“Do you know what this is?” asked the colonel, displaying a revolver. 
The general, in a hazy mind in a humid room, bound to a chair, for what seems to be days without food and water, said “No.”
The colonel said “It is a Carlton Arms Model 1882 revolver. A gift from a Paternian Army officer, and a symbol of all the things that made Paternia such a powerful nation. It is a weapon as brash as it is elegant. Revolutionary as it is reliable. As novel as it is versatile. Six shots of thirty-eight Paternian. Each shot, mind you, capable killing someone through the body armor we were issued. Body armor made by the caliph’s distant cousin.”
The general spat in the colonel’s face “You backstabbing rat. How much money did they pay you?”
The colonel chuckled “General Sadat, the Paternian government has given me not a single dirham for what I am doing. It is upon my own initiative, as well as all those who support me, to overthrow this obsolete caliphate with something more fitting for a modern nation-state.” 
General Sadat growled defiantly “I cannot wait to proclaim you, Colonel Bashar Said, a traitor to Islam. I cannot wait to see your execution.” 
Squatting down to bring him to his height, the colonel said “Perhaps if that is what is God’s will. But that is irrelevant now. What is relevant is the location of the Caliph.”
He spat “I will never tell you where he is now. NEVER. Not in a thousand years.” 
“So defiant,” the colonel said, “So resistant. Just like Awwam is to change.”
The general sneered “Why change something so perfect?” 
The colonel cocked his head to the side and said “That already is the fault of Awwam. It is rooted in the national spirit that we are superior to others…”
“Ahem, we are,” coughed the general. 
“Let me finish, general.” Pacing about the holding cell, he said “Of course you think of yourself as superior. Every nation does, in some way. But we digress. Awwam believes themselves to be superior because we are the people who obeys the word of God as dictated by a merchant in Mecca, and that all others are imperfect because of it. An exclusive mindset, which drives away ingenuity. But the Paternian doesn’t see it that way. The Paternian sees themselves as superior not because of their exclusiveness, but their inclusiveness.” 
“You’ve subscribed to Paternian propaganda, it seems,” sneered the General. 
“As much as you have subscribed to Awwami propaganda. But I digress.” Clearing his throat, the colonel continued. “The Paternian judges based solely on their talents and their abilities. Nothing more, nothing less. They do not care if you are a man who loves another man. They do not care if you are a man or woman. They don’t even care if you pray to Satan himself. All they care is if you can do something special, something that makes you stand out from the norm. And this is why we have the brittle plastic you call armor, and they have the Victoria tank, easily the best tank on the battlefield.” 
“What you are reading are lies. Lies spread by Paternian propaganda.” 
“I wouldn’t consider formal after-action reports ‘Paternian propaganda.’” Clearing his throat once more, he asked “So, where are the safehouses for the caliph? Your silence will be a death sentence to one of your best friends.” 
In desperation, he gave everything. Names. Addresses. Even map coordinates. The colonel smiled. “I knew you would say it.” At that moment, the door knocked and a feminine voice said “Colonel, I have information for you.” 
“Good. I’d like to check it with the information the general just confessed.” He turned to the general and said “Wait here, we will attend to you later,” before leaving the cell, the steel reinforced door firmly locked. He heard the two talk, as if they were in disagreement with something. Almost yelling. Then it all stopped, and he heard the quiet murmurs of a polite discussion. Eventually, he heard what sounded like military boots walking away. 
He was startled by the shouting and wailing from a holding cell not far from here. Those shouts were familiar to him. They were that of Colonel Tuma, a confidant and his aide-de-camp. And he flinched when he heard the gunshot. Colonel Tuma stopped shouting, but the wailing didn’t stop. He could recognize that too. It was his wife, Raachel. He then heard the sounds of the military boots on concrete march closer and closer. Eventually, they halted at the door, and he was greeted by a Colonel Said, this time with specks of blood over his khaki uniform. 
He said “I hope we have both learned something today. As a matter of fact, it is a goal of mine to learn something new every day. And today, I have learned that old dogs can be sneaky liars. And I hope you have learned that I don’t like liars.”