September 26th, 2011 | by Alan Cross
I was having breakfast in Beijing after a music conference when the email came in. It was from Tara, the person who does her damndest to get me speaking gigs.
"Be at the Royal York Hotel at 11am tomorrow. Go to the concierge and ask them to call up to the room of Bill XXXXXXXXX. He wants to have brunch."
"Er, okay. But who's Bill XXXXXXXX?"
"Oh. Wait, what?"