The hour was late, the kind of quiet hour that exists only in the deepest part of the Russian night, when the snow outside acts as a perfect blanket, muffling the world into submission. The only light in the sprawling bedroom came from the fireplace, casting dancing shadows across the high ceiling and warming the rich, dark woods of the furniture. It was the safest room in the world, secured by layers of glass, steel, and my own men, yet the security felt brittle, unable to guard against the ...