pickpocket – Page 12 – Pickpocket Bob Arno

How pickpockets use razor blades

A Close Shave, or, Honey, There’s a Hole in my Handbag
Archil Zantaradze keeps a razor blade in his mouth the way someone else might store a tired wad of gum. Gently curved against his upper palate, he can dislodge the blade with a bit of tongue suction and discreetly arm himself in an instant.

True, pickpockets, by our definition, are non-violent. The razor, actually half a blade, is meant to slice a pocket or a purse; never human flesh. The technique is a specialty of Zantaradze, St. Petersburg’s most notorious Georgian pickpocket, and peculiar to his compatriots.

Zantaradze perfected this dangerous practice while just a teenager. (I can imagine the manipulation easily: as a kid, I removed my retainer the same way. But I never worried about drawing blood!) He was taught by his own father, as all his brothers were. And before he ever even scraped a razor against his first soft whiskers, he could shoot the blade with awesome skill from its wet storage place to his soft palm. His dexterous tongue snaps as quickly as a frog’s and he catches the razor in his hand as neatly as a magician palms a card.

Zantaradze’s sleight of tongue is not unique among the criminal population of Russian Georgians. Those who aren’t taught at home learn in jail, where the razor blade is a vital commodity. Desperately creative, inmates find inconceivable functions for the simple object. Indeed, when attached to a short length of wire and pushed into a power outlet, the lowly blade miraculously becomes both a little heater and a water-boiler. And, “a skillful cut of veins may lead a tired prisoner if not to death, then into the relative comfort of a prison’s hospital bed,” my Russian journalist friend Vladimir explained. “Life accounts in prisons are also known to be settled with this small metal device. Not to mention the ordinary functions of the razor blade, like shaving or paper-cutting.”

Vasily Zhiglov, our St. Petersburg Police informant, arrested Zantaradze some months before my questions to him, and thereafter had ample opportunity to interview him. Lounging in prison, Zantaradze was unembarrassed but surprised that he had failed to bribe his way out. Officer Zhiglov acknowledged that not all policemen can resist this “easy-sounding temptation,” as the sum represents full or at least half of a policeman’s monthly wage. (The bargaining usually starts at 500 rubles—$25 at the time of this research.)

It was not without a certain pride that Zantaradze admitted to Zhiglov that he, along with at least four other Georgians, spent the summer of ’98 in France, “working” the streets and stadiums of cities hosting matches of the World Cup. Zantaradze maintained that a skilled thief could easily make three to five thousand U.S. dollars a day by extracting cash from the pockets and bags of the hordes of often-drunk soccer fans cruising the streets and shops of every hosting city. The French towns, unaccustomed to such crowds and crime, were unprepared and understaffed for the deluge.

Officer Zhiglov estimated that there were about 70 Russians, mostly from Moscow and St. Petersburg, who combined the pleasure of watching World Cup matches with the labor of cleaning out other fans’ bags and pockets. He said that before heading to “work” in a foreign country, a pickpocket would thoroughly study the criminal code of that country. “And one would certainly prefer to work in France or another European nation where the law is much softer on this particular crime than, say, in Arabic countries,” Zhiglov said. Each year Russia receives about a dozen of its returned citizens caught stealing abroad.

Igor Kudelya, Senior Lieutenant of the St. Petersburg pickpocket squad, said that on frosty winter days, when other pickpockets’ fingers “have frozen senseless,” the Georgian can be spotted warming up his fingers by exercising them with two or three small metal balls before entering a chosen work spot.

Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams

Chapter Five: Rip-offs: Introducing…The Opportunist

A thief at the theater

A thief might use a tool like this to reach into your personal sphere. More likely, he'd use a bent wire hanger.

On a trip to London, Diane Breitman went to see the hit musical Mamma Mia at Prince Edward’s Theatre in Soho. She had seat #1 in a row near the front: the seat was all the way against the left wall. The row in front of Diane was empty; the row in front of that was occupied.

During the overture, a lone man took the seat directly in front of Diane. He irritated her by humming along with the songs, so she noticed him. He also moved a lot, first slouching back, then leaning way forward, back and forth. After a while, he got up and left, bent over so as not to block others’ views.

Some time later, the woman in front of Diane, two rows ahead and also in the seat against the wall, looked back. Shockingly for a lady at the theater, she clambered over the back of her seat and got into the empty row between her seat and Diane’s. She turned to Diane.

“Did you see the man who was sitting in front of you?”

“Yes, sort of.”

“He stole my wallet!” she hissed. “My purse was on the floor at my feet, against the wall. When I looked for it, it was under and behind my seat. I only noticed because I needed a tissue.”

What sort of thief would buy an expensive ticket to the hottest play in London? Possibly one who expected to collect many rich and neglected wallets. Could he have snuck in without a ticket? Highly unlikely. Prince Edward’s Theatre is one of the few with a security staff. Guards and video surveillance, however, only monitor the lobby and chaotic sidewalk area in front of the theater. My theory is that the perpetrator bought a ticket for pittance after the show had started, from one of the resellers who loiter in front of the theater. He may have changed seats several times, and stolen several wallets. There are no cameras inside the theater. Security officers acknowledged this incident but said reports like this one are extremely rare.

They may not be rare at the Mariinskiy Theatre in St. Petersburg, Russia, where our friend Vladimir had arranged to take us to see Verdi’s Forces of Destiny. Well-meaning Vladimir, who wanted to treat us, had purchased “Russian” tickets, which cost a fraction of “foreigner” ticket prices. At his suggestion, we stopped speaking English as we entered the theater and tried to effect gloomy Russian expressions, but ticket-takers instantly recognized us as foreigners and rejected our tickets. Vladimir was mortified. We tried to pay full price then, but didn’t have enough rubles and the box office didn’t accept American Express, the only card we had on us. Eventually Vladimir found a sympathetic ear and we were allowed to sneak in. He’d obtained excellent seats in the historic theater.

At intermission we mingled among the audience on the mezzanine, in the lobby, and in the stairwells. We were off duty, but Bob’s trained eyes leapt to a pair of thieves in the stairwell bottleneck. It was an ideal situation for them, and what opera-goer would be on guard inside the gold-leafed glory of the Mariinskiy?

“We have many theaters and museums in St. Petersburg,” Officer Alina Kokina told us in the St. Petersburg police station. “Pickpockets love to work inside them. They like to work on foreigners. They judge from a person’s appearance how much money there might be.” She paused. “To be a pickpocket was a prestigious profession during the war. Now they just do it out of desperation.”

Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Chapter Five: Rip-Offs: Introducing…The Opportunist

pickpocket Thieves

Masked man “swapped boarding pass”?

No reports expand on the claim that this ballsy Asian impostor “swapped boarding passes with a U.S. citizen and passenger who was born in 1955.”

What 55-year-old U.S. citizen would agree to swap boarding passes with a stranger? Unless the early-20s Asian wasn’t a stranger… Then why isn’t the 55-year-old accomplice mentioned as a suspect, along with the impostor?

Or was the “swap” accomplished by picking the pocket of the other guy? Couldn’t be easier to slip a boarding pass out of a pocket and replace it with another. But then what? The other guy passes through the gate agent’s boarding-pass-scan while neither he, nor the gate agent, realize the boarding pass isn’t his; he boards the plane, looks at the (swapped) boarding pass to see his seat number, and even now fails to notice someone else’s name on the pass?

MSNBC has posted a PDF of an alleged Intelligence Alert issued by the Canada Border Services Agency. The alert states “It is believed that the subject and the actual United States Citizen passenger … performed a boarding pass swap…” which to me implies that the U.S. passenger was a complicit performer of the swap. But who is this “actual United States Citizen passenger,” anyway? Something’s missing.

Something’s fishy.
No one’s saying yet…

pickpocket planes Security Travel

Spilled secrets

I guess I spoke too soon and too much about our documentary project. I held back information, but not enough. Our producer has asked me to block access, temporarily. That makes 20 posts that require a password. Sorry for the inconvenience.

Bambi Vincent Bob Arno documentary film filming thieves pickpocket Pickpocket King

Bob Arno and Bambi in a den of thieves-2

Bob being miked on arriving at the airport.

“Are you wearing a bra?”

That was one of the first sentences directed to me upon landing. We did not collect our luggage because it didn’t arrive. As we came out of the airport, our film crew was waiting. We did not make the expected dramatic appearance pushing a mountain of aluminum cases on two trolleys. It was just us, dragging our carry-on.

The soundman needed to mic me in the airport lobby. With exquisite courtesy in his accented English, he inquired about my undergarments. He needed a sturdy mount for the mic.

It took two hours to rig our taxi with cameras and lights. You think a documentary is just a camera following the action, but the action must be lit and wired for sound.

Light panels are mounted on the taxi ceiling and backseat windows. White reflecting fabric helps brighten the scene. It's dark before we get moving. — Light panels are mounted on the taxi ceiling and backseat windows. White reflecting fabric helps brighten the scene. It’s dark before we get moving.

The sound and camera crew crawled around in the taxi while we waited beside it at the airport. Meanwhile, our film director hinted of some sort of surprise to be found inside our hotel room. The room and hotel are gorgeous, we were promised. But whatever it was that we’d find in the room was left intentionally ambiguous.

There’s a lot about this project that’s ambiguous, or at least unknown. We know what we’re looking for and we know what resources and how much time we have for the search. But we don’t know what we’ll find. We’re meddling in a criminal subculture and can’t predict the reaction we’ll elicit from the thieves. And what about their bosses? If we’re poking into organized crime—and we believe we are—will the bosses feel threatened? Will they be angered? Or will they just smirk and laugh at us?

Part one of this story. — Next installment

Bambi Vincent Bob Arno documentary film filming thieves pickpocket

Bob Arno and Bambi in a den of thieves

Time to make an announcement. Our long-dreamed of, long-worked for project has become reality. Bob and I are making a documentary about pickpockets. The shoot starts now! We have an incredible team, and backing that is the fantasy of any serious documentary-maker. And we have a film director whose passion and persistence has been the engine of our project for more than four years now.

Bob and I have been on our feet countless, endless days, for the past seventeen years in pursuit of pickpockets. We find, follow, and film the thieves, talk to them, and interview them. Dropping into the most fabulous locations of the world, we give short shrift to museums and monuments, and instead lurk among the tourists, preying on their prey. In the name of research, we people-watch. We’ve slowly acquired better and better video equipment, and a massive archive of crime footage. Time to do something with it.

We’re on location now in a European city we chose for the main filming of our documentary. While I can’t reveal everything, I intend to share the excitement, successes, and surprises of our journey as we dive ever deeper into the world of pickpockets. I don’t mean to be coy if I only hint of tantalizing details; certain aspects are contractually unmentionable for now.

I intended to post our progress every day, but our only internet point, in the hotel lobby, has gone down. There is nothing else nearby. We have several new local modem sticks—none work.

Next installment.

Bambi Vincent Bob Arno documentary film filming thieves pickpocket

Pickpocket statistics

You want pickpocket statistics? How prevalent is pickpocketing? How many thefts occur in one day in New York, or Rome, or St. Petersburg, Russia? Or at the Rose Bowl Parade, or the World Cup? How many thefts are actually reported? Raise your hand if you think you lost your wallet or phone.

If your wallet is suddenly just—gone!—does your pride make you say that you must have lost it (because no one could steal from me!)? Or does your vanity tell you that it must have been stolen (because I never lose things!)? Is it your nature to accept responsibility or assign blame? On which list should your missing wallet be placed? Lost or stolen?

Pickpockets are an enigmatic breed. Most are never seen or felt by their victims—or anyone else. Mystery men and women (and boys and girls) moving freely among us, they’re as good as invisible. So how can they be quantified?

How many thefts does each commit in a day? How many attempts that fail? How many successes that must be reversed, by handing back the loot or dropping it on the ground when accused?

What exactly is pickpocketing, anyway?

…Fingers stealthily extract a wallet from a man’s pocket.
…They reach into a woman’s purse for hers.
…It’s demanded “for examination” by a pseudo-cop.
…They take only cash from a wallet.
…A watch is ripped off your wrist.
…A phone is lifted from a restaurant table, right under your nose.
…A woman’s purse is taken from under her chair at a cafe.
…It’s snatched from her shoulder on the street.
…It’s slit with a razor in broad daylight.
…A gold chain is yanked from your neck.
…A backpack is taken from an airport luggage cart.
…A briefcase from the ground at your feet.
…Cash or jewelry is taken from your bag in the airplane overhead bin.

Do all of these count? How do police reports define them? Larceny? Robbery? Lost property? Do the police reports further break them down into pickpocketing verses bag snatching verses mugging?

I’m often asked for actual statistics. Occasionally, I half-heartedly go looking for some. I’ve learned that this ambiguous crime is not uniformly classified and, of course, not uniformly reported at all.

Pickpocketing is a phantom crime. In many cases, only the perp knows the deed was done. There are no witnesses or evidence; no dead body or weapon—just the lack of some personal property which—you know—could have been misplaced.

To most police except the passionate few, pickpocketing is “petty;” too insignificant for them to take seriously. It’s more paperwork than they want to bother with, especially at the end of their shifts. They throw up their hands. They blow air. And now, it seems, they “downgrade” police reports, chalking up reported thefts to lost-property.

The news is scandalous over at New York’s JFK Airport, where the Port Authority Police Department is allegedly fudging reports:

When laptops and suitcases are reported stolen by travelers, officers are routinely ordered to downgrade the incidents from thefts to merely lost luggage—to keep the airport’s crime stats down and their bosses looking good, sources told the Post.

High theft numbers make people feel unsafe and make the police departments look bad. City administrators want to seem as if they’ve cleaned up crime. But high numbers also help get budget increases for additional personnel. Numbers can be tweaked to fit the day’s whim. It’s all political and arbitrary and very fuzzy. Pickpocket statistics are amorphous.

The New York Post reporter describes the police report filed by a pickpocketing victim:

Kaya Tileu, 26, a resident of the Upper East Side who works on Wall Street, filed a theft report Feb. 22 alleging that his $200 wallet, $300 in cash and credit cards were swiped from inside a JFK McDonald’s.
The original paperwork listed Tileu as a grand-larceny victim. But a Post-it note attached to his police report advised the cop who filed it, “This is a lost property.—Capt.”

Police aren’t counting reported thefts? I didn’t even consider this possibility when I extrapolated the numbers for Barcelona and came up with a whopping “6,000 thefts per day on Barcelona visitors.” I took the police at their word when they reported 115,055 pickpocketings and bag snatches in a recent 12-month period. I started with that number—I didn’t say but wait, let’s increase it to include the victim reports they’re not counting…

In my book, Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams, I wrote of the impossibility of compiling pickpocket statistics:

Of the pickpocket incidents reported, most, according to a New York cop on the pickpocket detail who wishes to remain unnamed, fall into the “lost property” category. “They don’t even realize they’ve been pickpocketed,” he said. “They think they just lost it.” Incidents reported as thefts are lumped under one of several legal descriptions. Larceny is the unlawful taking of property from the possession of a person, and includes pickpocketing, purse-snatching, shoplifting, bike theft, and theft from cars. Robbery is the same but involves the use or threat of force. The theft of a purse or wallet, therefore, may fall into either of these categories, and usually cannot be extracted for statistical purposes. Similarly, the figures collected under larceny or robbery include offenses this book does not specifically address; shoplifting, for example.

For many reasons, victims don’t always report thefts. Hotels and theme parks and other venues actively discourage them from filing police reports, and incident rates are suppressed. It’s bad publicity for Paradise. It’s terrible for pickpocket statistics. Pickpocketry may be a dirty little secret, but Bob and I know that this petty theft, collectively, is huge.

So give it to me already: Pickpocket Statistics

Yeah. Sorry. Here’s my big conclusion: Catch-22. As long as pickpocketry is considered petty, no one will bother collecting data. And as long as there are no large numbers, the crime will continue to be considered petty. Petty crime—who cares? Even actually reported incidents, which we know are only some fraction of a larger number, will continue to be lumped into disparate broad legal categories, unextractable. Who will expend resources on an element that can’t be counted, a scourge that can’t be seen? Like a virus, pickpockets will continue to lurk invisibly, impossible to eradicate, wreaking their havoc.

crime statistics pickpocket police theft

Shoulder-surfing credit-card thief—part 2

'Hello there, Monsieur Pickpocket. I'm Bob Arno.' Photo Â© Kun Chang 2010.

Bob had just made contact with the shoulder-surfing thief…

Pirouetting, I went to find Kun Chang, our film director, who’d been with us all day, along with his crew. When we’d given chase to our quarry, they’d followed our progress from a distance, eventually taking up a static, central position. Now I stood with Kun & Co. just long enough to get my little video camera turned on, amazed to see Bob and the purse-dip still together.

I went to join them, instantly lowering Bob’s perceived threat, from the thief’s point of view. No longer was it one mysteriously-motivated man against a criminal—it was just a couple! A harmless, curious couple. We moved out of the traffic and huddled next to a vending machine.

The man did not deny his occupation. He did not bolt. He did not raise a fist or deliver a swift kick or practice whatever form of aggression he’s known for. He answered our questions in soft-spoken Arabic-tinged French and repeatedly asked one of his own: Why? Why do you want to know these things?

Our French-speaking film director, Kun Chang, soon joined us, raising the level of our conversation from Bob’s basic French. I glanced down at my camera, a tiny thing the size of my little finger. Packed into its small body are a battery, a chip that stores hours of sound and video, an unnoticeable lens, and a few switches. Gone are the cumbersome wires, remotes, antennas, transmitters, and external storage devices we wrangled while using our old hidden cameras. But this one lacks a viewing device or monitor, and I wasn’t familiar with its capturing angle, or anything else about it.

Bob used a gorgeous little fisheye camera. He took a quick peek to see that it was on, then stashed it in his pocket, recording audio but no video.

Glancing down, I was horrified to see a flashing red light. This is one of the first things I usually disable when thiefhunting. You may as well display a giant neon sign: “I’m recording!” I covered the light with my finger, immobilizing my left hand for the remainder of the encounter.

Bob: “I’m a pickpocket too, like you. For the last 20 minutes, I’ve watched your technique. I can see you’re very experienced.” Bob does the butter-up.

Thief: “You’re probably better than I am.” TouchÃ©.

Bob: “I’m very good on stage.” (And modest, an Italian thief once chided.)

First time using this camera. I didn't aim very well.

Bob, afraid our detainee would soon scoot, suggested coffee together, or dinner. “I need to work, I can’t stop to have dinner with you,” he said. “And beside, I don’t want to be on TV. I can see you’re filming me right now.” He jabbed a finger toward my camera.

Cooly, I pretended not to hear that.

We learned that our man considers himself best at stealing from handbags and backpacks. It’s best to do it when the person is moving, in motion, he explained, and you have to concentrate on the person while you’re doing it. Puffing up a little, he invited us to follow him and watch.

Looking up at Bob Arno, who is much taller.

I suddenly noticed how much fringe from my scarf was falling in front of the camera. I swept it away. But maybe that was why the thief had seemed to forget about it. I wondered what kind of image I was getting. And what about sound? Was my finger over the microphone? I didn’t know.

The thief told us that he doesn’t know how to work in a gang, he never has. And he said stealing is a hundred times more difficult on the street, as compared to the stage. Bob agreed, though he believes otherwise. When a criminal fails, he walks away and tries again. When a stage pickpocket fails, he has hundreds or thousands of witnesses, and a reputation dependent on success.

Throughout, the man stood calmly, gesturing rarely, jacket zipped to his chin. Built like a flyweight boxer, exuding confidence and arrogance, he seemed in no hurry to leave us, despite his professed need to work. (We actually see this behavior often: thieves seem to enjoy an opportunity to brag, to tell their sob stories, to talk to someone willing to listen.)

The pickpocket explained the importance of getting the cardholder-victim’s PIN, and that he had no trouble memorizing the four digits. He said he uses the credit cards himself, he never sells them to others. Then he dropped the bombshell—to me, the most interesting revelation:

He doesn’t steal money—only credit cards. He never takes people’s cash because it’s not insured. What he steals from their credit cards, they get back from the bank.

Really? A thief with a heart?

Bob begged again for a dinner together, or another meeting. The thief said sure, maybe tomorrow, and took our phone number. He made sure we had his name spelled correctly, and suggested some possible times. Shaking hands all around, he turned and slipped into the turbulent crowd. Back to work.

* * *
Did we go to the Eiffel Tower, you wonder? Did we visit Notre Dame, or the Louvre? No, no time for any of that this time. But we did eat well.

credit card France paris pickpocket

Shoulder-surfing credit-card thief

We started early at Gare de Lyon in Paris, on the hunt for a particular thief. He’s known for a specific M.O., and for his violent nature.

He stands in line at train station ticket machines and watches as passengers purchase tickets with credit cards. Most credit cards issued outside of the U.S. require a PIN code, which must be entered on a keypad. The large keypads on the train station ticket machines make it easy for anyone interested to learn a cardholder’s PIN. Rarely do people bother to hide the numbers they enter.

A man enters his PIN while buying Metro tickets with a credit card.

The man we sought takes note of the PIN—he shoulder-surfs—and watches where the credit card is put away. Then he follows the mark. He has any number of methods of stealing the credit card; the train and Metro station is full of opportunities-in-the-making.

He could let a partner stall the mark in a turnstile, on an escalator, or getting onto a train. But that would mean splitting the proceeds of the risky business with the partner. Our man prefers to work alone.

With crowds like these, who needs to split proceeds with a stall?

His favored victim is a woman. Why? It’s infinitely easier to steal from a handbag rather than a pocket. A purse has no nerve-endings. It’s slung on the woman’s back, it’s gaping open, it has an easy zipper, or a flap. The woman is busy, distracted, she has luggage, or a child. She’s in high heels, she’s “minding the gap.”

We spent hours speeding through Gare de Lyon, fastwalking up and down stairs and escalators, through the train station and Metro station, past numerous banks of ticket machines, around and around. Who said thiefhunting is easy work?

Our irregular behavior might have raised the suspicion of station surveillance officers, had the police not been aware of our activities. But Bob Arno’s reputation precedes him and the anti-bandit detail of the Paris police force tolerated our pursuit.

Shoulder-surfing at the ticket machines.

When we first laid eyes on our prey, he was checking out the people waiting to buy tickets at the machines. He sussed them out quickly; the same way Bob and I look for thieves in a crowd. He turned on his heel and strode off at high speed, as if late for a train.

I was struck by his choice of clothing. He wore a shiny black jacket with wide white stripes down the arms, and a beige beret; both of which made him easy to pick out of a crowd. Bob and I, trailing him from a moderate distance, often lost him in the mobs of moving people. But he always surfaced again, easy to spot in his signature style. Had he worn a dull shirt, or a black sport coat like Pierre, like a good percentage of the businessmen hurrying through the terminal, we’d have lost him.

Okay, it's a bad picture. This is a small detail cropped from a fisheye video framegrab. The thief is in the center.

Bob and I split up for the chase. We made wide arcs around the thief, we got ahead of him, we hung back, we lingered behind columns and vending machines. I felt conspicuous in my beige coat. Bob was a striking beanstalk, a full head above the rest of the crowd. The guy had to notice us… any second.

I had two video cameras on me, but neither was my trusty Sony, the one I can work upside-down and blindfolded and shoot from the hip. I didn’t turn them on.

The man was short but his bereted head rode among the crowd’s like a piece of litter on a choppy sea. He darted among the throng in a manner that Bob and I soon found predictable. He dashed from one queue to the next, scanned the potential marks, moved on. He was focused.

But he had tunnel vision. After all this time, he was oblivious to us. Bob and I got closer and more overt, closing in from opposite sides. I fiddled with my camera, afraid to look at its switches for fear of losing the bobbing beige beret.

But I did look at the camera. And when I looked up again, Bob was face to face with the shoulder-surfing pickpocket, and I knew it was all over. In a moment, he’d flee.

Or not… Part 2

credit card France paris pickpocket

Will the Pickpocket keep his appointment?

After such a successful meeting with Pierre the part-time-Parisian-pickpocket, our filmmaker, Kun Chang, was full of confidence. He booked a soundman and assistant for our appointment the next day. He and I would handle the cameras.

It’s a tricky business, filming thieves—you can’t shove a giant television camera in their faces and expect cooperation. Bob and I know this from many years of experience, but Kun’s history of criminal interviews included just one hour off-camera with a pre-buttered “friend.” Kun’s priority was getting the high sound and video quality required by our (still secret) investor-distributor, whose standards are ultimate. Bob and I just wanted the meeting; we wanted Pierre and his friend to demonstrate how they pick pockets, and tell us about their work; and we wanted to film it if possible. Kun wanted the same, but only if he could record audio and video at the required standards. Otherwise, none of it was of any use to him—he couldn’t put it in the film.

This little conflict was settled by way of two compromises. First, Kun would shoot video on an unobtrusive camera himself, without an additional cameraman. He thought his Canon EOS 5D Mark II would do. Second, he’d keep his soundman and assistant at a distance and only call them in at the last moment, so as not to present a large, offensive front that would overwhelm the casual atmosphere we hoped to maintain.

The crew was booked. The time and place were set.

Meanwhile, my skepticism had not been dissipated by our clandestine rendezvous. What skepticism? Well, why should I believe that “Pickpocket from Paris since 13 year old” is who he says he is? He could be any old leg-puller with a sense of humor. Pierre’s second letter admitted “yes i also speak english , litle just for my job ( rires [laughs] ),” though most subsequent letters were in French. In his third letter, Pierre claimed to work in a car factory during the week, pickpocketing only on weekends and holidays.

If true, he’s a man on the grid, with a reputation and a job to protect. He’d be much cagier than a full-blooded thief who owns up to his livelihood. More careful. More fearful of entrapment, with more to lose.

On the other hand, he’d described some pretty sophisticated M.O.s in his letters and at our cafe meeting. The man definitely knows what he’s talking about. We were all three eager to see his demonstrations, and how he works with his partner.

Kun arrived early at our hotel. He’d slept little, he said, excited by yesterday’s meeting with his first pickpocket. He’d carefully packed his equipment and was ready for the first shoot on the project. We were ready to go when Kun’s phone buzzed.

Pierre sent a text message. Sorry, something’s come up. Have to cancel today.

Oh, what disappointment! We scared him off, we said to ourselves. No, he’s just busy, we tried to convince each other; he told us his parents were visiting from abroad. Why so vague then? Should we call him? Email him? No, let’s wait.

“It’s funny to say, but I actually trust this guy,” Kun said. “He’s emailed for months, he phoned twice to confirm our meeting yesterday, then he showed up 45 minutes early. He bailed today, but I think he’ll come through.”

“My take’s different,” Bob countered. “They’re nervous that they’ll be recognized on television. They have regular jobs, and their work will be in jeopardy.”

Later, Pierre called. “My friend wants money to talk.” We can’t do that, Kun insisted. Then it’s over, Pierre said. Kun consulted our producer, who approved small consulting fees for Pierre and his friend. Negotiations began and tensions rose. Pierre, we sensed, was being pressured by his partner, who had no relationship with us, no reason to cooperate. The partner, too, was on the grid—he drove a bus, Pierre had said.

Eventually, an agreement was reached. We thought. That’s what Pierre and his friend said. We had a deal. Then they canceled. Pierre didn’t return our phone calls. Our email bounced.

Pierre was history. Welcome to the world of thieves.

France paris pickpocket Thieves