Not Without My Daughter Book Info

Betty laughed, a nervous, hollow sound. “Don’t be ridiculous, Moody. The flight is tomorrow.”

The flight to Tehran had been long. Mahtob had slept against her shoulder, and Betty had felt a flutter of adventure. They landed in a city that hummed with a foreign energy—the call to prayer, the scent of saffron and exhaust, the stern gaze of revolutionary guards. Moody’s family greeted them with effusive hugs and trays of sweets. His mother, a formidable woman with hennaed hair and eyes that missed nothing, kissed Betty on both cheeks. “You are home,” she said. not without my daughter book

But under the surface, Betty was building a network. She found a kindred spirit in a Turkish neighbor named Mrs. Hakimi, who slipped her a few thousand rials and whispered, “There is a man. A smuggler. He takes people to the Turkish border. It is very dangerous. Many are caught. Many are shot.” Betty laughed, a nervous, hollow sound

Ali pointed to a faint light in the distance. “That is a village. Go there. Tell them you are American. You will be safe now.” He turned and disappeared back into the darkness, back toward Iran. He had done his job. Mahtob had slept against her shoulder, and Betty

Ali counted it, sighed, and pointed to a beat-up truck. “We leave now. The border is sixty kilometers. We walk the last twenty. If the soldiers see us, run. Do not look back. If you fall, I will not carry you.”