He has raced twice in the 4,500-kilometer-long East African Safari Classic Rally. (The car, a 1976 Porsche 911 still covered with Kenyan mud, sits next to the DB5 in the basement showroom.) He founded a Le Mans racing team with two professional drivers. He commissioned the construction of a 140-foot yacht, which he had painted silver with a red stripe and named the Nina J., after his daughter with his ex-wife, Katharina Flohr, the former editor of Russian Vogue and onetime creative director of Fabergé. He threw an extravagant fete in St. Petersburg for Nina’s 18th birthday, with actors dressed as Bolsheviks and a seated dinner for 300 in a gallery where Catherine the Great once held court. (Subtlety is not a particular interest of Flohr’s.)

In the mid-2000s, he decided it was time to build his dream house. He bought an existing late-1960s chalet on six acres of farmland in St. Moritz, where he’d been skiing most of his life, at the end of the road winding up the Suvretta mountain, and called the Milan-based interior designer Ivana Porfiri to design it.

‘‘I had to find a contemporary interpretation of a mountain chalet that didn’t feel cliché and could be totally integrated in the landscape,’’ Porfiri says. She proposed constructing a towerlike house stacked up against the mountain ‘‘to make the most of the land’’ and building it in a hybrid of pine and larch imported from Corsica because it ‘‘has branches only at the top so you can have very clean planks with no weak points.’’ From there, she laid out the floor plan, giving the four guest rooms, Flohr’s suite and office, Nina’s suite and the salon spectacular views, and arranging the playrooms, kitchen and the Swiss-required bomb shelter (which she turned into a walk-in refrigerator) around them. The idea, when one entered the house, was to have it unfold little by little, an accumulation of small spaces and nooks that you’d pass through before arriving in the magnificent great room, with its 18-feet-high cathedral ceiling and sweeping views of Lake St. Moritz and the surrounding Engadin valley.

Flohr had asked Porfiri to incorporate as much regional tradition and European craftsmanship in the design as possible, so for the limestone walls near the spa, she had a local artisan carve indigenous drawings that resemble cave art, and for the voluminous claret-red curtains in the living room and the walls in Flohr’s bedroom, she hired the Italian textile artist Gaia Clerici, who rolled, beat and pressed wool felt into a rough-hewn fabric. Then there are the house’s various extravagant details, which have less to do with European craftsmanship and more to do with, well, Bond-worthy opulence — things like the cashmere felt linings in the wardrobe drawers and the tiny steam jets in the walls that maintain the humidity level at a precise 52 percent. ‘‘Dry air is one of the downsides of mountain life,’’ Flohr says. ‘‘You feel it and it makes you tired.’’

Flohr himself commissioned several artworks, including a colorful Barry McGee mural behind the squash court and an Os Gemeos painting for the hallway; adjacent to the garage gallery, there is a Tom Sachs installation featuring elements from a stop-motion safety video starring Thomas and Nina dolls on a VistaJet. Flohr created an artwork, too: His original plan was for the spa to have a view of the valley, but it wound up being located in the interior of a lower level. So he purchased a high-definition camera, mounted it on the front deck, and has it project a live digital feed of the lake and mountains on the spa’s wall across from the chaises longues.

By December 2013, after four years of construction — ‘‘the longest project of my career,’’ Porfiri says — Flohr’s fantasy house was nearly complete. All that remained unfinished was his office. He’d long ago told Porfiri that he wanted it to have a James Bond feel; he also mentioned Eero Saarinen’s iconic midcentury TWA terminal at New York’s J.F.K. airport, Charles de Gaulle airport’s early 1970s-designed Terminal 1 (before it was remodeled) and Moscow’s Sheremetyevo airport.

Porfiri watched old Bond films (‘‘there was a certain look to those movies,’’ she says), later finding the room’s centerpiece, the desk, at auction. (Flohr liked it so much that he bought a second one for his office in London.) From this enviable perch, with his chocolate lab Mars curled up at his feet, Flohr oversees his global empire. ‘‘The minute I am finished my work wherever I am in the world, I get on the plane and come here,’’ he says. ‘‘Wouldn’t you?’’