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The killers of Zoran Djindjic, it turns out, had quite a plan. It started with the death of the Serbian Prime Minister on March 12, but did not end there. After the Djindjic hit, the conspirators planned to lie low while the government teetered; then they would strike again — first Foreign Minister Goran Svilanovic, then two top Djindjic aides. As panic spread, the special forces unit known as the Red Berets — some of whose commanders carried out the Djindjic murder — would step forward, posing as guardians of the peace. They would urge calm, and dispatch letters to local politicians and foreign diplomats offering their "assistance" against the wave of "terrorism." The government would be forced to step down, and allies of Slobodan Milosevic's bloody regime would volunteer to fill the vacuum. Serbia would return to nationalist rule.

That's the picture police in Belgrade painted for Time last week as they wrapped up their investigation into the Djindjic murder and prepared for a trial that begins in July. It's an apocalyptic scenario, perhaps, but the plan stood a 50% chance of success, according to Nenad Milic, Deputy Interior Minister and leader of the police investigation. "They believed that the police would stay put and not step out of the box," Milic told Time. Instead, the assassination produced a massive crackdown against criminal elements of the old regime still operating in Serbia's security forces, as well as a broader — and equally overdue — attack on organized crime. Codenamed Operation Sabre, it was the largest police investigation in Serbian history.

As police began sending their evidence — literally by the truckload — to the special prosecutor's office, the list of those charged in the assassination lengthened from 15 to 45. An additional 3,500, many of them linked to the Djindjic conspirators, face charges ranging from drug trafficking to murder. The sweep turned up new evidence against Slobodan Milosevic and his wife, Mira, and shed light on dozens of unsolved murders. A special courtroom to handle the cases is being built in downtown Belgrade, complete with secret booths and bullet-proof glass. "Nothing was ever done so well in this country," says Rajko Danilovic, a prominent defense lawyer in Belgrade. Human-rights investigator Natasa Kandic calls the probe, "The first serious attack on the roots of the Milosevic regime."

Those roots run deep. According to police charges made public last week, the conspirators were led by two men: Milorad "Legija" Lukovic, who is still at large, possibly overseas, and Dusan Spasojevic, who was killed resisting arrest. Both men served with the Red Berets, a special unit of Serbian state security linked to war crimes and, now, to dozens of political murders under the Milosevic regime.

Legija was "a killer paid by the state," according to Kandic, and had been running a drug trafficking and extortion ring out of the tiny Belgrade suburb of Zemun. The group had infiltrated not just Prime Minister Djindjic's security, but the prosecutor's office, where Djindjic's government had been preparing indictments against them. On the day Djindjic was killed, one conspirator was monitoring the Prime Minister's movements on closed-circuit television in state security offices and relaying the information to the assassin. "We knew we were infiltrated," says Milic. But confronting the Red Berets was not an option. "We didn't have the operational strength," he says.

Djindjic's death changed that. What was meant to kill the government only made it stronger. New powers introduced under a state of emergency enabled police to act against the suspected conspirators. To forestall a putsch, Milic publicly named the Red Berets as suspects even, he admits, before he had fully assembled a case against them.

Meanwhile, the conspirators' arrogance worked to ensnare them further. Expecting the government to fall within days, they only set aside enough money for a week or two. Some were going hungry when they were finally picked up. The alleged assassin, Zvezdan Jovanovic, a deputy commander of the Red Berets whose fingerprints were found in the room from which the shots were fired, felt confident enough to accept an invitation to the Interior Ministry. Checking his weapons at the door, he and four other commanders failed to notice antiterror police ringing the building. When he arrived on the second floor, he recognized his captors and gave up without a fight.

According to investigators, battle-hardened paramilitaries and criminals known for their silence under duress — one of the charged was known simply as the Mute — began to talk. The inducement: a mistaken impression of what was involved in becoming a protected witness. "This was a new concept for them," says Milic. They thought that they would be absolved of responsiblity for any crimes they had committed. "It became a competition," Milic says, to see who could reveal more. Many of the charges — including 28 murders, 23 attempted murders and 15 kidnappings — stemmed from testimony of just five men.

The group was not, police say, under orders from any one political leader. But Vojislav Seselj, an ultranationalist politician now being tried for war crimes in the Netherlands, was charged with "incitement" in the case. Seselj, a close associate of Spasojevic, warned of a "bloody spring" in Serbia shortly before he left for the Hague in February.

Police also arrested two senior aides of former Yugoslav President Vojislav Kostunica, Djindjic's sworn political enemy, including the head of military counter intelligence, Aco Tomic. Police say Tomic met with Lukovic and Spasojevic on several occasions prior to the assassination and promised that in case of a power vacuum, the army would not intervene. Kostunica, who feared arrest himself, warned darkly of a coup d'état and a one-party state, but has since toned down his rhetoric. He now says he will settle for early elections.

Military reforms, long delayed by political infighting, are gathering pace too. The newly appointed Defense Minister, Boris Tadic, last week ordered all members of the armed forces to divulge information they have on the whereabouts of suspected war criminals. He is also launching an investigation into links between the armed forces and organized crime. At least one war crimes suspect is expected to turn himself in to Serbian authorities for transfer to the Hague this week, Tadic told TIME. The Defense Minister is also ordering a reorganization of the armed forces to strengthen civilian control. "This was Djindjic's vision," he says. "Sadly, it took his death to put it into effect."

Government officials concede that the task is enormous, and far from over. Human-rights investigator Kandic points out that despite the massive arrest toll, only 20 police have been charged, and suspected war criminals still hold senior posts throughout the security services. What they have done "is not enough," she says. But a change has taken place in public opinion, which could help the government continue with reforms.

Djindjic was not a particularly popular politician in life, but after he died hundreds of thousands of Serbs packed into Belgrade's streets for his funeral. Mourners continue to visit his tombstone in the Lane of the Greats at Belgrade's New Cemetery, where he has been buried alongside Partisan war heroes and celebrated poets. Children leave small toys scrawled with elegies. This was another thing his killers failed to anticipate. "They expected people to say, 'This is just a murder in the family,' and leave it alone," says Milic. They were wrong.

• ANDREW PURVIS | Belgrade
• The assassination of Zoran Djindjic was part of a huge plot