Expressing their severe doubt of success, Arnold Diaz and producer Glenn Ruppel nevertheless forged a brutal timeline for the shoot.

"They wanted us to find subway, bus, and street thieves all in the first day," Arno said from his Las Vegas home, "so the second day could be used for interviews, demonstrations, and establishing shots." A tall order for a tall man.

ABC had hired freelance photographer Jill Goldstein, the hidden camera specialist who filmed Taxi Cab Confessions. Goldstein rigged Diaz and Arno with bodycams hidden front and back, and planted one in a backpack aimed down at Diaz's back pocket, where his wallet waited, plump with money-sized cut paper.

The Arnos began by leading the team into the depths of Rome's main train and subway station, where they prowled the platforms with practiced nonchalance. The producer, reporter, and photographer trailed in bored oblivion, barely supressing their skepticism.

"Bambi and I both noticed a pair of older Italian men among the waiting passengers," Arno explained. "They looked like anybody's grandfathers, but their body language and eye movements told a different story."

Pretending to be his wife, Bambi positioned Diaz with subtle instructions. "How much money do we have, honey?" she asked him, and he obediantly flashed his wallet.

When a train blasted into the station, the entire 20/20 crew boarded and the suspects crowded in close behind. Before the next station stop, Diaz felt his wallet slip from his pocket.

"I never would have felt it if I hadn't been concentrating on it," he told this writer later. "But I didn't really think it would happen at all."

The thieves hopped off at the next station with Arno and Diaz in hot pursuit. When confronted in angry English, the pickpockets' docile demeanor and comprehension of the charges proved their familiarity with the accusation. The backpack camera proved their guilt. It was only 10:00 a.m., and one success was in the can.

Arno next led the team to scrutinize the infamous Bus 64. Facetiously called the Heaven-to-Hell Express, the route carries a jam-packed melange of locals, tourists, and thieves between the Vatican and the main train terminal.

The Arnos let several 64s come and go while the 20/20 crew balked at the full-to-bursting buses.

"Then we saw a suspicious group of young women," Arno recalled. "Bambi, Arnold Diaz, and I pushed ourselves onto the bus and it drove off. It was so packed its doors couldn't close. Our producer and photographer didn't make it on, but we three were well wired with cameras, including one inside Arnold's fanny pack, which is where his wallet was.

"The bus was incredibly crowded; locals were groaning and complaining, and a baby cried. In fact, the baby turned out to be the cover for the thief, literally. The woman who carried the child lifted it over Arnold's fanny pack while she removed his wallet."

The women got off, followed by the Arnos and Diaz. When Diaz accused the thief, his wallet magically dropped to the ground. The women stalked off unapologetically, unembarrassed.

"But what about tourists who don't use public transportation, are they at risk?" producer Glenn Ruppel had wondered. "Are the streets, at least, safe?"

After lunch, 20/20 set off to find out.

With a camera around his neck and a map in his hand, Diaz looked the part. In a two-hour walk on the streets of the Eternal City, Diaz was hit not once, not twice, but three times. In each case his wallet was stolen. In each case he loudly accused the thief. And every time, his wallet was dropped onto the pavement. The incidents were filmed from every conceivable angle. As Bob Arno had promised, Rome was a rich laboratory for the study of street thieves.

On schedule, the Arnos led the 20/20 team to Naples, a several-hour drive south of Rome. Even on the very outskirts of the city, Naples' lawlessness was noticable.

"Traffic signals are only a suggestion here," the driver shrugged, as cars and motorcycles zoomed by without regard to lights, lanes, center dividers, even sidewalks.

20/20 had allotted only half a day to find and film the classic bait-and-switch scam. Naples' updated version, the Arnos explained, used high-tech temptations irresistable to greedy visitors. But they couldn't be certain the con artists would be conning that day, or where. From years of observation, Arno knew the gang had many members; but how many? Would they recognize him from the previous year, when he brazenly filmed their game? A six-foot six-inch man among Naples' pip-squeaks would be as memorable as an eight-footer in America.

Arno decided to scout, observe, and film from unobtrusive vantage points, as the team couldn't risk his being recognized. Bambi would continue to accompany Diaz and call the shots. Ruppel and Goldstein would hover nearby, hidden cameras at the ready.

9:00 a.m.. 20/20 was in place but the crooks were not. Bambi and Diaz circled the block, scouting, killing time. Bambi pointed out a pair of motorscooters, positioned for a quick getaway, outfitted with storage bins for hiding merchandise. She indicated a man who appeared to be talking at a phone booth, but who could have been a lookout for the con men. Once more around the block.

Suddenly: hey, want to buy a cell phone? Diaz did—did he ever! He examined the phone, he negotiated, he stalled until Ruppel and Goldstein were in position. He watched as the cell phone and its charger were put into a box, the box put into a translucent plastic bag. He handed over $300 of ABC money. Diaz caught Bambi's eye with an imperceptable smile as the con man pointed across toward the 13th century Castel Nuovo. "You visit castle?" the salesman asked. In that instant, the salesman and his accomplice swapped bags.

The plastic bag had been tightly knotted. As Diaz tore it open the con men broke into a run. They leapt onto their twin scooters and zoomed madly into the crazy Naples traffic. Diaz looked into the box he had just purchased. It contained a bottle of water.