The final report recommended potentially controversial remediation of the tombs of Queen Hatshepsut and King Siptah, causing us to spend a considerable amount of time polishing our submissions so that each proposal had a clearly defined justification and cost analysis. Though the Society had agreed to foot the project costs, we did not expect a walkover and had to respond to every conceivable objection during our presentation.
I knew enough about hidden agendas to anticipate jaundiced opinions bubbling to the surface now the philosophical decision to release millions of pounds in funds had evolved into a financial D-Day scenario. I trusted my father would unleash his powers of persuasion to overcome those who wished to ride personal hobby horses rampantly across the fields we had so carefully ploughed. The meeting was much less tempestuous than expected. Dief opened the discussion with a brief overview of the steps taken to identify project tombs and discussed the implications of each before introducing Yousef who, with the aid of impressive computer graphics, showed the current state of the tombs and was able to conceptualise their appearance after re-construction.
The rescue plan for Hatshepsut’s KV20 was a technically extensive repair job on a derelict tomb and I hoped this would not create any significant explosions of outrage in the Board room. Success in restoring KV20 would create a significant addition to the tombs open to the public and, in the process, salvage what had long been written off as of very limited value. The tomb’s renaissance would garner international kudos for the Society and Council, whilst stroking a few egos in the process.
Our proposal for the restoration of Pharaoh Siptah’s tomb was radical and ran into a not unexpected degree of resistance from the Board’s traditionalists. When called upon to address the Directors, I put my case quite simply. After outlining the engineering protocol, supported by visual imagery and a geological survey, I made the unequivocal statement that the lower chambers of KV47 would ultimately collapse leading to the failure of the overhanging limestone belt with catastrophic results and the possible total loss of the tomb, unless the remediation proposal was accepted in full. Then, I went on the attack and asked if any of the Board members had a better way of avoiding this disaster, as our team could always be swayed by a well thought out alternative.
My father, sensing I had inadvertently opened the door to divisive discussion, rose to his feet. He endorsed my statements and pointed out the issue was not one of archaeological ethics but of saving an ancient monument from certain destruction. Dad was amongst those who believed you walked softly but carried a big stick. More than once, he had lectured me about the need to cover a mailed fist with a velvet glove, warning that the wearer must always be prepared to remove the glove when circumstances warranted a display of force. In top gear, my father was a formidable machine and as he said, fortunate favours the bold.
When it came to voting, there was total agreement about fitting tombs with protective devices, a surprising degree of unanimity about opening Queen Hatshepsut’s tomb to the world of extreme adventurers after its restoration and only a brief flurry of opposition about the plan to re-build the lower stages of King Siptah’s mausoleum. As expected,words like ‘fraud’, ‘fake’ and ‘lacking veracity’ passed across the table but, before serious dissension broke out, Yousef reverted to the computer images and showed the meeting what the tomb would look like if the ceilings collapsed. The simulated presentation proved to be decisive, as the graphic designer had put in a number of human figures crushed by a rock fall, which caused the Minister of Tourism to wince. He had already handled the shocked international reaction to the horrific terrorist attack at Deir el-Bahari in 1997 and the damage to his country’s reputation as a safe destination for tourists.
This was a better and faster result than we had hoped for. I knew from bitter experience that once politicians started to push their own objectives, projects bogged down for years in reports, meetings and review committees. Abdullah winked wickedly at me at the end of the meeting, so I gathered there had been some pre-meeting haggling and horse-trading.
Several months would pass before we could bring our equipment to the sites and sign up labour and contractors but I was immensely gratified by the outcome as it vindicated months of research and planning. At Cairo Airport, after I bade my father farewell with an expression of filial appreciation, I experienced the first real stirrings of excitement. Finally, we could take ourselves from the world of plans, documents and meetings and move into the realm of practical matters – steel, concrete, stone, sweat, dirt and the satisfaction that comes from seeing something develop under our hands.