Quotes of the Day

In early October 2000, just before Slobodan Milosevic was overthrown in a bloodless popular revolt, the leader of that movement, Zoran Djindjic, placed a call to one of the most feared men in Serbia: Milorad Lukovic, known to his friends as Legija, or the Legionnaire. Djindjic knew that Lukovic, a square-jawed former paramilitary who was commander of the élite Serbian police unit called the Red Berets, could have crushed the uprising that ousted Milosevic. Djindjic wanted assurances that he would not. But he recognized the risk he was taking by even agreeing to meet Lukovic. "If Milosevic wanted to kill me, Legija would have been the one to do it," Djindjic told Time a few months later.

The two men met late at night in the back of Legija's late-model suv. Lukovic was wearing regulation fatigues and carrying two pistols; Djindjic was dressed casually and unarmed. Lukovic agreed that Milosevic "was history" and said he would not intervene to quell any uprising. "He looked bored," Djindjic added.

Times have changed. Milosevic is long gone, on trial for war crimes in the Hague. But last week Lukovic, who has since left the special police force for the world of organized crime, allegedly felt Djindjic coming after him — and decided it was time to do something about it. According to Serb officials, the ex-commando ordered the assassination of Djindjic, Serbia's first Prime Minister in the democratic era, to avoid being put in jail himself.

The gangland-style assassination — Djindjic was gunned down by sniper fire in broad daylight — recalled both the reign of terror that seized Serbia in the final years of Milosevic's rule and the chaos and dread that many Serbs had hoped was behind them. Known for his wit, energy and commitment to pro-Western reforms, Djindjic was on a campaign to stamp out organized crime within the state security forces and society as a whole — and it may have cost him his life. According to one senior government official, he was set to sign the warrant for Lukovic's arrest on the day he was shot. The murder leaves Serbia's fractious government rudderless; Djindjic's pragmatic maneuvering was the glue that held the 18-member governing alliance together. His loss casts doubt on future reforms at a time when Serbia is struggling to revive its economy and win foreign aid. "Every man, woman and child will feel the consequences," says Foreign Minister Goran Svilanovic.
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Djindjic was rushing to chair a session of the newly formed Anti-Corruption Council when he was struck in the chest by a single bullet fired from an abandoned office on the third floor of a building 200 m away from the government headquarters he was about to enter. Djindjic's bodyguards bundled him into the bulletproof bmw from which he had just emerged and rushed him to the hospital, where surgeons tried for an hour to revive him. "When we opened him up," said one, "there was a hole as big as a nutmeg at the front of his heart. I think he was dead before he fell."

That night the warm temperatures Serbs had been enjoying for days suddenly gave way to a damp chill, and it started to snow. As police sirens wailed through the night, thousands gathered outside the main government buildings to light candles and sign a book of condolences. "If these criminals win, I don't want to raise my son in this country," said Milana Stepanovic, 34, a hairdresser. "It's like waking from a dream into a nightmare."

Djindjic's deputies imposed a state of emergency until the perpetrators are caught, and police arrested more than 100 suspects within 48 hours — though Lukovic and his partners were not among them. "This group is stronger than the government and much better organized," says Zarko Korac, who as Deputy Prime Minister will be taking over the top job on a rotating basis with four of his colleagues until elections are held later this year. "These are not common criminals." Legija's Red Berets cut a murderous swath through the Bosnia and Kosovo wars, attacking non-Serbs and sowing terror in their wake. Under Milosevic, they were believed to be behind dozens of state-sponsored murders and kidnappings. Following the fall of the strongman, Lukovic grew restless, taking to drink and cocaine, according to several acquaintances. After several fights in nightclubs and his dismissal from the police in June 2001, he formed the Zemun Gang, named for a Belgrade suburb, and carved out a niche in drug trafficking, extortion and kidnapping. Meanwhile, his name began popping up in testimony at the war-crimes tribunal in the Hague.

Feeling the heat, in January Lukovic penned a warning letter to the government. "You are muddying the true patriots," he charged. "You are spending the last credits of people's patience..." A government decision to set up a special prosecutor to investigate organized crime deepened Lukovic's unease. Last month, a truck driven by a member of his gang veered into a convoy of cars in which Djindjic was traveling. Djindjic emerged unscathed, but the driver was released shortly afterward.

Organized crime and corruption in the security forces is just one of the legacies of the Milosevic era that Djindjic was trying to root out. His government had successfully introduced sweeping fiscal reforms, closed down four major money-losing banks and privatized state-owned firms. He was almost single-handedly responsible for sending Milosevic to the Hague, though he explained the decision to Serbs as a pragmatic measure aimed at freeing up $1.3 billion in Western aid, not an admission of Milosevic's guilt. That cooperation, plus the pain inflicted by his economic reforms, won him enemies, especially among suspected war criminals. Carla Del Ponte, the war crimes tribunal's chief prosecutor, sent letters of condolence to Djindjic's family and mourned the loss of a friend.

Born in Bosnia-Herzegovina in 1952, the son of an army officer, Djindjic showed his rebellious streak early on, losing a place at Belgrade University for trying to organize an independent student union. He went on to obtain a doctorate in philosophy at Konstanz University in Germany, where he launched his own textile firm. Back in Yugoslavia in 1989, he helped found the Democratic Party, and in the mid-1990s briefly served as Belgrade's first opposition mayor.

But Djindjic was never Serbia's most popular opposition politician; some suspected him of being too ambitious, others of harboring ties to Milosevic. In the presidential elections that led to the fall of Milosevic, Djindjic chose to take a backseat to his rival Vojislav Kostunica, a moderate nationalist with a big following among ordinary voters. The gambit worked. Kostunica was elected President of Yugoslavia, an office he held — despite constant bickering with Djindjic — until earlier this month, when the federation ceased to exist, becoming Serbia and Montenegro.

As Prime Minister, Djindjic worked hard to reshape Serbia's reputation abroad. German Chancellor Gerhard Schröder last week lamented the loss of a "guarantor of peace and stability" in the region; George W. Bush praised his "strong leadership." His death, some diplomats say, is proof that Serbia has to work harder to free itself of organized crime and the legacy of its violent past. But with Western aid levels to the region falling sharply, the murder could also be seen as a warning to the U.S. and the European Union that Serbia is not yet ready to stand on its own. After last month's attempt to ram his car, Djindjic dismissed the threat by saying that it was "a huge delusion to think that reforms can be stopped by eliminating me." Serbia will soon find out if he was right.

• ANDREW PURVIS with DEJAN ANASTASIJEVIC | Belgrade
• Did Serb reform hope die with Djindjic?