"Get a compass," Scotty requested. "We can set a compass course and hit it right on the nose."
Rick looked at his pal. "Marine training?"
"Nope." Scotty grinned. "Boy Scout. But it will come in handy. I think I could take you there anyway, but we'd better have a compass to be sure."
The three bent over the map and worked out the approach to Casa Guevara. For one thing, they agreed to approach as close as possible by jeep. If they found the governor, transportation would be needed. He could not be as fast on foot as might be necessary, because of his age. Besides, they had no idea of his present physical condition.
It was dark when they rolled out of Calor, Rick driving. All three were dressed in dark clothes, and each had a night stick in his belt. Montoya's pistol was hidden in a shoulder holster.
At the officer's direction, they turned toward the airport, passed it, and headed toward the lighthouse at the extreme southern tip of the island. The road led past the light and along the southern shore, a hundred yards from the sea. Then, as they reached their first turning point, Montoya said, "Slowly. It should be about here."
After a moment he found it, a pair of ruts through the rolling farm land. Rick knew from his study of the map that it was a road on which bananas were hauled from the plantations. It cut across to the main road to San Souci. By taking this route, they would miss the check point near the hotel.
The road was bumpy but passable. Rick kept a steady speed in spite of the jouncing it gave his passengers. They could take it.
Presently there was blacktop ahead. They had reached the road to San Souci. Rick pulled a flashlight from his pocket and pointed it at the odometer, counting off the tenths of a mile as he headed toward the town. When he reached seven-tenths he stopped the jeep.
"Turnoff point," he said. "From now on, we steer our way through the boondocks. Any preferred way, Captain?"