Alan Turing was hunched over his desk at King's College, Cambridge, a half-finished proof sprawled across three sheets of paper.
The knock at the door startled him.
A college porter stood in the doorway, hat in hand. "Telegram for you, sir. Delivered by an embassy courier."
Turing frowned. "Embassy?"
"Yes, sir. French."
He took the envelope, the thick cream paper folded crisply.
Inside, in elegant French script translated neatly in a note below were a few sentences.
Monsieur Turing,
The President of the French Republic requests your presence in Paris for a matter of national interest. Travel arrangements will be provided. Discretion is paramount.
— Étienne Moreau, Head of State.
Turing read it twice. "Good Lord."
The porter cleared his throat. "There's a gentleman waiting downstairs. Says he'll accompany you to Dover, then across to Calais."
Turing hesitated. "What sort of matter of national interest?"
The porter shrugged. "He didn't say, sir. But he looks… official."
