ROBERT LUDLUM GOES FOR ICE CREAM

If you don't read Robert Ludlum, the following will not be funny.
Actually, the chances of it being funny are pretty slim either way.
Don't say I didn't warn ya.

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The gray sedan cruised slowly through the darkened city, the glare from the headlights illuminating the rain-slick street. The driver of the car was distracted, confused, as he guided the vehicle carefully around the corners, through the night. He seemed to be searching for something -- a pattern, a plan, some link to the cipher that was his mission.
Suddenly a thought pierced his brain: ice cream! That was it! Ice cream was the key! The man gripped the steering wheel in a claw-like grip as a thousand thoughts rushed through his mind with gripping intensity. He knew, with a knowledge born of knowing, that ice cream was his purpose, the central element that put in motion the chain of events bringing him to this place.
Powerful, far-reaching decisions had been made in small, cramped rooms, rooms in which powerful decisions were made. Strategies had been developed, orders given, operations put in place, anonymously with complete deniability, the sources reaching to the highest levels of security and four-zero clearance.
Fragments of conversation came back to him, as if from a former existence. He saw in his mind the one who was his life, his everything, standing by the garbage pail in the kitchen.
"Oh my darling, my love! You are my life, my everything! Please go get some ice cream" she had said.
"I will go." he had replied, knowing the pain his leaving would cause. "But I will come back to you, my darling, my love."
Where there had been indecision before, now there was purpose, as the man in the car increased the speed of the vehicle. He gripped his Graz-Burya automatic tightly in his right hand, his left guiding the car to its destination, the parking lot of 7-11. He ran, crouching, under the hot white lights in the front of the store, then dove through the double glass doors, rolling over and over, ignoring the needles of white hot ice cold pain that burst like fire -- or possibly ice -- through his sprained wrist and shoulder.
"I hate it when that happens!" he snarled at the startled clerk, a young Black with fine features. Pointing the automatic with its silencer in place at the clerk, the man limped to the freezer and withdrew a half gallon of Maple Walnut. He threw several thousand francs on the counter and slipped through the door into the night.