At about the same moment, our cellphone rang. Bob and I were onboard the new Grand Princess, the world's largest cruise ship at 110,000 tons. We were on Deck 7, reading the email we had just downloaded in the terminal.

"Bob Arno," Bob said into the phone, answering in the Swedish custom.

"We've got your man," said the ship's port agent, not ten feet below us at the gangway on Deck 6.

The first domino in this five-year chain of events was tipped in the summer of 1993. The chips fell slowly at first, beginning with our surprise visit by a trio of Vespa-riding scippatori. These thug-like thieves, who bully their victims from the buzzing vantage point of city-scooters, introduced themselves to us from behind. Despite their aborted effort, or perhaps because of it, they did us a service: they put us in victims' shoes, at least momentarily. No?it was a lasting feeling I can still recall, and one which sends shivers up my spine every time I hear a motorcycle behind me.

We introduced ourselves to the chief of police that summer, beginning the establishment of our credibility and reputation with them. We visited almost every summer after, sharing information and observing their progress, or lack of it.

In June of 1998, we met the lovely Andrina Harrison who, with her husband, owns the maritime service agency used by P & O Line. We asked her casually if she could find us a pickpocket to interview, not knowing then of her dedication to meeting a challenge. In the weeks that followed, Andrina must have spoken to the dockside office of the maritime police, who are clearly fond of their ship-visiting privileges. The maritime police, eager to please, probably contacted their colleagues in the city police, who turned the request over to the Falchi?"Falcons" in English?Naples' three-year- old program of anti-theft plainclothes motorcycle warriors. That this chain of requests, this series of favors, passed hand to hand, phone to phone, down the line, officially or otherwise, that it succeeded among the bureaucratic tangle of inefficient Italian agencies, is either a miracle or proof of corruption. How many obligations were created along the way? Or is this what Naples is made of?

That the Falchi, in the end, actually produced a pickpocket, was extraordinary.

The criminal, obviously, had no choice but to agree to the proposition.

When the procession arrived at the gangway, Andrina dialed Stockholm, where our mobile phone was based. We were at her side in a minute.

When Bob and I reached the gangway, we found a coterie of ten, all but one of whom had designs to visit our grand ship. There followed a pantomime of finger-pointing, shoulder-shrugging, and an Italian sort of einy-meany-miney-moe; finally a few disappointed ciaos and arrivedercis. The port agent paved the way, police badges were flashed, the security guard was in a lenient mood, and our motley gang trooped across the gangway into the cool extravagance of the Princess oasis.

We were six then: Bob and I, Luciano Barattolo, two Falchi officers as escorts, and Andrina as interpreter. We were a sight, the group of us. The Levi-clad officers couldn't hide their police accessories, which clashed ridiculously with their earrings and spiky-gelled hair. Our pickpocket, who wasn't given an opportunity to dress for the occasion, was unshaven and wore a very un-Italian pair of baggy short-shorts. He had spotless white canvas slip-ons on his sockless feet, and looked to me as if he'd be more at home kneading bread dough in a pre-dawn cellar bakery than dodging police.

Luciano stole a few glances as our group promenaded through the glamorous bars and lounges of the Grand Princess, but he mostly kept his eyes downcast. The police pair, however, whom I expected to guard our prisoner like hawks, or falcons at least, were instead looking around like thieves on the prowl, admiring the spacious rooms of the floating hotel.

We settled into low sofas on the edge of the Explorers Lounge. Our subject shifted nervously in the unfamiliar luxury, under unaccustomed scrutiny. Bob began to arrange his video and audio equipment, all the while smooth-talking to Luciano like a doctor about to perform an intimate examination. The two officers remained standing: watching, guarding, curious about our motives, and insinuating a sense of interrogation. Their radios bleeped musically. We wished Luciano would loosen up, but the police presence, however necessary, hindered that.

"I am forty-five years old," Luciano began, "and I have been picking pockets for fifteen years."

"Forty-five! I don't believe you," I said. "You look like thirty." He really did.

"I have three grandchildren." Luciano beamed as he removed a photo from his wallet. He looked at it himself before passing it around. "This is my son, and my youngest granddaughter, Rosetta."

"Cute," Bob said, a little too dismissively. "You've been picking pockets for fifteen years, you said. So what did you do before you were thirty?"

Luciano's round face broke into a cautious half-smile. "Picking pockets," he said, seeming surprised. "I guess I've been at it longer than fifteen years. Twenty-five years. I learned from my friends. I started doing it to eat, to get food, because there were no jobs. Now it is all I know."