I was thinking of Stanislaw Lem's Memoirs Found in a Bathtub

    ...I couldn't seem to find the right room.  None of them had 
    the number designated on my pass.  First I wound up at the 
    Department of Verification, then the Department of
    Misinformation, then some clerk from the Pressure Section advised
    me to try level eight, but on level eight they ignored me,
    and later I got stuck in a crowd of military personnel -- the 
    corridors rang with their vigorous marching back and forth,
    the slamming of doors, the clicking of heels

Indeed, hard to believe it's not fiction. Sounds like Kafka meets Brazil, lacking only a fly, cockroach, and guerrilla HVAC repair.

Or a soviet version of Passport to Pimlico.