The Pentagon Spy Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1 - Spies, Submarines, and Sailboats

  Chapter 2 - The Hex

  Chapter 3 - Trapped in a Tent

  Chapter 4 - Vanishing Weather Vanes

  Chapter 5 - Joe’s Close Call

  Chapter 6 - Helicopter Caper

  Chapter 7 - The Charging Bull

  Chapter 8 - Disguise and Alias?

  Chapter 9 - The Suspect

  Chapter 10 - Danger in the Driveway

  Chapter 11 - Boys in Trouble

  Chapter 12 - Pentagon Briefing

  Chapter 13 - Surprise Encounter

  Chapter 14 - The Time Bomb

  Chapter 15 - The Bay Queen

  Chapter 16 - Barren Island Hideout

  Chapter 17 - The Captive

  Chapter 18 - The Horse Thieves

  Chapter 19 - Caught by the Enemy!

  Chapter 20 - The Flashing Arrow Clue

  WHEN valuable antique weathervanes are stolen in Pennsylvania Dutch country, Frank and Joe Hardy are hired to catch the thieves.

  Meanwhile, their famous detective father is busy with his own investigation. The Pentagon asks Fenton Hardy to find a missing Navy employee and a top-secret government document.

  The Hardys join forces. From here on, strange things happen. The more clues they turn up, the more endangered their lives become. The ruthless gang remains elusive while threatening the young detectives wherever they go.

  What is the connection between the missing weathervanes and the Pentagon spy? The final chapters of this thrilling mystery uncover a stunning revelation as America’s greatest young detectives do what they do best!

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  Copyright © 1980 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved. Published

  in 2005 by Grosset & Dunlap, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group,

  345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. THE HARDY BOYS’ is a

  registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a

  trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. S.A.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-07670-5

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  1

  Spies, Submarines, and Sailboats

  “This case is a tough one, boys,” said Fenton Hardy, the famous private detective, after he had settled himself comfortably behind the desk in his study. “It concerns our government and possibly a foreign power. Espionage in Washington, that’s what it looks like at this point.”

  His sons, Frank and Joe, who were seated in two leather chairs facing their father, perked up.

  “Can you tell us more about it, Dad, or is it classified ?” asked dark-haired Frank, who was a senior in high school.

  “If so, we won’t ask any questions,” added Joe, who was blond and a year younger. But he sounded disappointed.

  Mr. Hardy smiled. “I’ve cleared you with the Defense Department,” he said, “because you may be in on this before it’s over. I may need your help.”

  “Great!” Joe said excitedly. “What’s your case about?”

  “A spy in the Pentagon,” Mr. Hardy replied.

  The boys looked at one another in amazement.

  “How could a spy get through all that clearance ?” Frank asked. “They check everybody in the Pentagon, from the brass on down.”

  Mr. Hardy nodded. “That’s what the Defense Department wants me to investigate. How did a spy manage to operate under their noses?”

  “Any suspects?” Joe inquired. Like Frank, he was always eager for a mystery.

  Mr. Hardy nodded. “A civilian employee of the navy named Clifford Hunter has disappeared. So has a top-secret navy document. It appears that Hunter sneaked the document out of the files and smuggled it out of the Pentagon.”

  Frank whistled. “He must be a cool customer! Any clues, Dad?”

  “Yes. The FBI traced Hunter to Chesapeake Bay. We know he shoved off into the bay aboard his sailboat. Since then—nothing. The navy’s asked me to enter the case because I’ve done investigations for them in the past.”

  “Tell us about this guy Hunter,” Frank urged.

  Fenton Hardy explained that the suspect was a physicist assigned to computer programming for underwater guidance systems. “This is a real breakthrough by navy scientists. It gives our commanders of nuclear submarines pinpoint navigational accuracy on around-the-globe voyages half a mile below the surface of the ocean.”

  “Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “A sub could leave Bayport and hit Easter Island right on the nose without taking a single breath! I’ll bet it would make those stone heads talk to one another!” He was referring to the South Pacific island whose ancient population was known for carving remarkable stone monuments.

  Fenton Hardy smiled at his son’s enthusiasm. “The scientific details are even more dramatic than that, Joe. But you boys know enough now to realize what the navy’s up against. The document Hunter took must be recovered before it reaches a foreign government.”

  “Maybe a gang of foreign agents is mixed up in the case!” Joe said. He was more impetuous than Frank, who did not jump to conclusions so quickly. They had solved many cases together and had helped their father with some of his investigations.

  Fenton Hardy was a former member of the New York Police Department, who now worked out of Bayport as a private investigator. He had achieved national fame and put many notorious public enemies behind bars.

  Joe’s exclamation made his father frown. “It’s possible that foreign agents are involved,” he said. “That’s why I may need you and Frank to help me. If Hunter’s planning to turn the sub document over to them, we must stop him before he succeeds. Here’s an identification card for each of you. Carry it with you wherever you go.” He handed the boys two plastic-encased cards with their pictures on them.

  Just then Mrs. Hardy entered the room. She was an attractive, pleasant woman who often worried about the cases her husband and sons investigated.

  “Fenton,” she announced, “your suitcase is ready. I’ve packed everything you’ll need for a week.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” the detective replied. Rising to his feet, he handed Joe a piece of paper. “Here’s the telephone number at the Pentagon where you can reach me. Check with me tomorrow and I’ll let you know how the Hunter case is progressing.”

  He started to leave, then remembered something and turned back to his sons. “By the way,” he said, “I have an appointment here this morning with a man named John Hammerley. Make my apologies, will you?”

  Then he went out of the room. Shortly afterward, the sound of his car rolling down the driveway into Elm Street indicated that he was on his way to the airport to catch a plane to Washington.

  Frank and Joe discussed the mystery of the spy in the Pentagon, who had disappeared with the classified navy document.

  “I wonder where he went,” Frank said thoughtfully. “He couldn’t really go too far in a sailboat.”

  “People have sailed all the way to Europe,” Joe reminded him.

  “While carrying a classified stolen document?” Frank shook his head. “Hardly. But he could have met a foreign agent out on the bay.”

  “We won’t know until we get an SOS from Dad,” Joe said. “And then we’ll have to be ready to move in.”

  “I hope that won’t be necessary,” Mr
s. Hardy said in a worried tone.

  “It’s all right, Mom,” Frank reassured her. “Dad’s got the navy behind him. And I’d sure hate to buck the U.S. Navy.”

  Mr. Hardy’s sister, who lived with the family, stuck her head through the open door. “Spies, submarines, sailboats!” she exclaimed. “What’s next?”

  The boys grinned. They knew their aunt was very fond of them even though she had a tart tongue and often criticized her nephews.

  “How about a piece of chocolate pie, Aunt Gertrude ?” Joe suggested.

  “Humph! It’s certainly better for you than getting involved with spies!” Miss Hardy declared. Then she smiled and led the way to the kitchen, where she served her nephews a sample of her excellent culinary skills.

  “You two mind the store now,” Aunt Gertrude commanded. “Your mother and I have some shopping to do.”

  “Don’t worry, we will,” Joe said as he took a soda out of the refrigerator.

  Fifteen minutes later the doorbell rang. Frank went to answer it. A dignified man in a brown suit stood outside. He was wearing a deerstalker hat with a high crown and a peak in front.

  “He must have borrowed that hat from Sherlock Holmes,” Frank thought while he greeted the stranger with a smile.

  The man removed his hat. “Is this the Hardy residence?” he inquired.

  “It is, sir,” Frank replied.

  The visitor handed him a card bearing the name John Hammerley, Lancaster, Pennsylvania.

  “Young man, may I come in?” he asked in a troubled tone of voice.

  “Of course, Mr. Hammerley. We’ve been expecting you.” Frank stepped aside and ushered their visitor into the living room. There he introduced himself and Joe, and the three sat down.

  “I’m a Pennsylvania farmer with an office in the city of Lancaster where I deal in grain,” Hammerley announced. “I’ve come to see Fenton Hardy, the private investigator.”

  Frank explained that their father had suddenly been called away on another case. “He asked us to say he’s sorry he couldn’t wait for you. But he’s on a top-secret assignment for the government.”

  Hammerley looked crestfallen. “That’s too bad. I wanted him to handle a case for me. I came all the way from Pennsylvania just to see him.”

  “Mr. Hammerley, what’s your case about?” Joe asked.

  “Weather vanes!” Hammerley exclaimed.

  The Hardy boys were mystified.

  “What have weather vanes got to do with a criminal investigation?” Frank inquired.

  “They’ve been stolen!” Hammerley informed him.

  Joe scratched his head. “Who would want to steal weather vanes? And what for?”

  Their visitor threw up his hands in astonishment. “Young man, I see you don’t understand. These are not ordinary weather vanes. They come from the Pennsylvania Dutch country, where we have them on our houses, barns, churches, and public buildings.”

  “We have some around Bayport,” Joe pointed out.

  “I’m sure you do,” Hammerley agreed. “But the Pennsylvania Dutch weather vanes are special. Many are large, ornate heirlooms up to two hundred years old. They are immensely valuable as antiques. My neighbor’s missing weather vane, the figure of a man on horseback called the Galloping Rider, would bring twenty thousand dollars, and more than that if it could be smuggled out of the country. American antiques sell for a king’s ransom abroad.”

  Joe whistled. “Twenty thousand bucks just to tell which way the wind’s blowing!”

  “That would bring the crooks running,” Frank declared.

  “Right,” Hammerley said. “I represent a group in my county who have lost their valuable weather vanes and want them back!”

  “Did you have one stolen yourself?” Frank asked.

  The visitor shook his head. “No. My own is still on the barn, and I want it to stay there. It’s called the Flashing Arrow, an arrow with a two-foot eagle perched on top. The whole thing is of beaten copper. A beautiful work of art! Thieves could sell it for a fortune!”

  “But why don’t you take it down?” Joe asked. “That way the crooks won’t get it.”

  Hammerley gave him a sly look. “I’m setting a trap for the thieves. My foreman sleeps in the barn loft, and he’ll sound the alarm if anyone tries to seize the Flashing Arrow. So far, nothing has happened. But other people have lost their valuable antiques. I was hoping your father would find them before they disappear into private collections or leave the country.”

  “How and when were they taken?” Frank asked.

  “The thieves who raided my county worked quickly and precisely,” the farmer replied. “They struck on four consecutive nights, grabbing the weather vanes before anyone realized what was happening. They knew what they were doing. They took only the most valuable ones.”

  “How did they get the weather vanes down?” Joe wondered aloud.

  “They took the stairs to the roof whenever they could, as in the case of the county courthouse. Then they broke a window and got in while the building was empty. Otherwise, they used ladders to climb up on the outside of buildings. That’s how they got the Galloping Rider. The police found the marks of the ladder in the mud near the foundation of the barn.”

  Hammerley sighed, then went on, “Some owners were away at the time, others did not notice at first that their weather vanes were gone from the roofs. A few angry people who were robbed called the police, and then the story broke on the radio. About twenty were taken. The sheriff and his men inspected every site without finding a clue to the thieves. We’re up a tree, so to speak, and there aren’t enough officers to stay on the case until it’s solved. That’s why we need a private investigator.”

  “Sorry Dad isn’t here,” Frank said.

  “I’m sorry, too,” Hammerley confessed. “I was depending on him.”

  “Maybe he can take your case when he finishes the one he’s on,” Joe suggested.

  Hammerley shook his head vigorously. “Young man, we cannot wait. The trail will grow cold and the thieves will get away. We need a detective right away.” He balanced his deerstalker hat on his knee with one hand, tugged on his earlobe, and looked hard at Frank and Joe. “I’ve heard you boys are detectives, too,” he remarked.

  “We’ve worked on several assignments,” Joe said modestly, not adding that he and Frank had been involved in more than fifty investigations.

  “And you solved them all, I am told,” Hammerley commented shrewdly.

  “We’ve got a pretty good batting average,” Frank admitted.

  Hammerley looked hopeful. “Perhaps you’d be willing to take my case? Judging by your success in the past, I’m sure you could handle it.”

  Frank pointed out that they would have to check with Mr. Hardy first. “If Dad doesn’t need us, it’s okay with me.”

  “Me too!” Joe exclaimed. “I’d like to lasso in the Galloping Rider and get it back for you.”

  “That suits me,” Hammerley declared. “How soon can you begin?”

  “If we take the case,” said Frank, emphasizing the first word, “the timing will depend on our father. He told us to call him tomorrow.”

  Hammerley brightened up. “Then you could start the day after tomorrow?”

  “Maybe,” Joe agreed. “How do we get in touch with you?”

  Hammerley took a road map of Pennsylvania from his pocket and spread it on the coffee table. “Fly to Lancaster,” he said. “Then take Route 222 south to Quarryville. About a mile beyond Quarryville, turn east on a dirt road between two tall pine trees. Keep going for about ten miles, and you will see a sign reading ‘Hammerley Homestead.’ Drive right on up to the house. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  “You live in the middle of Pennsylvania Dutch country,” Frank said with a smile. “That’s where people still ride around in buggies drawn by horses, right?”

  “That’s right,” Hammerley said. “Good people, the Amish. We’re proud to have them.”

  The Hardys and their guest ch
atted for a while about the Germans who arrived in William Penn’s colony back in the eighteenth century. Although Germans, they were called “Dutch” because they referred to themselves with the German word “Deutsch.”

  “The Pennsylvania Dutch are still there,” Hammerley told the boys. “The Amish are the most restrictive group among them. They teach separation from the rest of the world and that you shouldn’t go to war, swear oaths, or hold public office. They strive for a simple way of life without modern conveniences and technology.”

  “I understand they don’t even use telephones or electricity on their farms,” Joe put in.

  Hammerley nodded. “And if someone’s property gets damaged, the whole community pitches in and rebuilds it. The barn that belongs to me now was erected in this manner over a century ago.”

  Hammerley stood up. “I’d better go now. If you want to call me, the number is on my card.” Before he walked out the door, he hesitated. “I suppose I should tell you one more thing,” he said.

  “What’s that?” Joe asked eagerly.

  The farmer’s voice sank to a hoarse whisper. “Beware of the hex!”

  2

  The Hex

  Joe raised his eyebrows in surprise. “The hex?” he repeated. “That’s a magical spell, isn’t it?”

  Hammerley nodded. “That’s right. The hex can kill or cure!”

  Frank looked puzzled. “Do people still believe in that stuff?”

  Hammerley answered him in a stern voice. “The hex may be stronger than you think. Strange things have happened in the Pennsylvania Dutch country, and the local people attribute them to the hex.”

  “But what has that to do with the stolen weather vanes?” Joe wanted to know.

  “There are hex signs on many buildings in our county, including my barn,” Hammerley went on. “But the people who lost their weather vanes also lost their hex signs. They believe that the thieves employ a more powerful hex, since they have been so successful. There are also witches who cast spells—white witches who cure illnesses and black witches who harm their victims. Many people feel that the thieves have at least one black witch among them!”