Labour Tribunal

Downstairs, the cellar still contains thousands of files on steel shelves. The floor plan is circular; I lose my way. In the dim neon light it looks like a prison. An iron gate leads to a corridor lined with safes. It's quiet here, until I hear the dog barking through the ventilation shafts. The guard in charge of this building is training his dog: there's shouting and the sound of a stick hitting a plank, the dog goes crazy and barks angrily. The distorted noise echoes through the shaft into the cellar. Behind me a neon light flickers and then goes out. Just for a moment I feel the fear of the spy who's been caught and hears his colleague groaning, knowing it'll be his turn next.

I count myself lucky that I'm here by invitation and that soon I'll be having coffee with the security guard, as his dog, tail wagging, rests his head on my leg.