Simon Conway ‘The British Agent’

It is a truth universally acknowledged, at least by those of us who inhabit the shade of Tim Shipman, Shane Whaley and the other learned denizens of the Spybrary community, that we are living through a golden age of spy fiction unrivalled since the original espionage frenzy of the early sixties.

Some have bubbled through to the public consciousness in showy ways – Mick Herron and his humour rendered in technicolour by Apple TV springs to mind – but Charlotte Philby, David McCloskey, Paul Vidich, Jeremy Duns (currently on sabbatical) and Charles Cumming are all regularly producing work so good it must be sought out.

As in any movement, however coincidental and loosely affiliated, there are the second tier-dwellers selected either for their real world espionage experience, their existing celebrity or their superb prose.

In Simon Conway, however, we have a writer very much moving into Mount Rushmore territory: he’s the complete package. A real world background of derring do straight out of a Boys Own adventure story, prose which oscillates between swingeing, biting satire and punch you in the face exciting. 

He’s never been less than of the top tier – but here, his latest novel propels into the premier league.

He’s also consistent. ‘The British Agent’ may be his best yet, but ‘A Loyal Spy’, ‘The Stranger’ and ‘The Saboteur’ are also explosive spy stories of the very best.

In ‘The British Agent’, Conway arrives with a new publisher and an adapted writing style. 

Penguin’s Michael Joseph imprint have delivered a Conway with shorter chapters, even more globe trotting locations and action to keep you on the edge of your seat. 

The punchier chapters and the characteristic action ensure that Conway can weave his trademark political insights through this world of double crosses and bluffs.

In Chuff, Conway’s undercover British agent thrust undercover in a twisty turny American-made conspiracy the writer delivers an intriguing and hard nosed female hero who could happily break noses and rearrange testicles with McCloskey’s Artemis Proctor or Peter O’Donnell’s

Modesty Blaise (to name two outstanding spy heroines who span the two golden ages).

I’ve read a lot of novels this year for various reasons: few have been as engaging, as enjoyable or begin to compare with ‘The British Agent’ and I desperately hope a sequel is in the works.