by the time Veil returned to his chalet. He removed the tinted aviator glasses and black wig that comprised his simple disguise, tossed the articles on the bed, then poured himself half a tumbler full of Scotch from the well-stocked bar. It had been a long and frustrating day—long because he had been up and across the valley to the Institute's main complex before dawn; frustrating because his random search for a familiar face had been an exercise in futility. There was a good possibility that he wouldn't recognize the man he was after even if he walked past him. He had managed to cover the entire complex; he had seen many fascinating and sensitive experiments in progress, but nothing that would justify the risk and cost of setting up the kind of spy network that would include the care and feeding of an assassin like the Golden Boy. He knew that he needed a more systematic approach. He had more faith in his dreams. His past seemed to be the key, and when he slept, his subconscious kept returning him there, allowing him to sift and sort memories in the search for a link between then and now—if there was one.
