The Launderer

The telephone rang, eventually.
Carl picked up. This time, the handset seemed as cold as never before.
"Who is this?", he said with feeble voice as he showed unnecessary surprise.
"I bet you know who this is, my friend - a distant voice with Russian accent said from the other side of the line - Have you got the money?"
"I...yes, ehm, yes."
"So we meet as agreed. That is good. Eleven thirty, at the station."
"O...ok", Carl replied while his interlocutor hanged up.
-----
"Ants, we are like ants", Carl thought as he observed the people swarming across the metro station entrance hall. He had commuted for years and Wednesdays always seemed to be the busiest days, and still he couldn't see a reason for that.
The black buttoned linoleum floor had spots of water here and there, which people brought inside the station from the upper wet walkways on a rainy Autumn day.
Carl looked around. He was standing beside the ticket machine in front of the newspaper stand, wearing a red sweater and denim pants, as agreed. If it wasn't for the grey stripes, the black bag containing 25,000 euros would have blended with the floor.
A few feet to his left, an old cleaning operator was trying to remove a thick layer of black, greasy dust from the tiny purple tiles of a modern-art mosaic using a single, dirty cloth. Carl followed the scene for a while, amused. He could be a Mexican, or a Brazilian. "All people with dark skins are from South America, and they don't like working hard, so they only get humble jobs". This is what his father told him.

Only at that point he noticed the yellow digits on the station's large digital wall clock marked 11.17. His counterpart was late, indeed. "Perhaps I am in the wrong place...or what?", he thought, while reviewing the agreed instructions in his mind. His head slowly swept the place from right to left one, two, three times as he endeavoured to locate someone so important to him. Is it the man in his grey business suit passing by? Mh, no. Or the skater boy who looks around over there?
Oh no, there it is. The man with the greenish coat. "Of course - Carl thought - he looks very much Caucasian, so much...Russian..."
As he approached the tall, blond man Carl couldn't but notice that his pale skin stood out the many faces of the infinite multicultural crowd spread all around them. As soon as they were close he started staring at him in search of even the slightest sign to start a much needed interaction. Nothing.
The man put the hand in his pocket, took his mobile phone out and picked up a call, apparently with his wife, speaking with a strong Southern accent and walking away. A Texan Russian? Can't be.
"Is there anything you need to get rid of, Sir?", a voice from behind said.
Carl turned around and saw the cleaning operator, who had renounced to his cleaning efforts, smiling at him. It took a second before he could realise the smile this short man had on his face was all but genuine.
"I am sorry, what is exactly that you want?", he replied lowering the tone of his voce.
"Perhaps I can help you with that bag. It seems you are eager to get rid of it, aren't you?"
"Gosh!", he said with surprise, the tone now higher in pitch and tone, "I thought you...".
"You don't need to think, Sir. Just don't shout and give me the bag. Someone will contact you."
Reluctantly, Carl handed the bag and the money to the cleaner, who slowly walked away.
"When?" he asked with a concerned attitude.
The man did not turn around or answer. As Carl observed him walking away, a small 9-grader blond girl with pig ties and a lovely pink dress ran towards him and handed him over a brown paper envelope and immediately walked away as he grabbed it.
A note on paper outside the envelope said "Thank you". Inside it, 1,000 dollars in 10-dollar bills.

All in all, accepting a wire transfer from a Russian lawyer and giving him cash money had been quite a lucrative and cost-effective effort. Only he didn't know he could earn money so quickly and easily.
As he was ready to call it a day, two man in dark suits approached him.

"Mr. Morrison?", one of them addressed Carl.
"Yes, it's me. Who are you?"
"FBI - he said waving a badge - Would you please follow me?"