Napoleon instantly spotted their quarry, though the man was thinner as Angelique had said; he wa sporting a dark hair piece and had a moustache, whether it was real or not, it was hard to tell.
He pulled his communicator, signalling his partner.
"He's just stepped up to the blackjack table."
"Napoleon, how can that be? I am following him from the slot machines.
Angelique broke in on her communicator. "No, he has been at the roulette wheel for the last ten minutes."
"Decoys, obviously. Clever fellow's not taking any chances. I'll bet my bottom dollar that none of them are him, but where could he be?" Solo paused, tapping his finger against his temple. "Hold on a second."
"Excuse me," he turned to a passing cocktail waitress," but is there a private gaming room for high rollers Miss?"
"Why yes sir, just go to the main desk and they'll register you. Identification is required for entry. It's pretty ritzy and plenty of celebrities go there. They want to gamble with a bit of privacy so there won't be fans crawling all over them, lot's of millionaires too," she practically sighed.
"Thank you Miss," Solo placed a sizable tip on her drink tray.'
"Gee, thanks mister. I hope you win big tonight."
"Me too." He ducked to a corner hiding behind a lush palm, "Illya did you hear any of that?"
"Yes, I am heading…"
"No, I want you to stick with your man, just in case he's the real McCoy. Tell Angelique to do the same thing.
"Too late," Illya replied," seeing the scene unfold at the Roulette table. The possible decoy that Angelique had been observing seems to have suffered some sort of attack and is lying on the floor, unconscious."
"Hold on again Illya, I'm switching to her frequency."
"Angelique, what the hell have you done?"
"And why do you presume I've done something darling?"
"Because I know you well enough. Now what have you been up to?" His voice was a little more demanding this time.
"Eliminated the target of course. Isn't that what you wanted?"
It was all Napoleon could do from losing his temper. "What if he's already planted the bombs? And how are we supposed to find out their locations if Altschuler's dead?"
"Oh, well when you put it that way. Sorry, I guess I just was caught up in the moment."
"Hmm, I don't ever want to hear those words again unless we're in bed together."
"And how do you know we ever will be?" She toyed with him.
"We'll talk about that later. The man you eliminated may have been a decoy or he could been the real Altschuler. I need you to come over to the blackjack table and keep an eye on another possible doppleganger, and just follow him understand? Illya is following one as well."
Angelique stood aside as a first aid squad brought a stretcher to retrieve the man she'd just killed, simply by jabbing him with a hypodermic needle filled with a quick acting poison that would make it look like a heart attack.
She held her compact up, hiding the communicator behind it as she spoke. "Really, there are three of them? So if your little Russian and I are watching the remaining two, what will you be doing?"
"I have a feeling our real target is gambling in the private game room, a bit on anonymity, and protection from prying eyes for the big gamblers. If Altschuler wants to make money to fund his operation, that's where he'll really need to be."
"Well if you're right darling, I'll be giving you a personal reward tonight in the privacy of our suite."
"Is that a promise or a threat? Out."
Solo approached the desk, requesting admittance to the back room as it were, and gave them his identification upon request. He quickly glanced at the register, seeing the name of Willie Altschuler a home address, no doubt fake, listed in Germany, and his hotel room of all places, the penthouse suite.
"This way Mr. Solo," the manager gestured, opening up a locked gate.
Napoleon followed him down a corridor to a pair of simple double doors. When they were opened, to an opulent crystal chandeliered room with thick burgundy velvet curtains and large potted palm trees. There was a private bar, a small buffet, and separate gaming tables for poker, baccarat, blackjack, and roulette; no noisy slot machines or flashing lights. The room was one of calm concentration, with light non-descript piano music playing in the background.
Solo stopped, scanning the room in search of Altschuler. There he was at the baccarat table, with a substantial pile of chips in front of him.
There were twenty or so men in the room, not including the employees; all well dressed as Napoleon had expected, wearing dinner jackets or tuxedos.
There was an air of confidence about them, as well as tension and anticipation. Everything here was high stakes and each man no doubt was adept the their chosen game of chance. Still there could be a few cheaters among them.
The man he assumed to be Altschuler was one of those cheats. Yet he was a madman among men who were greedy perhaps, as well as the hopefuls. There were businessmen, members of society and entertainers, who were treated like royalty... in a country that threw off that mantle a long time ago, yet some people still yearned for kings and queens, didn't they; raising celebrities to those positions.
"Any game in particular Mr. Solo?"
"Baccarat."
"Very good sir, a chair has just become free." He was escorted to the table and seated beside a very familiar face, one of those celebrities.
"Hello Mr. Martin," Napoleon smiled.
"Why hello there, and what's your name buddy?"Martin smiled back at him, sipping a glass of what appeared to be whiskey at first glance but was in reality, ice tea. His reputation as a heavy imbiber apparently was all an act.
"Solo, Napoleon Solo."
"Hey a piasan, I have a cousin named Solo, maybe we're related. Parli italiano?"
"Sì un po '…" Napoleon grinned.
The two of them conversed for a moment until they were interrupted by a waitress asking for drink orders. As was Napoleon's poison of choice; he asked for a scotch on the rocks.
"Mr. Martin another drink for you?" She knew not to call it tea.
"Yes darlin' and don't forget no ice this time," he whispered with a wink."Gotta keep my reputation intact."
"Will do Mr. Martin."
He turned his attention back to Napoleon. "Call me Dean, we're paisans, practically family. I have a reputation as a heavy drinker, and it's all about keeping up appearances, smoke and mirrors buddy, smoke and mirrors."
Napoleon was well acquainted with that concept. He glanced across the table at the other gamblers and before he even started to play; the man appearing to be Altschuler eyed him suspiciously.
"Damn," he cursed to himself. Could Altschuler have heard him introduce himself to Dean? He should have used a cover name.
It had never occurred to him that even though he'd never heard of or met the man before, it was foolish to presume as a member of THRUSH, Altschuler had not heard of Napoleon Solo.
Both men locked eyes in a darkened gaze, but it was Altschuler who broke it first. He gathered his sizable cache of chips, tossing a tip to the croupier and stood.
"If you will excuse me, I've become fatigued and I do apologize for not giving you a chance to regain your losses to me.
He clicked his heels and quickly walked away, followed by an escort who carried a tray with the man's winnings. He put on airs wishing his fellow gamblers a good evening, as if he were some sort of German aristocrat, but he was far from that.
"Guten Abend meine Herren."
Napoleon slapped his breast and jacket pockets, "Will you look at that? I came down here without my wallet. How embarrassing. I beg your pardon Dean... gentlemen. I shall return."
"Hey paisan, stay in touch if I don't see you back here. I'm staying at the Sands. Stop by and we can have a chat, and maybe dinner? It's nice to meet a regular guy who speaks the lingo from the old country."
"Yes, I will. Napoleon waved to him." He bypassed the waitress carrying his scotch. Heading straight for the exit; he pulled his communicator.
"Channel F-Illya. I think I've been made, Altschuler is on his way out of the…"
His sentence went unfinished as something hard came down on his head, knocking the American out cold.
When Napoleon awoke he found himself lying in bed, his jacket and tie removed. There was a cold compress on his throbbing head, and he moaned.
"Oh darling you've finally joined us. How do you feel?" Angelique purred.
"Like I was hit in the head with a sledgehammer. What happened?"
"Very nearly that, " Illya said, replacing the cloth on his partner's forehead for a fresh, cool one.
"There was quite a disturbance in the casino, when word got out that a customer had been attacked and possibly robbed. The manager had you carried to his office. Someone named Martin sent his personal physician to check on you...luckily your thick American skull suffered no damage and you were brought here to your room."
"And Altschuler?"
"I'm afraid darling that he got away, as did his stand-ins."
"Napoleon you tried giving me a message, saying you had been made?"
Solo moaned, he'd made a rookie mistake and he knew it.
"I used my own name instead of a cover when I introduced myself when being seated at the baccarat table. Altschuler was there and must have overheard me, he obviously recognized it as he quickly left the table...when he was winning. I followed him as he left the gaming room and, well the rest you know."
"It must have been one of his minions who hit you on the head, my poor Napoleon," Angelique tenderly ran her hand along his face, but he pushed it away.
"Wait, wait...he's staying in the penthouse. I saw it on the registry book for the private gaming room."
Illya was up in a flash. "You wait here my friend, you are in no condition…"
"The hell I will." Napoleon sat up with a groan, grabbing his jacket from a nearby chair; steadying himself for a second. His gun was on the nightstand and that he snatched up, slipping it into his shoulder holster.
"Wait for me, I'm in on this too," Angelique called after them as they headed out the door.
The ride in the elevator seemed to take forever until it opened to the foyer of the penthouse suite. The operator tried making polite conversation, but found himself ignored.
The elevator door opened, revealing a large foyer with black and white checkered flooring. The walls were white wainscot with highly polished told light fixtures, there were potted ferns everywhere.
As soon as the three agents stepped out to the floor, they waited for the elevator doors to close behind them before drawing their guns and approached the penthouse entrance.
Illya listened carefully at the door, but hearing nothing; he knelt as he drew a lock pic from his pocket. Seconds later it was opened and they slipped inside.
A quick search proved fruitless, Altschuler was gone and it looked like he'd left in a hurry.
"Shit!" Napoleon cursed, but suddenly froze as he spotted something on the floor beside the sleek black bar. It was a device with a timer.
"Illya is that what I think it is? A nuclear bomb."
"My friend, your powers of observation never cease to amaze. From the looks of it, it is safe to assume it is the first of the threatened seven nuclear devices. Angelique is there a satrap near here?" Illya asked.
"Yes, in the desert, but it's not a significant one. Destroying it would serve little purpose, as it's simply a ...wait. It's a clearinghouse for all the money THRUSH launders here in Las Vegas. At any one time there must be millions of dollars in cash there."
"So destroying it would put a major dent into THRUSH funds?" Napoleon said.
"One would presume," Illya said. "Whether he planned to detonate it here or bring it to the satrap is now a moot point as the countdown has begun."
He pointed to the digital readout that was ticking away, and there wasn't much time left...