The Silk Road Score

Book summary

Grace embarks on a thrilling overland journey along the Middle East’s hippie trail, unaware of the fact that her boyfriend, Simon, has a priceless, stolen relic hidden in their Volkswagen camper. Convoying with an eclectic bunch of free spirits, including a British undercover Interpol officer, the group moves through ancient civilizations, encountering unique societies and experiences while at the same time discovering each other. But what starts as an innocuous, innocent adventure quickly transforms into closely guarded secrets, deceit, and murder.

Excerpt from The Silk Road Score

It was just another scorching hot day in the Valley of the Sun. Although it was springtime in the city of Phoenix, heat-wave temperatures mirrored the deserts of Namibia with bone-dry torrents of occasional blinding sandstorms. But a flurry of swimming pools and golf courses popping up around the city contributed to gradual rising humidity levels. Although I was born and raised in Phoenix, I was anything but a fan of the growing metropolis that had been my family’s home for generations.

I danced around my obstruent mother, scrambling to pack my gear for my next overseas adventure. The small, mint-green guest room in my family’s home was cluttered and cramped, mostly with my old stuffed animals and boxes of adolescent memories. Thanks to relentless nostalgia, I had temporarily spared the overflowing cartons of useless items from being chucked into the trash. I just wasn’t quite ready to let go of the crap. Nevertheless, in the interim, I turned the confined space into my crash pad while working as a substitute teacher to save every penny I could earn.

Between my teeth, I held a checklist, which had grown considerably over the prior two weeks. In my right hand, I dragged my rapidly expanding backpack to the bed, and cradled in my left arm was a heap of neatly folded clothing to be carefully placed into the backpack, like a mother guiding her infant into a crib. I had become meticulously accustomed to packing only the essentials, items that were necessary but lightweight and easy to wash out in a pinch. I had been home from Africa for less than a year but was more than ready to embark on my next overland conquest. Although living at home during this period was not ideal by any means, taking advantage of my parents’ accommodations put me in a better position monetarily so I could extend my travels. As a teacher, my income wasn’t exactly great. But being a transitory tightwad, I had managed to rack up exactly 2,900 dollars in travelers’ checks and 200 in cold cash for a total of 3,100 dollars, a small fortune.

“But, Grace, are you sure you want to do this? Can’t you just backpack through Europe like everyone else? It would be so much safer. You haven’t even been back from Africa for a year, and now you want to go gallivanting through the Middle East? You know the Turks and the Greeks still haven’t settled things—there’s going to be more fighting in Cyprus. What if you get in the middle of something serious—and not to mention the Indo-Pakistani war?”

I lovingly chuckled and shook my head, trying not to mock my mother’s lack of understanding. Smiling, I stopped packing and tied my long, dark hair in a ponytail with a band I kept around my wrist.

“Mom, come on. I’m not going to be getting in the middle of any fighting in Cyprus. Besides, we’re not even going there. We’re going into Turkey from mainland Greece. And there is no Indo-Pakistani war; it ended a few years ago. They signed the Simla Agreement in ‘71 or ‘72… remember? It’s peaceful there now. Stop worrying. You know I’ll be fine. Simon and I have been planning this all year. It’s the only way to really experience other cultures. It’s exciting. Besides, traveling through third-world countries always makes me appreciate you and what I have right here in the good ol’ U.S. of A.”

No matter how hard I tried, I could never convince my sweet, wonderful mother there was no cause to worry about me. On the other hand, my father, a retired army man with extensive deployments and travel under his belt, completely understood my desire to experience what the world had, or didn’t have, to offer. In fact, he was a little envious of my wanderlust. I knew, if invited, Dad would jump at the chance to join me.

I suppose I considered myself an experienced trekker of the ‘70s, a globetrotter through and through. But truth be told, I owed a great deal of my travel expertise and confidence to Simon Harrison, my temporary significant other of British descent. I became intimately acquainted with Simon during a Trans-African expedition from London to Johannesburg, South Africa. Tall, strong, and ruggedly handsome, Simon had lovely blue eyes, thick lashes, and shaggy sandy-blonde hair that was forever falling into those beautiful blue eyes, which drove me mad, but in a good way. He was born and raised in York, England, and although he had but a high school education, Simon was intelligent, street-smart, and witty. When I asked if he’d ever considered pursuing a college degree, he laughed and said it was a waste of time. When all was said and done, I really didn’t care. After all, even though being with him was entertaining and at times, thrilling, Simon wasn’t the kind of guy I wanted for the long haul.

I suppose you could say that I found Simon and his accent quite attractive, and it certainly didn’t hurt that he was blessed with the same surname as one of the Beatles, but not my favorite. Otherwise, he would have been born Simon McCartney. I was having the time of my life, and although it was apparent the liaison could never lead to wedding vows—Simple Simon was just too crazy and a bit of a boozer. I found him to be an experienced and savvy travel mate, and I wasn’t quite ready to give up the open road adventures. Having found my calling, Africa conquered, it was time for the Middle East. Many people, young and old, were doing it, but this trip definitely was not something I wanted to attempt on my own. Perhaps if I was of the male gender, it would be safe enough, but since that wasn’t the case, Simon would be the perfect companion for the trek.

Simon, a driver for a popular London-based travel company, Hegira Overland, had been the assigned courier and guide for the African trip I had booked nearly two years before. What began as casual sparring with each other—and flirtatious wrangling back and forth during the second week of the expedition—quickly blossomed into a steamy romance somewhere between Fes, Morocco, and Jo Jo’s Café in the Hoggar region of Algeria. There was nothing like a gazillion twinkling stars glittering above on a dark desert night in the Sahara to ignite those passions already bursting at the seams like an overstuffed sofa. And I needed someone like Simon if I was going to master the hippie trail, from Europe to India and possibly Nepal. It was one of Hegira Overland’s popular routes. Still, we decided to do this independently, not with a group of eighteen grubby, dusty travelers packed into the back of an old Bedford army truck rigged for long-distance, rough terrain adventures. Not sure when I’d return to the States, I bought a one-way ticket to London.

Checking off items on my list, it was imperative not to short-change myself of vital gear and clothing. But it was all just stuff, stuff that could easily be replaced. “Socks—I should take extra socks. I’ll wear my hiking boots on the plane since they’re too bulky to pack.” Flipping through the pages of my International Health Record and Passport, I continued the inventory. “And shots, I’m up to date on everything: typhoid, yellow fever, cholera, smallpox, what else? Oh, right, tetanus.”

My mother sighed as she watched me pack. She looked as though she had been swallowed up in an ocean of concern and worry. Her eyes were sad, and I could imagine what she was thinking. Although raising me wasn’t exactly the easiest job, she should have been delighted that her misfit had converted from a reckless, school-ditching, drug-seeking juvenile into a somewhat responsible adult with a college degree and decent profession. Surely, she didn’t need to be reminded of those troublesome days when she was truly justified in being a mom who constantly worried… but not now.

I understood that I wasn’t exactly a model child, one you would admire on television shows such as The Adventures of Ozzie & Harriet or Father Knows Best. Sure, those kids got into trouble occasionally, but never like her Grace. I took trouble to a whole new level. My poor family. How did they ever put up with me? As soon as I hit my teen years, being around my family became unbearable. And God forbid should anyone try to tell me what to do or not to do. I was consumed in my own little world of knowledge, all contained and tucked up there in my stubborn, confused brain.

Over the next few years, I drove my family absolutely nuts. I knew everything about everything; no one could tell me a goddamn thing. Calling myself a flower child of the ‘60s, I dressed in my cute little flower-child ensemble, braving the sizzling Phoenix asphalt in bare feet—you could fry an egg on it during the summer months.

But I was really just a naïve kid, no different from all of my naïve little hippie friends who enjoyed the same things as me: drugs, rock and roll, and sex, usually in that order. And sneaking around was my specialty, my greatest accomplishment. My friends Barbara, Nicky, and I would tell our folks we wanted to see a movie. Once we were dropped off at the theater and the coast was clear, we would hitchhike to a party or to the local love-in at Encanto Park, where the hippies would congregate every Sunday afternoon to listen to music, share the love, and smoke pot. Of course, all of our parents knew about the love-ins, and we were strictly forbidden from attending the appalling gatherings of shaggy-haired, pot-smoking troublemakers.

I got away with my shenanigans more times than I could count, but from time to time, a slip-up would result in my being grounded and restricted to my room. One such occasion occurred when I was spotted hitchhiking down Camelback Road by my cousin, who was a cop of all things—very bad timing indeed. That little escapade certainly didn’t go over well.

Another time, after Dad dropped my friend Nicky and me at the ice skating rink, for some reason, he decided to pick us up early. Call it a gut feeling, a father’s intuition, or perhaps he just wanted to spy on us. Well, when there was no Grace or Nicky to be found at the crowded skating rink, there was no doubt in Dad’s mind that we were at Encanto Park.

Dad, Irish temper flaring and pedal to the metal, high-tailed it to Encanto Park in Betsy, the old family Plymouth station wagon. That car alone was an embarrassment, but when he showed up at the love-in, red-faced and very out of place, I was outraged. My life was ruined forever!