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Now he was pumped for information which his vestigial loyalty to the service forbade him to speak of, as well as for solutions to mysteries that he knew nothing about. ("Who killed Robert Maxwell?" Rupert Murdoch asked him, suddenly, when they lunched together.) And the public presumed he was at a loss when the cold war ended, with his great preoccupying subject gone. On the contrary, its end delighted him. And history was far from over. The players changed, the game went on. He had focused on the cold war from the 1960s because it was the overriding drama of the age. Others quickly succeeded it: the arms trade ("The Night Manager"), the war on terror ("Absolute Friends"), Big Pharma's misdeeds in Africa ("The Constant Gardener"). Trump's America and Johnson's Britain,
现在他被追问的消息，是他对情报残存的忠诚所禁止他谈论的，以及解决他一无所知的谜团。（“谁杀了罗伯特·麦克斯韦？”鲁珀特·默多克突然问他，他们一起吃午饭的时候。）当冷战结束时，公众都认为他不知所措，而他那令人费解的话题也消失了。相反，它的结局使他高兴。历史远未结束。队员们变了，比赛继续进行。他从20世纪60年代开始关注冷战，因为冷战是这个时代最重要的戏剧。其他人很快就成功了：武器贸易（“夜间经理”）、反恐战争（“绝对的朋友”），大型制药公司在非洲的不当行为（“持续的园丁”）。特朗普的美国和约翰逊的英国，
with their spoon-fed media and nationalistic duping of the public, appalled him equally. Each deserved excoriation in a book in which the characters acted out a global argument, just as the closed society of spies had been, for him, a theatre of the world. So there could be no end to writing, and that, on this gradually clearing morning, was his purpose on the Heath. Notebooks weighed down his pockets; no laptop for him, but the unmechanised thrill of shaping the words with his pen. He had other scribbling places, particularly his seaside house at St Buryan in Cornwall, where no one knew who he was. North London was more difficult, as joggers panted past and trains rattled distantly on the Overground.
他们用勺子喂媒体和民族主义欺骗公众，同样令他震惊。在一本书中，每个人都应该受到谴责，书中的人物表现出全球性的争论，就像封闭的间谍社会对他来说是一个世界剧院一样。因此，在这个逐渐明朗的早晨，写作是没有止境的，这就是他在荒原上的目的。笔记本压在他的口袋里；他没有笔记本电脑，只有用笔塑造文字的那种不假思索的兴奋。他还有其他涂鸦的地方，特别是他在康沃尔郡圣布里安的海边房子，没人知道他是谁。北伦敦则更为困难，慢跑者气喘吁吁地跑过去，火车在远处地上嘎嘎作响。
He was making for a particular bench that stood separate from its companions, tucked under a spreading tree. There he worked away. And it seemed to him from time to time, when he looked up, that a figure observed him. Balding, plump, quite unlike him physically, but with the same tendency to want to hide, and the same occasional sharp pain from seeing too much. Even at a distance he could spot him, from the way he thoughtfully cleaned his glasses with the fat end of his tie. A large part of himself, too, had gone to make up Smiley. He was now walking towards him, his lenses gleaming like mirrors.
他要找一条特别的长凳，它和同伴分开站着，藏在一棵蔓延的树下。他在那里工作。在他看来，每当他抬起头，一个人影看见了他。秃顶，丰满，和他身体上很不一样，但也有想躲起来的倾向，偶尔也会因为看得太多而感到剧痛。即使在远处他也能认出他，从他若有所思地用领带那头擦眼镜的样子看。他自己也有很大一部分是去编笑脸的。他正朝他走来，他的镜片像镜子一样闪闪发光。
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