Thiefhunting, Day One, continued. Bob and I were on a high, having found a talented pickpocket team on the first bus ride of our first day of thiefhunting—in front of our film crew. Okay—in reality, the pickpockets found us. But let us credit ourselves as talented pickpocket magnets. And let it also be noted that we do not make it easy for the thieves. There’s no wallet peeking out of Bob’s pocket. His shirt covers the pocket, too.

The five of us—two pickpockets, our sound man-cum-translator Michele, Bob, and I—order coffee in a tiny bar. The thieves pay for it immediately. They’re smiling, laughing, and so are we. Michele translates with a huge grin, first nervously, then almost joyously, as he recognizes the human side of cold, heartless criminals. It’s a revelation to him, as it once was for us.

In these moments of close contact, of talk without judgment, of sharing insider talk with outsiders, we are like any strangers conversing. But no—we are more. We are intimates, because we speak of the unspeakable. We are confidantes, understanding what most do not.

As we enter the coffee bar, the gentlemen thieves step aside to let me, the only woman, enter. I’m terrified, hyper-aware of my hidden rigging: coils of wire, two boxes of electronics at my waist. These are just the sort of gallant gents who might place a hand softly on the small of my back. A move that would turn our encounter upside down. I rush past the men and their roving hands. Hands that are comfortable in other men’s pockets, in women’s purses, on the small of my back. I feel rude in the face of their chivalry.

Introductions over coffee—so civilized. Sorry, but I must now bastardize, anglicize, and fictionalize their names. For now. Frank is the clean-cut man who stole Bob’s wallet. He’s fiftyish, nicely dressed, good-looking. He’s muscular, confident, oozing testosterone; default emotion: jovial. As I said before, we’d not have suspected him for an instant were it not for his behavior on the bus.

His partner is Marc, thirtyish, short hair, light beard as dictated by fashion, big bright eyes. Marc is a bit cagey. Cautious and observant, his eyes dart around, land for an instant, keep moving. He can pick up some of our English. He can speak a little, too. But he’s nervous and confused in this unheard-of situation.

Bob is excited and wants to cement his new relationships. He tosses me his book-cam, which I now balance on my purse-cam, carefully holding the two at slightly different angles in hope of capturing the scene. And remembering not to block my button-cam with either.

Bob pulls out his iPod Touch, on which he’s loaded a gallery of thieves: pictures of pickpockets we’ve met in this city over the years. There are twenty or so faces. Bob lets the thief take the iPod in his hand. I watch, pretty certain he doesn’t intend to dart out with it. Frank slides the photos around, showing Marc, enlarging them as he pleases. He’s dumbfounded to see all his pals on Bob’s iPod. He points, laughs, doubles over, and names each one. Then he looks up at Bob, smile gone. “Which model is this?” He raises the iPod. Old model, Bob admits. “Okay, okay. I have the new one,” Frank says, and lights up again.

As Frank flips through the photos, he comes to one of Lou, another pickpocket we know in this neighborhood whom we first met in 1998. We learn that Marc is married to Lou’s daughter. They flip to a photo of Lou’s brother, Andy—Marc’s uncle. It’s a thriving family business.

Frank chuckles: “We thought we were hunting you, but you were hunting us!”

“Twenty years ago we made a good living without the tourist,” Frank tells us. “Now because of the economy, we depend on them. For that, we are sorry.” He tells us they now use a new technique, only developed about 20 years ago, because the police complained about the thefts. “We now can steal only the money from the wallet, without taking the wallet. And we don’t take all the money—we try to leave a little.”

For the most part, they don’t use stolen credit cards, either. That would raise the crime to another level. When they do steal a wallet, they bundle credit cards, ID, even photos, and drop them into a mailbox. Lou told us the same thing in 1998. Now, the police here corroborated it.

Our film crew had gathered outside the bar and are trying to get footage however they can. Marc becomes suspicious. He calls Bob on his sunglass-cam. Bob fesses up. The mood doesn’t change in the least.

Bob explains our film project to Frank and Marc. He invites them to participate, saying they’ll be shown on big screens around the world. They’ll have to sign releases. We make an appointment: tomorrow in a park.

Part one of this story. — Next installment

Thiefhunting, Day One, continued. As we synchronize our thiefhunting plans with the film crew, I’m newly appreciative of Michele, our London-based sound recordist, who is from this city. He’s a gentleman, a perfectionist, and an invaluable translator. We’ll need him in order to talk to the pickpockets. Assuming we find any. Assuming they agree to talk to us.

We’re all driven to a point near to where Bob and I want to board a bus. We disperse like a criminal gang, each ducking into various doorways to turn on our cameras.

Bob and I linger, loiter, choose a bus, and board. It’s not crowded, not promising, we see no “suspects.” But we decide to ride to another location. We stand near the middle door. The crew scatter throughout the bus. All of us wear a veneer of nonchalance. All of us are coiled like springs, hyper-alert. Bob and I have done this a million times, but it’s the first time for our team.

At the second stop, three men board the bus. They’re clean-cut, fresh-faced men—two in their fifties, one 30ish. Bob and I don’t suspect them until they move close, crowding us—unnecessarily—against the window. Bob gives me a little squeeze, so I know something’s happening. He concentrates on the feeling behind his butt pocket, then whispers to me “done.”

As the bus approaches its next stop, Bob blatantly feels for his wallet. The pickpocket, still behind him, points to the floor, where he’d dropped it after finding it empty. He picks it up, hands it to Bob, and smiles as if Bob must have dropped it himself.

The pickpocket and one accomplice get off the bus. We follow, and all our crew jump off too. One of the thieves stays on the bus. As the two thieves stroll away, Bob and I accost them. “I do the same as you,” Bob says. He repeats it in several languages. With friendly faces, the pickpockets try to pretend they don’t understand. Bob persists and makes himself understood to some degree. But he wants full communication.

“Does anyone speak English?” he calls to the crowd. The nearest woman says no, and walks past. One man rises from where he’s lying in the grass, and volunteers to translate. It’s Michele, our sound-man, jumping into his role of anonymous translator. “How about coffee, then?” the pickpocket pair suggests. Just what we’d hoped for! And off we went.

Later, Bob described how smoothly the pickpocket had extracted the wallet on the bus. Bob said that if he hadn’t been concentrating on it, he’d never have felt it. And our crew? They got the shot from every angle. But nobody knew that until much later. There was no time to look at footage.

Part one of this story. —   Next installment

Thiefhunting, Day One. Fully half the day is spent rigging hidden cameras. I’m wearing a button camera attached to an awful button-down shirt that I force myself to wear for the cause. The camera is wired to a control pack and monitor tucked into the back of my skirt. Another wire runs into the shirt pocket where a tiny mic is attached. Another wire ends in a remote control that allows me to start and stop the camera.

I’ve got another microphone clipped to my bra—another piece of clothing I wouldn’t have worn but for the need to keep lifting my shirt for the crew rigging me. This mic is wired to another box that is tucked beside the first one on my back. This pack is a transmitter, and gets very hot. My skirt is tight now with all the equipment loaded under it, and I feel like a third-world building, draped in external wiring.

I’m carrying a purse—a little clutch bag—which contains another hidden camera. This one is a wide-angle that takes gorgeous, sharp video, especially at close range. Its bulbous lens, like a black marble, has been beautifully disguised by our crack camera pros. I put on my NABI cap (my private joke because NABI is the National Association of Bunco Investigators) add sunglasses, and I’m ready to go out and investigate some bunco.

Bob gets the same kind of button cam and mic set up. In addition, he wears a completely wireless camera built into a pair of sunglasses, that he can casually remove and keep shooting with in his hand or set on a table. Bob will also have a tiny wide-angle handheld video camera like mine. His has been carved into a paperback novel. You can’t see it at all—it’s brilliant. Our director of photography is a master. We’re told his shooting is gorgeous, too, but we haven’t seen it yet.

Fully rigged, we make a plan for our thiefhunting. Bob and I will ride public transportation. Sound and camera crew will be nearby, not too close. Film director, associate producer, and our local “fixer” will all tag along, watching, but keeping their distance. We have a few assistants, too. We’re a big group. It will be difficult to coordinate our movements while acting as strangers to one another.

Part one of this story. — Next installment

Six of us—locked into a small, sweltering room. We’d done interviews in the convent refectory all day, first Bob, then I. Some of the walls were swaddled with blankets, as was the floor. Bright lights had been burning and the room had heated steadily. It was past 8 p.m. by the time we finished and the crew began to break down equipment.

Someone had closed the iron door and we were now locked in.

This hotel, a former monastery originally carved into the mountain in the 16th century, is a warren of rock tunnels and staircases among public rooms and halls. The clean, newly plastered surfaces are a stark contrast against the ancient rough stone that is visible and usable by guests. With a flashlight, the number of nooks and crannies and almost-hidden accessways begging for exploration must be endless. Lucky for us, one of these stone backways led off a tiny nook in the side of the refectory. Up, down, and around a few corners, heads bent, and we came into the yellow light and fresh air of a tiled hall.

Part one of this story. — Next installment

“They’ve bugged our room,” I postulated to Bob in the taxi from the airport. “I bet they hid video cameras inside.” That aspect of shooting a documentary hadn’t occurred to me.

Our hotel is a former monastery carved into a hillside. With an outrageous view, it overlooks the entire city we’ve come to infiltrate. It’s a pleasing dichotomy: after years of sweaty skulking lowdown among the gritty streets, we now look down on the calm innocence of colorful rooftops which belie the commotion of the city and its criminal activities.

We opened the door of our room to find its lovely decor largely hidden behind draped cloths, booms, electrical cords, and extra light fixtures. The room’s chandelier was wrapped in pink gel (colored cellophane used to alter theatrical lighting) and cloaked in black fabric studded with clothespins. The bedside sconces were half-covered with foil. The ambiance of the room was pretty much destroyed.

The crew followed us in for a few arrival shots and immediately dismantled much of the equipment before leaving us in privacy. As soon as the door closed and we were alone, I got up to sweep the place for hidden cameras. Is that one in the middle of the gilt scrollwork of the sconce in the dressing area? What about the handles of the closet door? Behind the translucent panel covering the electrical fuses?

Entering the bathroom I stopped dead in my tracks. The ceiling lights were gelled. In the bathroom! What shots do they need in the bathroom? Nobody’s talking. At this point, we still don’t know.

Part one of this story. —    Next installment