Stephen Alter’s novel brings to life an older version of Rudyard Kipling’s young hero, Kim, as a spy

Lahore. 18 March 1947. Dusk brings with it stray breezes from the north, dispelling some of the day’s oppressive heat. Summer has begun early this year, as if to make up for the cold winter we just had. A wheeling flock of pigeons fills the amber sky. Kicking my motorcycle to life, I can smell wet earth, where a bhishti with his goatskin waterbag has laid the dust in the forecourt of the Masonic Lodge. My worthy companions tried to persuade me to stay for another drink before curfew, but their conversations were full of rumours about Radcliffe’s Boundary Commission, cricket, and the cost of a passage home to England, none of which I cared to discuss.

The Norton’s engine sounds ragged but after I adjust the timing lever, it settles into a steadier, throaty roar. Switching on the headlamp, I circumnavigate a crescent of flower beds bordering the driveway and head out the gate, turning left across Charing Cross and onto the Mall Road. There is no traffic, only an empty tonga going in the direction of the walled city. Those who heed the evening call to prayer are in their places of worship, while followers of other creeds know...

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