Milton reached the vehicles just as he heard shouting behind him. He looked back to see the two policemen from the security desk stepping through the broken fire door. The older one of the two was barking out orders in Indonesian. Milton had hoped to have an opportunity to hot-wire the SUV, but there was no time for that now. He went to the Bajaj and examined it. The vehicle was not much more than an adapted motor scooter with a bright orange frame around it to provide some protection from the elements. The original single rear wheel had been replaced by two wheels side by side, with a bench across the top for seating and an aluminium alloy monocoque chassis that provided a body of sorts. The Bajaj looked as if it was used to move staff around the airport. It wasn’t luxurious, nor did it look particularly quick, but, Milton reflected as he pushed Sakura into the rear seat, the little engine was already running.

Once Sakura was safely stowed in the back—or as safely as was possible, given the open sides—Milton tossed their luggage in, then performed a rapid three-hundred-and-sixty-degree assessment. The policemen were running toward them, but they were still a decent distance yards away. One had drawn his weapon and was sprinting with it raised in the air. He would have to be a hell of a shot to put a round within twenty feet of the Bajaj from where he was, but Milton did not intend to stick around to let him chance his arm. He could see a young man waving at him through the smoked-glass window of the adjacent building. The man was frowning and shaking his head, and Milton guessed that he must have been responsible for the vehicle. Milton disregarded him and looked beyond the building to the access gate to the terminal compound.

It was slowly retracting to allow a blue sedan to roll inside.

It was a chance.

He got into the front of the Bajaj and saw that the controls were almost identical to the ones on the moped he used to ride when he was younger: in the centre of the driver’s compartment was a set of handlebars with the gear selector on the left-hand side and the accelerator on the right. Milton gripped the accelerator handle and rotated it toward him. The engine burbled happily, its quiet chugging becoming a frantic but faintly asthmatic grumble complete with a billow of filthy smoke that was belched out of the exhaust. He tried to rotate the left-hand grip to select first gear, but nothing happened.

“Hey! Mister? Stop!”

Milton heard the shout over the racket of the engine. The man he had seen inside the building was on his way out. Milton saw the two policemen—both now with weapons drawn—less than fifty yards away. The gate that had opened to let the sedan into the terminal was closing.