by Adam LeBor
Panic picked a cabinet of pro-western, reform-minded ministers for his new Yugoslav government, although Milosevic ensured that a few of his loyalists were also appointed. The Yugoslav minister of justice was Tibor Varady, an ethnic Hungarian from Novi Sad who had studied law at Belgrade University with Milosevic. He recalled: ‘At some point Milosevic felt that the threats of western military intervention, of bombing Serbian positions around Sarajevo, were becoming serious. So he needed to pull a rabbit out of his hat, and offer a gesture to the world.’7
The new Yugoslav Prime Minister was not willing to be a front-man for ethnic cleansing. In his inaugural speech to the Yugoslav assembly in July 1992 Panic called for the recognition of Croatia and Bosnia, the lifting of sanctions against Yugoslavia and the withdrawal of all Yugoslav military units, including paramilitaries, from Bosnia. He said he would order Serb leaders in Bosnia to close the concentration camps.
Panic’s plan was to offer the West the removal of Milosevic, in exchange for sanctions being lifted. It seemed a simple enough quid pro quo. Panic saw this as essentially a business deal between two partners who both had something to trade. But he was not as well connected in Washington as either he or Milosevic thought. James Baker, US Secretary of State, was not disposed to get involved in what he thought was a European problem. President George Bush, facing an election campaign, was not very interested. The word in Washington was the United States ‘did not have a dog in this fight’. Sanctions were anyway a matter for the United Nations, not the United States. And the Brahmins of the State Department regarded Panic as a wild card. He was neither a professional diplomat nor a politician, but someone out of their control.
Panic was certainly out of Milosevic’s control. In July he flew to besieged Sarajevo to meet with Bosnian President Alija Izetbegovic. There he condemned ‘cheap politicians who have played on nationalism and created a civil war’, a clear shot at Milosevic. He went to Pristina and met with Kosovo Albanian leader Ibrahim Rugova, and called for human rights for ethnic Albanians. He also sacked Mihalj Kertes from his post as deputy Yugoslav interior minister. Kertes was working for the Serbian secret service, and his involvement in Milosevic’s dirty tricks dated back to 1988 when he had bussed demonstrators into Novi Sad to throw rocks and yoghurt. He had also played a role in distributing weapons to the Serb rebels in both Croatia and Bosnia.
Panic and Milosevic were soon running competing governments. Milosevic controlled the Serbian government, the Serbian parliament and the Yugoslav parliament – now composed solely of MPs from Serbia and Montenegro. But he did not control the Yugoslav government, whose ministers increasingly existed in a curious constitutional limbo. Tibor Varady observed: ‘This was an odd structure as the Yugoslav government was clearly European and western-minded. So as minister of justice I was writing laws according to my own taste, but none had the slightest chance of getting passed in the Yugoslav parliament, and none ever did.’ The Serbian secret service, under the control of the Serbian interior ministry, even tapped the telephones and monitored the movement of Panic and his ministers. If the Yugoslav minister of justice wanted to talk to the Yugoslav prime minister, both had to leave their offices, in case they were bugged. As Varady noted: ‘This was not a position of power.’
Even so, for Milosevic, the Panic experiment was turning into a nightmare. It was true that Panic spoke English with a heavy accent, mangled his Serbo-Croat and sometimes seemed eccentric. He could be a loose cannon, but he was also a shrewd businessman, with an instinct for the practicalities of a deal. His multi-million dollar international pharmaceutical empire was proof of that. The man was irrepressible. He cut through the complications of diplomacy, history and politics that had befuddled the Balkans for so long. Panic was revitalising the previously dormant Yugoslav government and turning it into a counterweight to Serbia. Milosevic realised that he had spawned a monster.
At the end of August 1992 the international community made another in its series of failed attempts to bring peace to Yugoslavia. Panic, Milosevic and other representatives of the Yugoslav and Serbian governments headed for the London Conference on Yugoslavia. The conference was supposed to stop the Serb onslaught on Bosnia, reverse ethnic cleansing and bring about a solution to the Yugoslav crisis. The plan was to caution Milosevic, who would then stop the war and return home chastened and reasonable. Milosevic, of course, had other ideas.
Europe’s attempts to stop the fighting so far had been a dismal failure. When the Yugoslav conflict had first broken out in the summer of 1991 Jacques Poos, the foreign minister of Luxembourg, had foolishly declared that ‘the hour of Europe has dawned’,8 meaning the new united continent would be able to sort out the challenge of disintegrating Yugoslavia. But there was no new dawn, only a descent into a long, dark night. The August 1992 London conference followed attempts the previous October by the former British foreign secretary, Lord Carrington, to broker a peace deal in negotiations at The Hague, under the auspices of the European Community (not yet then transformed into the European Union). It was a measure of the EC’s lackadaisical approach at the time that Lord Carrington remained as chairman of Christie’s, the London auction house, while trying to bring peace to Yugoslavia.
Nonetheless, the Carrington Plan could have provided the basis for a peaceful settlement. It made major concessions to the Serb minorities in both Croatia and Bosnia, granting them administrative autonomy, their own education system, their own parliament, police force and judiciary; in short, a virtual state within a state. Milosevic rejected it, probably because the Carrington Plan would apply all through Yugoslavia, so the same rights would have to be granted to the Albanians in Kosovo. This was unthinkable. The only surprise was that Momir Bulatovic, the Montenegrin president, broke ranks and voted to accept the Carrington Plan, tempted by the promise of an aid development programme for Montenegro worth millions of dollars. A campaign of intimidation, and a barrage of media accusations that Bulatovic was a traitor, quickly ensured that he backed down.9
Supremely arrogant at this time, Milosevic even turned down a proposal from his old colleague, Mihailo Crnobrnja, then Yugoslav ambassador to the EC, that he grant an interview to the Wall Street Journal Europe. At this time Serbia was being pilloried in the international press for its onslaught on Croatia. Crnobrnja recalled: ‘I told him, so far everybody is antagonised by the Serbs, what better forum could there be to explain the Serbian and his position? He said, “I don’t give a damn, the truth will prevail.” He felt so superior he did not feel the need to explain himself.’10 Crnobrnja was not willing to represent the third, Federal Yugoslavia, and in May 1992 he resigned his post as ambassador.
On the plane to London Milosevic was pleasant enough to Tibor Varady, even though he was one of Panic’s ministers. A bout of turbulence had forced Varady to take the nearest available seat as they descended to land. It was next to Milosevic. There was a long embarrassed silence, at first, recalled Varady. ‘There was obviously a difference between us and neither of us wanted to address it.’
Milosevic was rude when he wanted, but he could also turn on the charm. There was no point arguing with Varady about politics or the Yugoslav-Serbian rift, especially on an airplane full of eavesdropping journalists. ‘Tibor,’ he enquired, ‘Whatever happened to Edit?’
Summoning up Edit was Milosevic’s exit strategy from a potentially embarrassing encounter. Milosevic gave orders to generals, carved up neighbouring countries, negotiated with world leaders. But sticky social situations were another matter. And strapped in for a bumpy descent, there was nowhere else for him to go. ‘I was thinking hard what to say, and he probably was too,’ recalled Varady. ‘Milosevic spoke like it was only yesterday that we had been drinking coffee together, although we never did. Edit was the only other Hungarian in our law class at Belgrade University, so mentioning her was a gesture.’
Varady had little news of Edit, but did know that she was working in Belgrade. Milosevic thought for a while: ‘Edit was a very good s
tudent, very talented.’ He paused. What else was there to say? ‘She would probably be a good mother as well,’ he threw in for good measure. Milosevic then asked some more questions, but Varady did not know the answers.
Varady recalled the bizarre moment: ‘We were both afraid to leave Edit as a topic. But neither of us had any interest in poor Edit, and we ran out of information.’ Silence, and the prospect of the upcoming conference on Bosnia loomed before them.
But Milosevic could always think on his feet. He had a brainwave. The past conditional came to the rescue. He asked Varady, if Edit had stayed at law school as a professor, what subject would she have chosen? Varady recalled: ‘Since we no longer had a foothold on reality, we moved to the hypothetical. I said I thought civil law. He said I might be right, but she could have been very good at legal history as well. So we talked about Edit until we got to London.’11
At the London conference Milosevic for the first time experienced the kind of public humiliation that he used at the 1987 Eighth Session to destroy the career of Ivan Stambolic. When Milosevic asked to speak, Panic handed him a piece of paper. He had written on it, ‘Shut up’.12 In case any of the diplomats watching were wondering what was happening, Panic then told the conference that Milosevic was not authorised to speak
Panic argued strongly – and correctly – that Yugoslavia was the internationally recognised state, not Serbia. Serbia was merely a constituent republic of Yugoslavia. As Panic was the head of the Yugoslav government, he, not Milosevic, should speak for the country. Milosevic was stunned. Ever since his university days, he had been a master at making and breaking protégés and alliances, forming and dissolving factions, using intimidation, force and public humiliation to advance his interests. Now he was on the receiving end, in front of all the world’s statesmen, diplomats and media. This was a declaration of war by Panic.
The London conference followed the usual pattern of international diplomacy in dealing with Milosevic at this time. Self-congratulatory communiqués and press releases were issued. The closing declaration called for the closure of the concentration camps; rejected ethnic cleansing as ‘inhuman and illegal’; called for more peace talks in Geneva; demanded that international treaties be respected, and called for the despatch of human rights observers to Kosovo and Voivodina. The most serious threat was of ‘stringent sanctions’ that would lead to ‘total international isolation’. In addition, the UN announced that peacekeeping troops would be despatched to Bosnia. Crucially, even though the pictures of the horrors of the Bosnian Serb concentration camp at Omarska had been broadcast around the world, there was no mention of the use of force against the Bosnian Serbs.
Milosevic took little notice of these demands, except perhaps a clause about a proposal for a war crimes tribunal. Back in Belgrade he acted swiftly against Panic. Late one Saturday night in October Mihalj Kertes, the Serbian secret service agent inside the Yugoslav interior ministry whom Panic had sacked, took his revenge. Masked and armed Serbian police commandos took over the Yugoslav interior ministry while Panic and Dobrica Cosic were in Geneva. The building was sealed off, and its files were systematically boxed up and removed to the headquarters of the Serbian secret police. Milosevic had gambled that Panic would not order the Yugoslav army to retake the building for fear of sparking civil war. He was correct. It is likely that Panic could have mobilised disaffected elements of the Yugoslav security services to retake the building, but he chose not to do so. Panic was seriously weakened by this episode.
Earlier that year, under pressure from the opposition and the student protesters, Milosevic had agreed to call elections in Serbia. Many believed that Dobrica Cosic would stand and beat Milosevic. The date was set for 20 December. The handful of Milosevic loyalists in Panic’s Yugoslav government resigned. Panic was smeared as an agent of foreign powers. The great Serb patriot Dobrica Cosic prevaricated. He then announced that he would not run against Milosevic.
Panic announced he would stand against Milosevic for Serbian president. Little Lenin went to work, using every trick in the Communist book. Immediately, a stream of pseudo-legal and constitutional difficulties were conjured up to obstruct Panic’s campaign. The Serbian Electoral Commission announced that Panic could not run because he had not been resident in Serbia for a year. When opposition parties threatened to boycott the poll the Constitutional Court eventually overruled the requirement, which had anyway only been introduced the previous month. There was even talk of death threats.
Belgrade Television was an open propaganda weapon for Milosevic. Panic was not even allowed paid advertisements. He was smeared by implication as an American agent. Even the weather forecast was press-ganged into service, said Tibor Varady. ‘It went like this: “Tomorrow we are expecting snow flurries around Belgrade. Now dear viewers we would like to tell you how the weather will be in Knin, where our Serb brothers are suffering under Croatian fascism. But since our prime minister Mr Panic wants to recognise Croatia and does not care about our Serbian brethren we cannot tell you how the weather is there.”’
Milosevic’s propaganda attacks could not prevent Panic from receiving a warm welcome all over the country. Over 100,000 people attended his last election rally in Belgrade. However Milosevic’s gerrymandering of the electoral rolls and other tricks such as closing the borders, and issuing students (many of whom were strong Panic supporters) with their grant cheques on polling day, thus preventing them from travelling home to vote, helped ensure that he won.
Milosevic took 56 per cent of the vote and Panic 34 per cent. Despite his unpredictable ways, the sun-tanned Californian Serb had brought hope to a country made grey and miserable by war and economic sanctions. The tightening of sanctions did not help Panic. On 17 November a naval blockade of the Danube and the Adriatic was introduced. Many Serbs felt that if the country was going to be punished anyway, then they would stick with Milosevic. None the less, had the election been honest, it is quite possible that Panic could have stopped Milosevic getting the 50 per cent of votes needed to win outright in the first round. ‘If there had been a run-off and a second round, Panic would have won, because Milosevic’s myth of invincibility would have been broken,’ said Tibor Varady.
Panic had fought well but he lacked proper backing from the West to defeat a leader who had hijacked the whole country’s media and political infrastructure. Milosevic did not like being crossed. He took his final revenge when Panic eventually left Yugoslavia in January 1993. He was held at the border for five hours before being allowed to cross into Hungary, even though he was still technically the head of the Yugoslav government. Dobrica Cosic was removed from office in June. There would be no more experiments with ‘rich American imperialist’ front-men for the Milosevic regime.
17
Meanwhile, on the
Home Front
Hijacking the Yugoslav Economy
1992–3
You cannot achieve anything in Serbia through honest business or fair work. People cannot live normally on a salary of DM100 a month. Better to have everything than nothing.
Belgrade gangster.1
Ljubica Markovic was having trouble at the Belgrade post office. After a long illness, her father Moma Markovic had passed away, and she wanted to send a telegram to Mira. She wrote out, ‘Father has died’, and addressed it to Dr Mirjana Markovic. But the clerk would not accept the telegram. He demanded: ‘What is this text, is it a provocation?’ Ljubica recalled: ‘I said, “How can you ask me such a thing, this is a personal message.”’2
Eventually the telegram was sent. Ljubica Markovic had thought carefully before contacting her half-sister. It was August 1992, and Mira had not seen her father since they had quarrelled about Milosevic’s policies in 1989. Moma had told Ljubica, she said, that he did not wish Mira to attend his funeral. But Ljubica decided he did not really mean it. ‘I thought about what to do, because informing her about his death was against my father’s will. But somehow I felt, he would have agreed anyway. She was his daught
er too, and I thought that was the right thing to do.’ Later that afternoon Milosevic telephoned to confirm that he and Mira would attend the funeral. ‘It was the first time we had heard his voice for years. My father asked to be buried without ceremony, as it was the middle of the war,’ said Ljubica. ‘They came very late, they stayed ten minutes with their bodyguards, and then they left. They did not say a word to anyone.’ Ljubica noticed that her sister’s dress sense had changed. ‘She used to dress in a modest manner, and now she was wearing expensive clothes. She had snakeskin shoes.’
By 1992 any boots, let alone snakeskin ones, were out of reach of most Serbs. In June inflation topped 100 per cent per month. But Milosevic ensured that he and his family were living in comfort. The previous year, he had signed a contract of purchase for number 33 Tolstoyeva Street, a three-storey house that was more than three and a half times the size of the family’s previous home: the modest flat on 14 December Street in downtown Belgrade.
In fact the Milosevic family had already lived in the house for three years or so, since the defeat of Ivan Stambolic at the 1987 Eighth Session. That had been a turning point, not just for Serbian politics, but also for Milosevic’s status and prestige. 33 Tolstoyeva Street had been renovated, redecorated, and kitted out with the latest security equipment. The villa was located in the smartest part of Belgrade, a plush and exclusive suburb known as Dedinje, surrounded by woods and parkland. Tito had lived in Dedinje, as did the nationalist writer Dobrica Cosic, and Arkan, the paramilitary leader. The outbreak of the Croatian war spurred Milosevic to formalise his ownership. The price was 7.3 million dinars (£197,000), and a monthly repayment of 15,977 dinars (£430).3