntled
     tourists. But it was, quite spectacularly, a mansion and thus a magnet for the growing breed of Moscow criminals. After two
     attempted break-ins, another guard shack was erected, more guards were added to the rear of the house, one was posted on the
     roof, and enough state-of-the-art surveillance systems were sprinkled around to give a porn studio fits of envy.
    Elena began calling their home “The Fortress,” without affection. Still, there was no doubt the house continued to pose serious
     security issues and little could be done about it.
    They had had discussions, Alex and Elena. Not arguments, but mild disputes that were never settled. Elena was increasingly
     distressed about Alex’s safety. He was famous now—more truthfully, infamous—a poster child of the gold-digging opportunists
     who were raking it in while most Russians slapped extra locks on their doors to keep the bill collectors at bay.
    And their house was right there, on the street! A bazooka fired from a passing car could blast them all to pieces.
    But the place was perfect for Alex. His office was only five minutes away, on foot. He was working twenty-hour days, seven
     days a week. Seconds were precious, minutes priceless. And everything he needed was right here, a floor or two above, or a
     floor or two below: a gourmet feast at the snap of a finger, that superb gym for his morning conditioning, the heated pool
     to unwind in after a long day of shoving millions around.
    Elena had been raised in the country. She loathed the city and all its appendages—senseless crime, roaring traffic, the ever-present
     noise, the reeking smell and pollution. Most of all, she hated that disgruntled people walked by and spat angry hawkers on
     her property. She longed for clean air, lush forests, long, private walks around her property.
    Long walks without a squadron of beefy guards shepherding her every step.
    “Why do you ask?” Alex finally said.
    “I want you closer,” Boris replied. “No, I
need
you closer.”
    “I’m only forty minutes away. Call and I’ll drop everything.”
    “Nope, that won’t work. One minute I worry about foreign currency reserves, the next I’m dreaming of ways to get my nuclear
     missiles back from Kazakhstan. I’m a very spontaneous person, Alex. I have the attention span of a horny Cossack. I think
     you know that.”
    “Yes, I know that. So send a fast helicopter for me, Mr. President. The army’s not doing anything these days. I think they
     have enough of them, and their pilots need a workout. I’ll even foot the gas bill. Twenty minutes flat from my doorstep to
     yours.”
    “Not fast enough.”
    “Then describe fast enough.”
    “I want to reach out and touch you. Besides,