Chapter 47
How do you view the role of money in life?
Baron was montarily stunned by the question—not because it was difficult, but because it felt... out of sync with the elite image Westminster projected.
(The phantom thief Jack being the lone exception.)
Imagine gearing up for an interview at Penguin Corp, your head cramd with move semantics in C , virtual function chanisms, smart-pointer implentation, and the construction limits of stack versus heap objects. Then the HR rep opens the door and asks, "What's your take on Penguin Coin's role in gaming?"
Money's role in life? What role?
In Baron's mind it was simple: the more money, the higher the standard of living. Better material conditions elevate the spirit in turn.
If one took the high-school-politics angle, money was the dium of exchange, oil for the "commodity-money-commodity" cycle, blah blah blah...
Baron suspected the question wasn't as simple as it sounded, yet Howard sipped his tea with such leisure that perhaps he'd overcomplicated it.
Then it hit him: he hadn't co to Westminster begging for a job. Why adopt the applicant's mindset?
It was like a marriage of convenience—workable if it worked, forgettable if it didn't. They weren't going to execute him if the interview went south.
Jack was right; never lose the upper hand. Gold is everything... Gold is everything.
Baron collected himself. "It can get this job without an interview."
A truism: money isn't omnipotent, but without it you're impotent.
Jack's "gold is everything" probably hinted that Westminster's culture worshipped wealth.
Howard's eyebrow arched; he exchanged a glance with Secretary Stella and saw the sa surprise reflected in her eyes.
"Mr. Constantine," Howard said, "your file says you worked as a collections agent at Sheffield Industrial Bank topside. I'd love to know how you pitched our loans to custors."
The Deputy Director straightened from his slouch and signaled Stella, who fetched a fountain pen and tossed it to Baron.
"Sell this pen—use the sa techniques you used to sell loans."
Baron caught the pen without hesitation and turned to Stella. "Miss Stella, from the mont we t I've been captivated by your beauty. Would you be so kind as to leave your number on my sleeve?"
Stella blinked, then smiled with impeccable courtesy. "I'd love to, but I haven't a pen."
Baron offered her the pen. She took it, and Baron pushed back his white cuff; she wrote her contact on the fabric.
Howard watched in silence, unruffled.
The mont Stella capped the pen and tucked it into her pocket, Baron extended his hand again. "Montblanc fountain pen—friendship price, one hundred pounds."
Howard finally smiled.
Stella shot Baron a mock-scolding look, yet drew two crisp fifty-pound notes and slipped them into his pocket.
Baron held up the notes and looked at Howard. "The trick is creating demand, Director."
"Selling the pen back to its original owner is a trick?" Stella asked, voice gentle.
Baron shook his head. "It's a gift."
Howard nodded. "Mr. Constantine, your ntal agility is rare indeed... I have no more questions. Secretary Stella will now give you two short problems—nothing critical, just to gauge your risk assessnt."
Stella?
Baron's heart skipped. He'd just resold her the pen; payback already?
The secretary sat on the adjacent sofa, crossed one leg over the other—twelve-centiter stilettos lending her a queen's edge—and flipped open her notebook.
"Question one, Mr. Constantine: How do you get an eight-hundred-kilo cow across a bridge with a seven-hundred-kilo limit?"
She glanced at her Oga. "One minute."
An eight-hundred-kilo cow on a seven-hundred-kilo bridge? A riddle?
No. If it were a riddle, the solutions would be endless—slaughter the cow and haul it pieceal, for instance.
"Twenty seconds left," Stella reminded sweetly.
Key phrase... Gold is everything... Gold is everything...
Lightning struck. Baron didn't hesitate; as Stella began the ten-second countdown he blurted, "Just walk it across!"
Stella studied him. "Why?"
The question confird Baron's hunch. "Seven hundred kilos is the safe-load floor, not the ceiling. Every industry bakes in redundancy for contingencies. If a seven-hundred-kilo bridge collapses under seven-oh-one, the designer—not the cow—takes the bla. So the bridge will carry an eight-hundred-kilo cow, even a one-ton truck, without issue."
Like pro sports teams fielding substitutes, cars carrying spares, or trains opening gates early for security.
The test was about leveraging real-world rules: rules are rigid; people aren't. Children chase perfection; adults weigh priorities.
Stella paused.
"Question two: You're a restaurant owner. A custor finds a fly in the dish you served. How do you handle it?"
No hesitation this ti.
"I'd charge him an extra pound."
Howard choked on his tea; Stella's sculpted expression cracked, every line of her face screaming incredulity, composure shattered.
Howard recovered. "Mr. Constantine, your answers are... singular. One last question to close the interview."
"What identity does Westminster People's Bank hold in your eyes?"
Howard folded his hands, suddenly solemn.
"This may determine your final score."
"Truth or lie?" Baron asked.
Howard smiled. "Your choice."
"The lie: Westminster People's Bank looks towering and majestic."
"And the truth?"
"Truth is, I'm not much to look at either."
"Mr. Constantine..." Howard's smile faded, replaced by gravity. "Interview grade: S-class."
"The honor is mine," Baron said, oblivious to Stella's dazed stare.
S-class on the interview!
Since its founding, Westminster People's Bank had seen many S-class agents, but only a handful had ever earned an S-class interview score.
Stella's mind raced. The last person to manage that had been the one and only SS-class agent.
Baron assud the interview was over and that employnt papers awaited. Instead, Howard rose and said, "Now we move to the final containnt phase."
"Containnt?"
Baron stood as Stella explained, "The most basic skill of a Westminster agent: the attraction of the mysterious determines the grade of Forbidden Objects you can ultimately contain and manage."
"This way, please."
Stella opened the office door; the staccato of her heels across marble sounded like a crisp little tune.
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