Locating an open berth at the Clansman was sheer luck, tougher than finding a parking space in Manhattan.

Lindner finished off another prawn as a rental car screeched to a halt in the adjacent parking lot. Three men exited the vehicle, all in their early thirties, their laughter egged on by the alcohol moving through their bloodstream.

The leader and oldest of the three was an American named Chuck Jones, a talented musician who had once toured with Lynyrd Skynyrd. Jones was on hiatus from his job in law enforcement, forced to the sidelines because of a severe neck injury. The man who had planned the vacation was his cousin, Ron Casey, who also worked for the police, but as a crime scene photographer. The youngest of the trio, Chad Brager, was a former USC ice hockey defenseman and Ron Casey's best friend. The three had been on holiday in London when word of the Nessie attacks had broken. A road accident, a brainstorming session, and a quick shopping spree provided them with equipment and a plan.

Chuck Jones popped the trunk of the rental car, stepping aside to allow his more adept buddies to struggle with a heavy burlap bag and what looked like the carrying case for a trumpet.

Amused, Lindner watched as the three made their way onto the pier, stopping at berth after berth to negotiate with the local boat captains. In succession, each shook his head no, forcing the Americans to continue their search.

Eventually they came to the Wiley.

"Evenin'," said Jones. "That's a fine boat you've got there. Twin diesels. Hydraulic stabilizers. Classic displacement. Bet she's a steady ride."

"Think you know your boats, do you?"

Chad Brager smiled. "A fellow American, thank God. I swear, I can't understand half the things these Highlanders say."

Lindner nodded. "So boys, what're you up to?"

"Actually," said Jones, "we were hoping to do some night fishing."

"I'm a cruise ship, not a charter. What's in the burlap bag?"

"Bait." The Americans laughed.

Jones leaned in closer. "We don't really need a charter, what we want is to do a little night trolling. You know, maybe catch Nessie on film."

Lindner sipped his wine, half-concealing his grin. "Show me what's in the burlap bag."

Jones nodded to Brager, who untied the canvass, revealing a dead sheep, its hindquarters broken and disfigured. "Local farmer sold it to us. Said a tourist backed over it this morning as he pulled out of a lay-by."

Jones pointed to the transom. "We've brought plenty of cable. Be easy to rig to your boat."

Lindner chuckled. "Boys, there's thousands of people lining the banks of Loch Ness trying to photograph this creature. What makes you think you're gonna capture it on film, and at night, no less?"