Milosevic: Ready to Rumble Again

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Sensible people would sign this agreement. The 81-page peace document on the table in Paris may not satisfy the full ambitions of either side in the Kosovo struggle, but it offers advantages all around. While it doesn't give the Albanian Kosovars the independence they crave, it would afford them three years of breathing room under international protection to practice being a state. After that, they could come back to negotiate or fight for full freedom from Serb rule. While Slobodan Milosevic would have to swallow Kosovar autonomy and NATO peacekeepers inside his territory, he'd get out from under a hard-to-finish war that earns him international opprobrium, and he'd retain ownership of land regarded by Serbs as the heart of their nation.

But we're not dealing here with entirely sensible people. The whiff of superpower attention went to the head of Kosovo's Albanians as they savored their first steps onto the world stage, prolonging the negotiations and frittering away pressure that was supposed to be reserved for the Serbs. Milosevic bathed in ego gratification as the world's diplomats trooped to his door. Both sides seemed to think, Why not keep this game going?

Last week the ethnic Albanians were the first to see sense. Their upstart army, the K.L.A., had won international confirmation of its meteoric rise to pre-eminent power in the would-be state. By appearing to be willing to give up their arms and dream of independence in exchange for a strong Western umbrella, the Kosovars could show up Serb belligerence. It was smart tactics: if the Serbs refused to go along, the Kosovars wouldn't have to give up anything. So the ethnic Albanians sat down and signed the deal.

But Milosevic? His delegation came and went each day in Paris demanding pages of impossible changes, then kissed off the plan entirely as a "fake document." In the streets of Belgrade, Serbs reiterated their attachment to Kosovo but secretly believed a last-minute deal would be made to ward off NATO bombs. Not until Thursday night did Serbian state television even begin to hint that the threat of air strikes was growing real. And somewhere, burrowed into the rooms of the old Tito residence he rarely leaves, Milosevic was mulling over his difficult choices.

In one sense, the Serb strongman was exactly where he most likes to be--at the pivot of an international crisis. He has built his career, as biographer Slavoljub Djukic puts it, by being both pyromaniac and fireman--igniting crises, then convincing people that only he can put the fires out. But the Kosovo conflagration he first lighted in 1989--by stripping away the rights of the ethnic Albanians who make up 90% of the province's population--is proving tricky to put out. Now he faces a perilous calculus: Is it riskier to cave in to Western demands or to suffer through air strikes?

Like other dictators of this age, Milosevic makes these calculations in virtual isolation. He rarely appears in public, never travels anywhere. He nominally consults an inner circle of perhaps 15, but his only true adviser is his ambitious, neocommunist wife Mira Markovic. "His pride at being a guy everyone comes to is huge," says a Western diplomat. "But his purpose is to throw people into confusion."