The Hunted

"There are a few things she might like to change," Alex admitted, a loud understatement. Elena detested the house. He had bought and refurbished it before they met, a gift to himself after he made his first hundred million and regarded it as a neat way to pat himself on the back. A gay Paris decorator had been flown in and instructed to spare no expense. He did his best. He chartered a plane, flew around the world, slept in five-star hotels, loaded up on antiques from Asia, the Middle East, and Europe. He had drapes hand-sewn in Egypt, and furniture hand-manufactured by the best craftsmen in Korea.

As the bills piled up, Alex convinced himself that he wasn't being wasteful; it was a business expense, an unavoidable cost he couldn't do without. The big moneymen from Wall Street and Fleet Street and Frankfurt did not talk business 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, you've been very good to me. I owe you more than I can express. Do me a favor, let me pay some of it back."

"Just fix this damned country. Finish what you started. Believe me, I'll be more than delighted."