threat that’s made against the President of the United States comes through this building. On 9/11, it’ s where they hid the First Lady. It has multiple armories, a joint operations center, and thousands of agents who aren’t afraid to take a bullet. But if you want to sneak into the headquarters of the United States Secret Service, like anything else in life, it all depends who you know.
“I’m Beecher White, from the National Archives,” I tell the guard. “I have an appointment with your Archivist.”
19
M arshall didn’t smell it at first. He knew it was coming, though.
Flashing a fake ID and a matching smile, he blew past the young security guard who clearly bathed in Axe body spray.
As he headed past the hospital’s gift shop, it was the whiff of Mylar balloons and fresh flowers.
Even as he followed the crisp white hallway past the visitor waiting area in George Washington University Hospital, all he could smell was the usual mix of old couches, bleach and disinfectant.
But again, he knew it was coming. Every hospital smelled of it, even if most patients didn’t know where the smell was coming from.
Sure enough, as he reached the entrance for the emergency room and its automatic doors slid wide, there it was.
Silverol.
At just a whiff of the ointment’s harsh antiseptic and metallic smell, Marshall’s throat went dry and his brain raced back to those first days in the burn unit when they’d lie to him and say that by rubbing Silverol into his red-and-yellow open flesh and the skin hanging off it, the pain would go away.
It wasn’t their only lie. When they first brought him in, Marshall’s left arm was so swollen, blood stopped flowing to his hand. A doctor appeared at his bedside with a dozen different scalpels. He told Marshall that he needed to cut into his skin so he could drain all the liquid and reduce the swelling. The catch was, since Marshall’s lungs were so damaged, they needed to do the operation in his hospital bed. No anesthetic.
“Don’t worry,” the doctor had reassured him. “All the nerves in your arm are dead. You won’t feel it.”
He was wrong.
Two male nurses held down Marshall’s arms and legs.
His nose was charred away. One of his eyes was so off-center from his fa ce, it looked melted. Out of the other, Marshall watched as the scalpel cut into his arm, starting at his shoulder, down to his wrist. Each slice looked precise, but felt like it was being done with a rake.
“ This is my death! No more! ” he screamed, the pain so raw he couldn’t breathe.
“Marshall, listen to me,” the doctor insisted. “Count from ten to one for me. That’s all. Count from ten to one, and I promise we’ll be done.”
It wasn’t much of a consolation, but at least the end was in sight.
“T-T-Ten…” Marshall began, slowly counting and screaming as the scalpel dug into his skin. “ Ahuh …n-nine…”
“There you go…” the doctor said, halfway down Marshall’s biceps.
“E-E-Eight…oh God…”
Slowly, over the next few seconds, the doctor sliced downward, finishing the last of his five incisions. Sure enough, the counting helped. The end was finally approaching.
“T-Two…” Marshall said. And the n … “Wh-Wh-One.”
At the time, Marshall’s face was burned so badly no one could tell he was trying to smile.
The doctor didn’t smile back. “Okay, Marshall,” he said, grabbing a new scalpel. He glanced at the nurses, who quickly tightened their grip. “Now to your fingers.”
Marshall screamed so loud, and the pain was so electric, he eventually passed out.
Looking back, Marshall knew the doctors and nurses were only doing their best. If he had known they’d be slicing his fingers, he’d have never made it through the first part. And as he found out later, that operation was the only thing that’d stopped them from amputating his arm.
Still, today, as Marshall took his first step into the emergency room and the metallic smell of
“I’m Beecher White, from the National Archives,” I tell the guard. “I have an appointment with your Archivist.”
19
M arshall didn’t smell it at first. He knew it was coming, though.
Flashing a fake ID and a matching smile, he blew past the young security guard who clearly bathed in Axe body spray.
As he headed past the hospital’s gift shop, it was the whiff of Mylar balloons and fresh flowers.
Even as he followed the crisp white hallway past the visitor waiting area in George Washington University Hospital, all he could smell was the usual mix of old couches, bleach and disinfectant.
But again, he knew it was coming. Every hospital smelled of it, even if most patients didn’t know where the smell was coming from.
Sure enough, as he reached the entrance for the emergency room and its automatic doors slid wide, there it was.
Silverol.
At just a whiff of the ointment’s harsh antiseptic and metallic smell, Marshall’s throat went dry and his brain raced back to those first days in the burn unit when they’d lie to him and say that by rubbing Silverol into his red-and-yellow open flesh and the skin hanging off it, the pain would go away.
It wasn’t their only lie. When they first brought him in, Marshall’s left arm was so swollen, blood stopped flowing to his hand. A doctor appeared at his bedside with a dozen different scalpels. He told Marshall that he needed to cut into his skin so he could drain all the liquid and reduce the swelling. The catch was, since Marshall’s lungs were so damaged, they needed to do the operation in his hospital bed. No anesthetic.
“Don’t worry,” the doctor had reassured him. “All the nerves in your arm are dead. You won’t feel it.”
He was wrong.
Two male nurses held down Marshall’s arms and legs.
His nose was charred away. One of his eyes was so off-center from his fa ce, it looked melted. Out of the other, Marshall watched as the scalpel cut into his arm, starting at his shoulder, down to his wrist. Each slice looked precise, but felt like it was being done with a rake.
“ This is my death! No more! ” he screamed, the pain so raw he couldn’t breathe.
“Marshall, listen to me,” the doctor insisted. “Count from ten to one for me. That’s all. Count from ten to one, and I promise we’ll be done.”
It wasn’t much of a consolation, but at least the end was in sight.
“T-T-Ten…” Marshall began, slowly counting and screaming as the scalpel dug into his skin. “ Ahuh …n-nine…”
“There you go…” the doctor said, halfway down Marshall’s biceps.
“E-E-Eight…oh God…”
Slowly, over the next few seconds, the doctor sliced downward, finishing the last of his five incisions. Sure enough, the counting helped. The end was finally approaching.
“T-Two…” Marshall said. And the n … “Wh-Wh-One.”
At the time, Marshall’s face was burned so badly no one could tell he was trying to smile.
The doctor didn’t smile back. “Okay, Marshall,” he said, grabbing a new scalpel. He glanced at the nurses, who quickly tightened their grip. “Now to your fingers.”
Marshall screamed so loud, and the pain was so electric, he eventually passed out.
Looking back, Marshall knew the doctors and nurses were only doing their best. If he had known they’d be slicing his fingers, he’d have never made it through the first part. And as he found out later, that operation was the only thing that’d stopped them from amputating his arm.
Still, today, as Marshall took his first step into the emergency room and the metallic smell of
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