Philip Prowse’s lived in Portugal for several years in the early 70s and recently spent a couple of month long periods in Funchal where part of the book was written – and set. He has had positive feedback from Portuguese friends for its historical accuracy.
April 25 marks the anniversary of the 1974 Portugal’s Carnation Revolution and the overthrow of the Estado Novo totalitarian regime. Philip Prowse’s thriller, Hellyer’s Coup, opens and comes to a dramatic conclusion in Madeira. It takes the reader to the heart of the action as Nick, a British secret agent, participates in the revolutionary events as he thwarts a rogue scientist’s plan to use sarin nerve gas to end the Portuguese colonial wars in Africa.
The storyline is thoroughly researched and the scene setting vibrant. Hellyer is an engaging protagonist, courageous and conflicted, but also a libertine and bon viveur.
Financial Times
This is a series that provokes both laughter and reflection.
Morning Star
Hellyer’s Coup is available as a paperback, e-book and audiobook at amazon.es, amazon.de, amazon.co.uk and amazon.com. The stunning audiobook narration by Matt Garrill brings both characters and action vividly to life. A limited number of Audible promo codes are available – contact via www.philipprowse.co.uk stating if for UK or US marketplace.
An extract from the start of the novel:
Levada do Norte, Boa Morte, Madeira, 17 July 1968
The semi-circle of early morning light at the end of the kilometre-long tunnel grew mesmerizingly ever larger. Nick lengthened his stride and the dark waters of the levada, the narrow irrigation channel beside him, began to glisten. His neck muscles relaxed, as the repetitive thump of his feet brought an inner calm.
In his jogger’s trance, he skidded on a pool of drips from the tunnel roof, failed to keep his balance and crashed to the ground. A rush of self-doubt flooded back, almost washing away his hard-fought-for physical and mental confidence. No, that might have been how he would have reacted then, but this was now. He climbed back to his feet, stepping over the old Nick and abandoning him on the path. The new Nick gathered up all his negativity cast it into the channel and strode towards the light – he had come through.
Pupils narrowing as he emerged into brilliant sunshine, he caught fast approaching steps from behind and paused where the path widened slightly, so that the runner behind could sweep past. At this point, the levada corkscrewed along the hillside above a vertiginous drop to the village of Boa Morte in the valley below.
Once Nick had let him through, the runner came to a sudden halt, blocking the path. A black ski cap and wrap-around sunglasses obscured his features. An electric shock of terror juddered Nick’s spine as the man grabbed his shoulders.
‘Jump now,’ the runner hissed, trying to twist him over the edge. The two men danced a slow tantalising waltz of death and Nick’s head began to spin: the drop, the tunnel, the water, the path, the drop… So easy to surrender. A year ago he would have, but not now. He dug his heels in and succeeded in turning away from the precipice, only to be thrust forwards over the low concrete wall into the irrigation channel. There, he lay underwater on his back motionless, eyes open, lungs burning, calculating odds, all fear gone.
His assailant’s face appeared wavily through the water when he leaned over the wall. Nick erupted out of the levada and grasped the man’s right leg. He initially pulled the leg towards him and then thrust hard away. His attacker lost his balance and tumbled to the edge of the path, half way over the drop. The man’s frantic attempts to scramble back failed and he ended up swinging by his hands above the chasm. His fingers turned red and then blue as the nails slowly and inexorably scraped backwards across the surface, tracing ten lines of agony in blood.
Nick squatted beside him, transfixed by the plea in the man’s eyes. Should he put out a hand to help, he would be dragged down too. The man’s grip finally failed and he fell, the valley echoing with a high-pitched dying scream.
Nick peered over the edge but was unable to make out the body. He ran his forefinger across the lines on the path. Odourless. He washed the blood off his hands in the channel, and, torn by a sudden paroxysm in his gut, threw up into the water gliding past.
Slumped by the side of the path at the tunnel entrance, Nick dangled his sodden running shoes in the levada, catching his breath and slowing his heart rate. This had not been a training exercise. So who had wanted to kill him and why? Whoever his would-be assassin had been, he’d chosen his spot well. Boa Morte. Squelching back, he felt his way through the tunnel, but had to pause halfway and lean against the wall. Dizziness overwhelmed him. Would it always be like this? Choices to be made over his and other’s lives and deaths? Slow deep breathing to the depths of his lungs calmed him. The truth stared him in the face, life as a spy might have been thrust upon him, but he now had to embrace it.
João would be waiting. So, with head up, he set off, heading once again for the light.
***
Funchal, Madeira, 12 July 1967
A year earlier, a crisp confident voice had intruded on Nick’s dark morning reflections on the sunny wisteria-clad terrace of the department’s villa in São Martinho.
‘I am your dancing master.’