To End a War

by Richard Holbrooke

  When we returned to Zagreb early the next morning, October 1, Tudjman lashed out against Shattuck’s criticisms of his government. “This is not correct behavior between nations who are partners and friends,” he said bitterly. I replied simply that Shattuck had an obligation to tell the story the way he saw it, and we would not muzzle him. Besides, Serbs who had lived for generations in the Krajina and western Bosnia should be allowed to remain in their homes in peace.

  With pressure for a cease-fire building, we urged Tudjman to do as much as possible militarily “in the next week or so.” Again we focused on three key towns in the west: Sanski Most, Prijedor, and Bosanski Novi. This might be the Federation’s last chance to capture them before we started negotiating. I urged joint operations with the Bosnians. “The Bosnians can’t take territory on their own,” Tudjman said, as he so often did. He was right, of course, but part of the reason for this was that throughout the war the Croatians had denied the Bosnians access to heavy artillery.

  Tudjman also wanted the conference to be held in the United States. At least there was one issue on which all three Presidents seemed to agree. But would Washington agree to an American site?

  Sofia Side Trip. We were moving toward a cease-fire for which we were not prepared, and a peace conference whose location and structure were still undecided. Hoping to slow down the process, we decided to take a long-delayed side trip on October 1 to Bulgaria, a neglected part of the region. I had promised the Bulgarian Prime Minister during a meeting in New York a week earlier that we would visit his isolated nation to show that we recognized and appreciated the cost of its support for the embargo against Serbia.

  The visit excited the Bulgarians. Finally someone from Washington was paying attention to them. Because we ran late in Zagreb, our meeting in Sofia with President Zhelyu Zhelev did not start until after 8:30 in the evening. Finally, at 10:00 P.M., he gave an enormous dinner in our honor, with leaders of about twenty political parties. When we expressed astonishment at the number of parties represented, Zhelev, a former dissident, said that these were only the leading factions, out of a total of over two hundred parties.

  The dinner ended about midnight. We returned to our Stalin-era VIP hotel, now a Sheraton, for a surprise birthday party for my overworked assistant, Rosemarie Pauli, arranged by her fellow travelers and Bill Montgomery, our Ambassador in Sofia. Although we were exhausted, as usual, it was good to be away from the intensity of the three Balkan capitals and Washington.

  The October 2 Cable. It was after 1:00 A.M. when I settled into my room, a huge, ill-designed suite, to call Strobe Talbott. I told him that with the Bosnian Serb military in the west stiffening, the front lines seemed to be less fluid. If the offensive ran out of gas, it would be time for a cease-fire. But, I told Strobe, we could not announce a cease-fire without announcing the location of the peace conference at the same time.

  This linkage was not self-evident, Strobe said. Could we separate the three issues—cease-fire, peace conference, and location? I told him that we would then find ourselves in contentious and time-wasting negotiations within the Contact Group. We had to bypass this step with a package announcement. Strobe said that Washington was still opposed to holding the talks in the United States. If they failed, the costs would be too high for the Administration. “It’s about nine to one against you,” Strobe said dryly, “and I’m afraid right now I’m one of the nine.” He said that Lake was still the only person in the senior team supporting an American venue. A White House meeting was scheduled for the next day to make a recommendation to the President. “Strobe,” I said, “let me make our case by phone.”

  “Look,” he replied, “I don’t think it makes sense for you to participate by phone; as a practical matter, it won’t work well, and you won’t be at your best in that format. But I have a suggestion: send us a careful, reasoned telegram stating your case. I will ensure it gets a fair hearing at the meeting.” The suggestion was characteristic of Strobe: generous and fair-minded. He believed in settling tough issues openly, and he was willing to encourage a message whose content he did not support—in contrast to many officials who made deviousness, even with close colleagues, a way of life and rationalized such behavior as “necessary to get the job done.”

  So I sat down in the high-ceilinged sitting room to draft the cable. For the rest of the night, I wrote and rewrote, calling Donilon at 4:15 A.M. and Kornblum thirty minutes later to get a better understanding of the arguments against our position. When we boarded the plane early in the morning, I asked my colleagues to review my draft and took a much-needed nap.

  By the time we landed in Sarajevo on the morning of October 2, we had distilled a sharp, focused, and unanimous message from my draft. This message would be our best shot at an issue we felt was absolutely critical. Unfortunately, because of concern about protecting the President’s deliberative process, the White House would not permit direct quotation in this book from the message we sent that morning—a message that Strobe later called “the most effective cable sent so far in this Administration in terms of changing people’s minds.”

  In our message we argued that we had already invested so much national prestige in the effort that our priority had to be to maximize success, rather than to reduce the cost of failure. A meeting site in the United States would give us physical and psychological control of the process; any other site would reduce our leverage dramatically. To those who claimed that failure on American soil would be more costly politically—the case most frequently advanced against us—we argued that the Administration’s prestige was already fully on the line in the eyes both of the American public and of the world, and that failure would be no more costly in New Jersey than in New Caledonia. Failure, although quite possible, was not something we could worry about now.

  The American peace initiative, which had already brought a lifting of the siege of Sarajevo and other benefits, had been a powerful signal that, as de Charette had said in New York, “America is back.” The choice of venue would be the key indicator of how serious and committed we were. We ended by predicting that the Europeans would complain about an American site, but that they would respect our wishes and come along, and that—contrary to fears being expressed in Washington—it would not have an effect on the fundamental relationships we had with the Europeans and Russia.

  A few hours later, Lake called Kerrick to report that while the White House meeting had “moved the ball forward,” it had been ultimately inconclusive. Some officials still worried that a U.S.-based conference might somehow draw in the President against his will. But there was also good news: on the basis of the telegram and a talk with Bob Owen, Christopher had decided to support an American venue. So did Perry. Tony ended the phone call by asking Don to gather more arguments in favor of our position before the next meeting.

  Meanwhile, on the Front. The best time to hit a serve is when the ball is suspended in the air, neither rising nor falling. We felt this equilibrium had arrived, or was about to, on the battlefield. On the trip from Sofia to Sarajevo, after an intense discussion, we decided to shift from “exploration” of a ceasefire to its advocacy. We feared that the Croat-Muslim offensive would soon run out of steam. General Mladic was highly visible again and trying to rally his forces. And we were concerned by the growing friction between Zagreb and Sarajevo, which had caused Zagreb to halt its advance and threatened what had already been achieved. John Pomfret reflected our concern in The Washington Post on October 3, reporting that “Croatian forces [have] stopped fighting, allowing the Serbs to concentrate their formidable firepower on the Bosnian army.”

  When we met Izetbegovic on October 2, he was buoyed by encouraging reports from his generals, and was even more resistant to a cease-fire than he had been three days earlier. The Croatians remained ambivalent, even unenthusiastic, about continued fighting, which they felt would gain ground only for the ungrateful and uncooperative Bosnians. Galbraith, Clark, and I continued to urge S
usak to take as much territory as he could, especially Sanski Most and Prijedor.

  October 3 ended with the astonishing news that President Kiro Gligorov of Macedonia had barely survived an assassination attempt in Skopje; he was in intensive care after hours of neurosurgery to remove shrapnel lodged in his head from a car bomb. Gligorov’s driver had been killed, and it was not certain Gligorov would survive. We sent Gligorov wishes for speedy recovery and asked Washington to send him an emergency medical team.

  October 4, Sarajevo. The United States Senate confirmed John Menzies as Ambassador to Bosnia-Herzegovina. Ambassadors normally take their oath of office in the State Department, but since Menzies was already in Sarajevo, we decided to swear him in immediately and to turn the swearing in into a high-profile event that would reaffirm our commitment to Bosnia.

  The event was held in a building that resonated with history, the Konak House, where Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife, Sophia, lay in state after they were shot on June 28, 1914. The handsome nineteenth-century mansion, with its polished parquet floors and plaster molding, had not been used since the war began but it had survived in surprisingly good condition, with only a few mortar hits on its upper floor. Ghosts seemed to hang in the air of the old building, and as we walked up its elegant stairway, I was moved by the continuity of history. “This is where the twentieth century began to disintegrate,” I whispered to Joe Klein, who was following us for Newsweek. Government officials, foreign Ambassadors, generals, Muslim mullahs, Serb Orthodox priests, Catholic prelates, and members of the fast-disappearing Jewish community in Sarajevo had assembled for the first genuine multiethnic ceremony in four years. Jammed into the elegant ballroom, many wearing ethnic or religious costumes, they reminded me of the famous photograph, taken minutes before the assassination, of the doomed royal couple descending the stairs outside the City Hall, flanked by costumed dignitaries.

  After the short formal ceremony, Izetbegovic made a speech welcoming Menzies, and John spoke briefly. I closed my remarks by saying that Konak House’s “historic failures impose a special obligation on all of us who are gathered here today.” There was a warm mood among the guests, mingling as if in prewar Yugoslavia. This, I thought, was the perfect moment and place to raise the question of the cease-fire—better than the grim and grimy Bosnian presidency building, where we were scheduled to meet that afternoon. I suggested to Izetbegovic and Sacirbey that we meet in one of the private side rooms at once. The other guests, still drinking and talking, watched in amazement as we closed the doors and disappeared.

  Only General Kerrick joined this meeting. I chose Don in order to emphasize the role of the White House, which he represented. We sat on four small gilded chairs in the corner of a large room, our knees almost touching. Stressing that Don was one of our nation’s top military intelligence officers, I asked him to give President Izetbegovic and Foreign Minister Sacirbey an intelligence assessment of the military situation.

  Kerrick and I had not discussed this meeting in advance. But he played his part perfectly. Quietly and authoritatively, he said that the Federation had probably reached its point of maximum conquest. He said he was concerned Tudjman would not support further territorial gains, lest they go mostly to the Bosnians. Finally, Don reminded the Bosnian president that in all wars there were times for advance and times for consolidation, and in our opinion this was a time for consolidation.

  Izetbegovic listened carefully and uncomfortably. His generals, he said, were still reporting advances in the west. “Your generals may be reporting advances that have not happened,” Don said. “Our own information is quite different. According to our best intelligence, the Federation now controls around fifty percent of the land. You would be risking a great deal if the Serbs took back some of your recent gains.”

  “Mr. President,” I said, “this is a crucial moment. Our advice is given to you in friendship and sincerity. I hope you are right and we are wrong. But if you are wrong the price to your country will be enormous. If you want to let the fighting go on, that is your right, but Washington does not want you to expect the United States to be your air force. If you continue the war, you will be shooting craps with your nation’s destiny.”

  Sacirbey mumbled something to Izetbegovic—a translation, we learned later, of the phrase “shooting craps with destiny.” Izetbegovic said he would consider the issue immediately with his senior military and civilian colleagues. Would we meet him at the presidency building at 2:00 P.M. to get his answer?

  While we waited, Christopher and Lake called to report on the results of a short early-morning meeting at the White House. Tony was upbeat: he had successfully “precooked” the issue of where the conference would be held, and resolved all remaining internal differences. The President would formally approve—and the Bosnia peace conference would be held in the United States.

  Nothing could have recharged our depleted energies as much as Washington’s last-minute reversal. All the pieces were now in place for the final push to stop the fighting and bring the parties together.

  Accompanied by Carl Bildt and Igor Ivanov, we reconvened at the Bosnian presidency building at 2:00 P.M. to discuss the draft constitution and the elections. Such discussions would not resolve the major issues, but they were useful in making the Bosnians contemplate what their government would look like in case of peace. Bildt and Ivanov then left for other meetings, leaving us alone with Izetbegovic and his colleagues.

  Izetbegovic was flanked by his military and civilian advisors, and it was clear that they had been arguing up to the moment we arrived. “My military leaders don’t want me to stop,” Izetbegovic began, looking directly at Kerrick. “They don’t agree with your judgment of the situation. But I will agree to a cease-fire if the Serbs meet certain conditions.” First, he said he would not agree to a cease-fire for at least another five days. Second, he would accept the cease-fire only if the gas and electricity were turned on in Sarajevo, and the road to Gorazde opened before the start of a peace conference.

  One had to admire his conditions. They skillfully straddled the distance between our position and that of his hard-line generals. Restoring the electricity required that the Serbs remove the many mines scattered around the electricity pylons leading into Sarajevo. He would buy more time for a revived military offensive. Getting gas to Sarajevo was a different matter: Sarajevo’s gas was controlled by the giant Russian state-controlled firm Gazprom, which did not wish to turn on the pipeline to Bosnia until it had received a large cash payment for long-overdue bills. In the next few weeks, this unexpected side issue would greatly complicate our efforts and, ironically, bring Sarajevo and Belgrade together in a united front against Moscow and the man behind Gazprom, Russian Prime Minister Victor Chernomyrdin.

  October 4: Belgrade. We quickly drafted a cease-fire agreement incorporating Izetbegovic’s conditions and flew to Belgrade, leaving Hill and Pardew in Sarajevo to facilitate communications with the Bosnian government. We felt we had crossed a psychological divide in both Sarajevo and Washington, and wanted to see how far we could get in Belgrade. Milosevic was in an upbeat, almost celebratory mood. As he read the draft cease-fire agreement with his usual speed, he joked and continually offered us drinks, which I turned down. “Not until we have an agreement,” I told him.

  We soon began to argue over details. Milosevic gave us a large room in the front of the building, in which we set up word processors. We opened a direct telephone line to our Embassy in Sarajevo through the State Department Operations Center in Washington, and kept it open for several hours. Members of our support team typed and retyped the proposed cease-fire agreement as changes flew back and forth. When Washington heard that we were in the final stages of negotiating a nationwide cease-fire, Christopher, Lake, Tarnoff, Donilon, and Kornblum all joined the telephone marathon. At one point while I was talking to Christopher, Milosevic wandered into the room, drink in hand, and asked whom I was talking to. Hearing that the Secretary of
State was on the line, he indicated a desire to speak to him. This was clearly not the right time for the two men to have their first conversation, and I mumbled an excuse.

  For hours Milosevic and the Bosnians haggled long-distance, through us, over small changes of wording in the agreement, with Chris Hill relaying each of Milosevic’s suggestion to Sacirbey. As the night progressed, we all became increasingly exhausted—except for Milosevic, who seemed to be enjoying himself thoroughly. In Sarajevo, Hill could not locate Sacirbey. Finally, after one of Sacirbey’s unexplained disappearances, the normally dignified Roberts Owen slammed his fist against the wood paneling in our room in Belgrade and uttered a string of unlawyerlike oaths. From then on, he was affectionately known as “Mad Dog” Owen, or simply “Mad Dog.”

  At about one in the morning, we finally had a document acceptable to both Sarajevo and Belgrade. Izetbegovic had his conditions, almost exactly as he had demanded. Milosevic signed the document with a flourish. We still needed the signatures of Karadzic and his Bosnian Serb colleagues, who were waiting in a villa outside Belgrade. This task we left to Milosevic, who promised to return the document, “signed, sealed, and delivered,” before we left in the morning. We stumbled back to our hotel, entering through the basement to avoid the press, and called Washington with the news. We would still have to get Izetbegovic and Tudjman to sign the next day.

  October 5: Belgrade, Sarajevo, Zagreb, and Rome. In the morning Milosevic delivered the document signed by the Bosnian Serbs. After briefing the British chargé, Ivor Roberts, we raced (laboriously, via Italy, as usual) to Sarajevo to get Izetbegovic’s signature.

  Izetbegovic’s withdrawn and unhappy face told the story. Flanking him were several members of his Cabinet and military. I assumed from the mood in the room that a number of his colleagues objected to the cease-fire. Izetbegovic took the document and read it carefully. We pointed out that Milosevic had agreed to most of Sacirbey’s changes, including the immediate exchange of all prisoners of war and a tightening of the language regarding the restoration of full gas and electrical service to Sarajevo.